red

From your flirty texts to the most adorable selfies, you’ve had a grown man - a firefighter nonetheless - giggling and kicking his feet all day, and it’s fair to say the crew has noticed.

“Cap, he’s lookin’ at his phone all weird again!” Sam jeers from his seat across and to the right of Bucky, his tone uncannily similar to that of a child telling on his friend to the teacher.

“Again, Buck?” Steve asks from the front bench behind him. “We just got back in the truck!”

It’s true, after putting out a small office complex kitchen fire, the team had only just climbed back into the truck to head back for a well earned break.

Natasha nudges Bucky’s shoulder, wiggling her eyebrows. “What’s she said this time to get you all blushy?”

The unimpressed glare at Sam slowly morphs into a timid glance to his lap, “She hasn’t actually replied for a while.” His voice is so meek that it’s hard for Steve to believe it’s his best friend speaking.

“Nat, is he looking at that photo again?” Steve asks, prompting the redhead to fight Bucky for a peek at his phone screen. She might be smaller than the brunette, but there’s yet to be anyone who can stop her from getting what she wants, even the six foot, two hundred pound hunk of muscle beside her.

Bucky releases a disgruntled murmur when Nat manages to snatch his phone from his grasp, his eyes rolling to the sky when she confirms what Steve had suspected.

“Man, you are so whipped!” Sam laughs, unperturbed by the kick to his shin from the less-than-impressed firefighter across from him. Steve is chuckling from the front seat, hell, even Clint is biting back a grin, his eyes trained on the road as he listens in to the commotion behind him.

“Shut up, Wilson.” Bucky groans. “Same goes to you too, Rogers. Or have you forgotten what I walked into in the turnout room last week?”

Sam’s face falls into one of genuine sincerity, gasping at Bucky’s words, “What happened in the turnout room?”

The Captain has long since been silent, the threat of his secret being spilled sobering him up immediately.

“Yeah, Cap, what did happen in the turnout room?”

Beside him, Natasha has gone suspiciously quiet; if Bucky didn’t know why, then he may not have noticed the dusting of crimson across her cheeks, but he does, and it brings a smirk to his lips.

“What happens in the turnout room, stays in the turnout room.” Steve asserts, though Sam isn’t ready to give it up yet.

“Oh come on, man! You know it’s not healthy to have secrets in the Firehouse!”

Content that the focus isn’t on him anymore, Bucky returns his attention to his phone where the ‘Delivered’ sign has yet to turn to ‘Read’. Where’d you go, doll? He thinks to himself, the sound of his crewmates bickering drowned out by the nagging voice in the back of his head saying something is wrong.

“Drop it, Wilson.” Nat warns, a stern look in her eyes that only adds fuel to the fire.

“What crawled up your ass and died, Romanoff?” Sam says before his jaw drops in shock. “You were there too, weren’t you?! Oh my god, this is-“

The familiar alarm rings through the cabin and Clint happily tells everyone to shut up so they can hear dispatch properly.

Fingers stilling above the keyboard on his phone, Bucky listens to the description and location of the fire and his heart drops.

It’s his address.

It’s your address.

“Buck, is that-“

Laced with fear, your name falls from Bucky’s lips and Steve wastes no time in ordering Clint to step on it.

10:09 AM

You must have dreamt the whole thing.

It’s the only plausible reason for waking up to a cold bed, body aching for a touch you fear you may have never felt. Sheets tangled between your legs, you lay sprawled across the bed with a hand laid flat at the spot you were so damn sure Bucky laid in the last time you were awake.

You dig the heel of your palms into your eyes, hoping to rub away the remnants of the best dream of your life, and wince at the swarm of colours behind your eyelids. By the time you drop your hands beside your head, you’ve convinced yourself that last night never happened and the dull ache between your thighs is nothing but a warning that your period is due.

Fuck this. You think, a groan rising from your dry throat, and push yourself to sit up when you catch something in the corner of your eye.

A glass of water sat on your bedside table and a bottle of painkillers you usually keep in your bathroom cabinet perched by its side; while their sudden appearance draws your brows together, it’s the folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across it that really intrigues you.

Sliding the note out, you recognise the handwriting to be Bucky’s, and for the first time since you woke up, you let yourself hope that last night really did happen.

As hard as it is to leave you, I’ve got to get to work. I didn’t want to wake you as I left, you looked so damn cute and I didn’t wanna disturb you any more than I already had. I’ll be home at 6. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you, staring with letting me fuck you while you wear my henley and then maybe we can remake some of those dreams you’ve had of me ;). Jamie. P.S. hope you’re not aching too much.

Holy motherfucking moly.

Overwhelmed with schoolgirl giddiness, you squeal and kick your feet, only to be reminded that you are, in fact, aching very much. Very, very much.

A smile that could send Bucky Barnes to his knees rests upon your lips seemingly frozen in place. Even as you throw your head back to take the painkillers, your grin remains steadfast; for a moment, you wish your neighbour-turned-lover was with you to relish in your first morning together, but one glance at Bucky’s note remind you that he’ll more than make it up to you.

Checking the time as you unlock your phone, you know Bucky is over four hours into his shift by now, and since he’s the only thing on your mind, you can’t help but wonder if he’s as consumed by thoughts of you as you are of him.

It takes only a moment for you to take matters into your own hands, fingers running through your tussled hair as you open your phone camera. It’s quick, and messy, but the grin that stretches from ear to ear will tell Bucky all he needs to know.

Ignoring the brief insecurities that you’re embarrassing yourself, you quickly send him the photo of yourself and choose to be bold for once.

The familiar swoosh sounds as your photo delivers and you lock your phone before crawling out of bed to get a shower. You’re barely through your bedroom door when your phone pings in your hand.

James: Why the fuck did I go to work today?

Laughing, you type your reply back.

You: Because it’s your job and there are buildings on fire?

You take two steps and he’s replied already.

James: Let ‘em burn

Bucky smells the smoke before he sees it, the billowing clouds hidden by familiar high rise office buildings, the ones he drives past to and from work every day.

The truck turns down your street but Bucky hardly notices; he can hear his heart beating in his ears and he’s dropping curse word after curse word, his phone playing your voicemail for the fourth time in two minutes. Three blue texts of increasing urgency sit unread on his screen and it takes everything he has to not launch it out the window.

You’ve been a text away all morning, why now have you taken a fucking sabbatical from your phone?

“Are you sure she’s home today?” Steve asks, interrupting Bucky’s spiralling thoughts.

“It’s her day off and she’s been texting me all mornin’. Y/n’s in that building, Steve!”

The calmness of Steve’s tone reminds everyone why he’s their Captain, “Well I’m sure she’s safe, Buck. She’s bright, she’ll have gotten out by now.”

Stomach churning, Bucky gulps his nerves down. He glances at Nat when she pats his shoulder before turning back to see Sam nod, his eyes silently telling Bucky to pull it together, that now is not the time to lose it.

‘Pullin’ up!” Clint calls and the truck rolls to a stop, parking just behind Chief Fury’s car, who is already taking command of the scene and ordering around the first and only other squad to have arrived yet.

The world is a blur as Bucky glides through the scattered crowd to reach Fury, his words tumbling out of his mouth before he’s even within hearing range.

“Take a breath. What is it?” Fury says.

“I- I think my- this is my- I live here and-“

“I said take a breath, Barnes.” The chief interrupts him, placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder to ground him. He’s never seen Bucky like this before, not since… not since the fire that haunts his dreams.

“Chief, this is my place.” The brunette speaks clearly now. “I think my girl is in there.”

“Okay.” Fury nods and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder reassuringly. “Search the crowds, see if she’s with any of the other residents. And keep me updated!” He calls after Bucky who’s already rushing to the clusters of people across the road.

Face after face flashes by but none of them bare the eyes of the girl he’d give his life for. The weight in his chest grows heavier and heavier as he runs out of people to check and finds himself at the fire exit of the building’s main staircase where the others have already headed inside.

“She’s not here, Sam!” Bucky shouts at his crewmate who’s guiding a few stragglers out the exit.

“It’s okay, there’s still people evacuating, she’ll get out. Just help me for a sec, Nat said she heard kids coming through!”

Bucky turns to the dwindling stream of people stumbling out the fire exit; he takes a breathe and scans the residents passing by, asking if anyone’s seen you but it’s like talking to a brick wall. Everyone is too consumed by their own worries to care about a girl they don’t know.

He goes to head back to Fury when he recognises the woman who lives across the hall from you, her two little girls clutching onto her for dear life as they stagger through the doors.

“Cassie! Hey, Cassie!” He bellows over the commotion, running to take her eldest daughter off her hands and usher them to the medics.

“Oh my god, Bucky!” She sighs in relief at the friendly face. “Thank goodness, it’s- it’s getting really b-bad in there.” She says, spluttering through her words while Sam stands at her side.

“Yeah I know, look, have you seen Y/n? I can’t find her.”

“Yeah she helped me carry the girls down!”

Bucky’s eyes widen, head snapping behind him to search for any sign of her. “Then where is she?”

“Well we reached the doors and she handed me Maya and said she had to go back for something and ran off.” His heart drops. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I didn’t get chance to tell her not to go.”

Sheer terror controls his body and he’s storming over to Fury before she’s finished her apology, not willing to waste any more time to get his girl. Sam thanks Cassie and trails after him till they’re in front of the Chief.

“Fury, Y/n’s still in there. Let me get her, please!”

“Okay, Sam go with him. You’ve got five minutes before I pull my men out of there, this thing’s gonna blow soon.”

“Yes, sir.” They both call as they pull their masks on while they run. Bucky swears, he’s never put his kit on so quickly in his life, but the smoke pouring out the fire exit doors is growing thicker and thicker by the second, and you’re in the middle of it.

2:38 PM

The show you’re watching has long since been forgotten, your mind wandering to the dreams your neighbour is so keen to reenact. Bucky’s promise to make up for his absence ignites the same fire you felt last night. That, and every other night you’ve had your fingers knuckle deep in your pussy thinking of him.

You’re reminded of one specific dream - the one you had the night he was sent home from work - where you’d broken into his apartment for ice cream; picturing his place next door has you sat upright, suddenly remembering that Alpine is probably sat in his apartment waiting for him to come home. That poor cat won’t have seen him since you invited him over last night.

Hoping she doesn’t resent you for stealing Bucky for the night, you grab his spare key from your side table and rush to check on the little white ball of fur. The familiar scent swarms you as you step inside his apartment, quickly heading to the kitchen to find Alpine.

You take a photo of Bucky’s kitchen, complete with Alpine’s little head popping out from above the fridge, and send it to him.

You: Really shouldn’t have given me a spare key, Barnes

James: Don’t even think about eating my donuts

Sure enough, a box of donuts sits on his counter top and it makes you laugh that the only thing that’s worried him about you letting yourself in, is that you’ll steal his food. God, he’s perfect.

You: You’re a firefighter, not a cop!

James: Didn’t know the donut police was out, my bad

You giggle before hearing the pitter patter of paws jumping from the fridge to the kitchen island wear she snuggles up to your torso and purrs.

“Hey, girl. Sorry for stealing James for the night.”

Alpine meows beneath your light scratches and you grin, “I’ll take that as a sign of forgiveness, Alps.”

Her cuteness has you getting your camera out to take a photo of the two of you, cuddled up together on the island.

You: Cute security guard you got here

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky’s heart is melting in the middle of the firehouse common room, so much so that he doesn’t even bother with a jokey reply.

James: My girls ❤️

Unbeknownst to Bucky, your heart is melting in the middle of his goddamn kitchen, so much so that Alpine might need to call 911.

James: Fuck I can’t wait to come home to you

You blush like crazy at the second text.

You: You do have some making up to do, Barnes

James: Yes, Ma’am!

You: Oh, and also, you might wanna pick up some more donuts on the way home ;)

You send before stretching to grab one from the box, quickly taking a photo of you biting into one and sending that too.

James: Knew I shouldn’t have given you that key

You’ve done this before, you know what you’re doing. You’ve done this before, you know what you’re doing. You’ve done this before, you know-

“Shut up, man! You’re wastin’ your breath.” Sam shouts.

“What?”

“Quit your ramblin’ we got work to do!”

Not realising he’d been talking out loud, Bucky frowns beneath the polycarbonate of his mask, a movement Sam has no chance of seeing in their current environment.

Air thick with smoke, the pair race through the plumes as fast as their legs will carry them; you’re up there, they both know it, and there’s no time to waste.

The ring of the fire alarm has long since faded by the time Bucky bursts through the door of the fourth floor, Sam close on his tail. If they thought the stairwell was bad, this corridor is hell on earth. Visibility is a distant memory in here, smoke so heavy and black that their flashlights reflect straight back at them. The only sign that they’re actually moving is the distant, faint orange glow growing stronger with each step and the heat crawling further beneath their gear.

“Fucking Garvey.” He grumbles, realising the broken sprinklers are the cause of this state.

Bucky turns behind him to face Sam. “You clear this room, I’ll do Y/n’s!”

“On it!”

The pair split up as Sam kicks down one door and Bucky heads to yours, only a few feet further ahead. Turning his back to the door, he lifts his right knee and fires his boot backward, successfully cracking it open for him to push inside.

The smoke isn’t so bad in here and Bucky gets to work quickly, jogging over to your kitchen when he doesn’t see you at the living area.

“Y/n, call out!” Bucky bellows, his mask slightly muffling his words. You don’t answer, so Bucky starts slamming open any and all doors in the apartment in the hope that you just can’t hear him.

“Y/n! Where are you?” Your bathroom is empty and he moves to your bedroom. “Call out, Y/n!”

No answer. Goddamn it, sweets.

Panic rises in his chest when he sees your empty bowl of cereal on the coffee table, a show still playing on the TV.

Bucky tries his luck shouting once more, “Firefighter, call out!”

The only sound to respond is the billowing flames down the hall, wood crackling beneath the heat.

“Please, baby, where are you?” He knows he’s talking to himself at this point and it terrifies him. Biting back a strangled yell, Bucky clenches his eyes shut in attempt to ground himself.

When he opens them, he starts scanning the room for any sign of where you’ve gone. The bowl of cereal, your missing slippers, keys on your side table, no phone anywhere, lamps still-

Wait.

The keys. There’s one missing. His spare.

It dawns on him then, and his heart drops, knowing exactly where you are.

Alpine. You went back for Alpine.

4:29PM

Your blood runs cold when you’re woken by thudding at your door, a muffled cry of your name seeping through its cracks. With a racing heart, you toss your blanket off your sweat-ridden body and rush to your feet, mind trailing behind you while you run to the door.

“Just a sec!” You call out, desperately trying to piece together what’s happening as you approach the door. You slide the lock free, swing the door open and frown.

It’s Cassie, the young mom who lives in the apartment opposite with her two little girls; her head is turned over her shoulder and she’s shouting. You follow her line of sight to find who you guess to be her eldest daughter, Grace, peering through their front door - you can’t tell for sure, you’re still waking up and things are a little foggy. Very foggy, actually.

Having babysat for Cassie a few times, you panic that you’ve forgotten you’re doing so today. “Hey, Cass-“

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“What?” You murmur, sleep still clutching onto you for dear life, and your frown deepens.

“Are you okay? Please- I-“

“Yes, Cassie, I’m fine.” You interrupt her and place your hands on her upper arms, trying to ground her. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a fire!” She points down the corridor and your attention follows. “I don’t know when it started, I- I was in the bathroom with Maya- I don’t know! I just- there was smoke coming in and- and…”

The confusion racking your brain turns to panic while a coldness soaks your body from head to toe, fear settling into every inch of you. Fire. Smoke. Heat. Everything clicks like a series of switches. The fog you thought was remnants of sleep is actually thick grey smoke - that’s why you couldn’t tell which daughter it was. In fact, that’s why Cassie was screaming, she was trying to get Grace back inside. Raising a hand to your forehead, you swipe beaded droplets of sweat off your brow and recall how warm the door’s lock and handle felt beneath your fingers.

“… hitting the fire alarm but it’s not working so the sprinklers won’t come on and-“

“Okay, hey, it’s okay!” You comfort the frantic mother and scan the hallway as you gradually come back to the present.

“Have you tried the fire alarm?”

“Yes! Yes! I tried but it’s broken, it won’t start!”

“Fuck,” You whisper, mentally damning Mr Garvey for his shit-ass death trap of a building.

Cassie starts coughing heavily so you reach to her top and lift the collar till the cloth covers her nose and mouth. With consciousness finally returning fully, you close your door behind you and guide Cassie back to her apartment.

Inside, her daughters sit crammed into the corner of the kitchen, clutching onto each other tightly. You hash a plan out with Cassie before sending her to get cloths and soak them in cold water for you all to put over your faces. The smoke in her apartment isn’t too bad, but you’ll need them for when you leave.

You jog over to the window and look out just in time to catch Chief Fury jumping out of his car, barking orders down a radio, and scanning the scene. Relieved that someone’s already called for 911, a sigh of relief tumbles from your lips and your eyes close briefly. Smoke scratches at the back of your throat, sparking a heavy coughing fit that leaves you breathless; when you realise you’re not the only one coughing, you turn back to the girls who are still sat in the kitchen.

“Hey, girls, come here!” You call, rushing back to the kitchen to guide them to the window where you pick Maya up and place her on your hip so she can see outside. “See that man there?” You point to Chief Fury, “He works with Bucky. They’re gonna stop the fire for us and make sure we get out safe.”

There’s little time for the girls to celebrate before Cassie returns with wet tea towels and jumpers. Together, you get them wrapped up and explain what’s about to happen; unsure as to what might be happening outside, you tell them to keep their eyes closed and their tea towels over their mouths and nose until their mom says otherwise.

With Grace on your back, you turn to Cassie with a reassuring smile. “It’s not far to the stairwell, they’ll be okay, I promise.”

She nods and adjusts Maya on her hip before pressing loving kisses to the girl’s heads. Using Bucky’s henley to cover the now hot metal door handle, you push it down and open the door for your neighbour to walk through.

The hallway is already darker and hotter than just minutes ago, the billowing black smoke rushing to your eyes and making them burn. Aside from the faint orange glow to your left, there’s little visibility, but you know where to go. You hike Grace up your back further and step out behind Cassie, tea towel clamped tightly over your mouth.

“Nearly there!” You bellow, voice barely breaking past your masked mouth. Come on, come on, come on… you whisper to yourself as your feet carry you step by step closer to safety. Finally, you reach the doors to the stairwell and nearly crash into the back of Cassie since you can hardly see her.

Carrying the girls, the pair of you slip through the door and hurry down the stairs. You’re 4 stories up so you count each floor as you go, keeping track of where you are. Turns out, the alarms and sprinklers are working on every floor but your own. Fuck you, Mr Garvey.

“Y/n! Wait! Y/n!” Grace calls from behind you and you rake our neck to look at her, realising then why she’s trying to stop you. “I dropped my towel!”

Without thinking twice, you tear yours from your face and press it to her mouth knowing there’s no time to be searching for hers. You keep going and catch up to Cassie before she even reaches the first floor. As your throat starts stinging again and your thighs begin to burn, you remind yourself that it’s not long until you’re outside in smoke free air.

“One more floor!”

“Yep!”

Being so close to the exit has you thinking ahead, thinking about seeing Bucky and running into his arms, thinking about how worried he’ll have been for his girls, thinking about how relieved Cassie will be to-

Wait.

Bucky’s girls. There’s two of you.

It dawns on you then and your heart drops, knowing you can’t leave yet.

Alpine. You need to go back for Alpine.

Each stride closer to Bucky’s apartment turns the red flames to orange and the orange flames to yellow. Heat radiates from the apartment opposite his as flames etch their way up and out of the front door; assessing the pattern of the fire, Bucky calculates how much time they have almost as fast as he breaks down his own door.

“Y/n! Where are you!?” He bellows from the constraints of his mask, blue eyes scanning every inch of his smoke filled home for the one thing he can’t live without.

“Kitchen!”

Without even registering what you’ve said, Bucky is running to the source of your voice, gear clanging on his back as he moves.

Thick smoke swirls around him on his way, clearing enough for him to just make out your silhouette flailing away.

“Doll!” Bucky shouts, panic rising in his chest at your frantic movements. “Y/n, call out! Are you okay?”

“I’m here! Im okay!” He hears.

Finally reaching you, his hands reach for your upper arms like iron to a magnet. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, James, it’s Alpine,” You’re pointing up to fridge, pausing to cough into your arm before continuing, “she’s not coming down!”

“What?” If you could hear the incredulous tone Bucky uses over the roaring fire, you show no signs of it. He can’t help but gawk at you in disbelief; you were seconds away from escaping a roaring blaze and you’re more focused on a damn cat? Do you even realise what’s happening?

“James, help me get her down!”

Your urgent order has the firefighter shaking his head free of thoughts that are better kept for later. The clock is ticking and the fire is spreading faster each second, so he jumps into action. Clambering up onto the kitchen counter, Bucky swipes his hand over the top of the fridge until the familiar white fur of his cat greets his palm.

“That’s it,” Bucky coaxes Alpine out from her hiding spot. Clearly unable to identify her owner beneath his gear, she leaps down into the safety of your arms and receives doting kisses in masse.

Bucky climbs down. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The short and sharp order has you scurrying to the front door where the heat creeps up your bare legs with haste. Over your shoulder, you hear the electronic beeps of your neighbour’s radio intermittently while he talks to Chief Fury.

A hand on your shoulder brings you to a halt. “You’ve got two minutes, Barnes.” The chief’s voice is crackling much like the fire behind the door.

“Yes, sir.” Bucky replies before turning to you, “Wait here.”

Following his orders, you wait with increasing nerve as Bucky peers behind his front door to check on the fire. For the first time today, he’s grateful the fire is loud enough to drown out his cursing of the situation; the last thing he wants is to scare you, but the flames have encompassed the door of the apartment opposite and have climbed to the ceiling of the hallway. Escaping now means baring the blaring heat with no protection for his girl to wear.

Pushing the door shut, he turns back to you. “We have to go through, it’s the safest way.”

“You want us to walk through fire? Are you serious?” The light quiver of your chin tells Bucky you’re more scared than you care to let on. “What about the windows? Can’t we-“

“No, doll. There’s not enough time to get the truck round this side of the building. I’d give you my mask but we have don’t have time. We have go this way.”

You’re shaking your head as he speaks, nerves racking your body like a virus and you subconsciously clutch Alpine tighter to your chest for comfort. Bucky steps closer to you with reassuring eyes, hoping the closer distance will let you see him past the polycarbonate.

“Hey, you trusted me when we got stuck in the lift and we got out without a scratch. I’m asking you to trust me again, sweets. Let me get you out of here, please?”

Battling through his mask, the desperation laced beneath his tone is enough to turn your shaking head into a nod. From that point on, you’re a passenger in your own body.

Instructions to keep your face covered, to hand over Alpine despite her meows in contest and that under no circumstances should you ever let go of Bucky’s hand. Numerous checks that you understand what he’s saying, followed my numerous recitals of his rules right back at him.

There’s no way of knowing how you managed to remember those rules, let alone abide by them, when your mind has been on autopilot for the last few minutes.

You know it’s time to go when you feel two squeezes on your right hand: Bucky’s signal. What follows is a blur of black and orange, hot and cold. Bucky covers you from the fire and leads you out to the stairwell where he tucks you into his side. You run down each flight of stairs until you burst into the chaos outside.

Bucky rips his mask and helmet off and shouts for a medic, his arm never leaving your shoulders as though there’s still a fire he needs to protect you from.

A paramedic who Bucky called ‘Pepper’ rushes over and reaches to hold you herself before realising she’ll need to fight Bucky to do so. Knowing that’s a battle not worth fighting, she guides you both to the back of an ambulance across the road.

On your way, a familiar face breaks through the hustle and bustle with relief etched across his features. Steve pats your shoulder in support when Bucky speaks up.

“Steve, can I-“

“Go be with her, Buck.” He says firmly like it’s obvious, earning a single, though grateful, nod in return.

For the past twenty minutes, you’ve watched the world fly past you; left and right, high and low, there’s something happening everywhere as the Fire Department work to put out the blaze and move people to safety. With the sun dipping behind the city skyline, the damage to Mr Garvey’s building fades away as night draws in. He’s yet to make an appearance, Mr Garvey, though you doubt he’s jumping at the opportunity to face his tenants, let alone the burly firefighters that litter the lawn.

It’s fair to say the crew are pissed. Sure, a lazy landlord running a beat-up, hazardous complex would rile them up any day of the week - but when that complex is home to ‘two of their own’ as Nat put it? Well, the only thing holding them back is Chief Fury’s stern warning to do things by the book. Though he did order a drive by for Mr Garvey once they figure out where he lives.

While seemingly everyone in sight is busy helping out, you sit perched on the back steps of an ambulance, accompanied by a sleepy Alpine and a grumpy Bucky. He’s long since forgone the fire jacket, clad just in a navy t-shirt and suspenders holding up his fire pants.

The rhythmic hum of the oxygen machine behind you is driving you crazy, but a certain firefighter isn’t keen on you taking your mask off just yet. You wonder if he’ll ever let you take it off.

A clanging in the distance awakens Alpine enough for her to relocate; the soft white cat clambers into your lap and curls up before going straight back to sleep. Unfortunately for you, the damn oxygen mask is getting in the way of everything, and you can’t see past it to watch Alpine.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, his tone just as flat as it’s been since you escaped the building, as you tug the plastic from your face.

“It’s annoying, Sarge. And fucking uncomfortable.“

Blue eyes barely glancing at you, your neighbour’s face remains stoic and cold. He finds you calling him ‘Sarge’ pretty damn annoying, even if his dick thinks otherwise; ever since you clocked on to people addressing him by his title, you’ve being teasing him, but the name has slowly turned sour on your lips the longer he acts so coldly toward you.

“It’s not meant to feel like a spa treatment, put it back on.”

You roll your eyes, not that he’d notice. “I don’t even need it anymore!” You’re sick of being treated like a child by the man who was tongue deep in your cunt just under 24 hours ago.

For the first time in a while, he finally tears his gaze from the lawn down to your defeated state and uncrosses his arms. As he leans closer, you think for a moment that he’s finally going to touch you, to hold you and tell you everything’s okay. Instead, he reaches over you and snatches the mask from your side, just to hold it up to your face.

“Banner said you do, so you’re wearing it, okay?” He all but spits. You hold his stony glare and pray that your lip won’t tremor like it always does when you’re upset. The coldness of his stare saps the warmth from your chest, replacing it with a pit of indignation that’s growing with every passing moment.

“Why are you being like this, James?” The mellow tone you didn’t even know you could use slips by, a far cry from the cruelness of Bucky’s, and you watch as he straightens up and turns away. “You- you can’t even look at me! You won’t touch me, you order me around like I’m-“

He scoffs. He literally scoffs in your face.

“Are you serious? You’re acting like a child, James.”

“Oh, and you’re not?!” His attention is back on you now and you flinch at the sudden change in dynamic.

“What the fuck does that-“

“Hey, guys!”

Steve appears from behind the ambulance door and leans down to hug you. Your eyes are stuck on Bucky, who’s resorted to turning his back to you as if that’s going to fix this.

“How are you feeling, Y/n?” The captain asks, a hand lingering comfortingly on your shoulder as you fight to pull your eyes away from your neighbour.

“Uhh yeah,” You shake your head slightly and look up at Steve with a smile, “yeah I’m feeling better, thank you.”

Though he chooses not to comment on it, he sees how your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “That’s great, I’m real glad you’re alright, Y/n. You want me to switch the oxygen off if you’re not needing it anymore?”

In the corner of your eye, Bucky’s back clenches taut and he stills. The conflict between sticking up for yourself and giving in to Bucky plays out like a musical in your mind, each side tugging you to and from at a rate of knots. But the tension between you and the firefighter isn’t enough for you to lose yourself; deep down, you know you’ve done nothing wrong and you certainly don’t owe Bucky anything after the way he’s treated you.

You look up at Steve with a confidence that both you and Bucky are surprised by. “That would be great, thanks, Cap.”

With a quick, questioning glance at the brooding firefighter in the corner, Steve turns off the machine and steps back after a quick pat on Alpine’s head.

“Do you mind if I steal Buck for a minute?” Steve asks.

“Go for it.”

After a grateful smile, Steve grabs his best friend’s arm and drags him away, leaving you with a frown and a sleeping cat.

Their footsteps fade away as they walk out of ear shot and you’re forced to try your hand at lip reading. It doesn’t take long before you realise there’s no chance in hell you’re going to figure out what Steve is saying, quite sternly, might you add.

“Cut her some slack, Buck. She was trying to do the right thing.”

The brunette scoffs, “She was trying to get herself killed.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t have done the same damn thing.”

“It’s different,” Bucky grumbles, shaking his head.

“Is it?”

“I’m a firefighter, Steve! I know what to do in that situation.”

Armed with a raised brow, the captain cocks his head slightly. “So you’re telling me if you had no training, no protection, you wouldn’t run into a burning building to save her?”

For a moment, Steve thinks he’s gotten through to his best friend, and that maybe, Bucky’s finally seeing some sense. But then Bucky reminds him exactly why he had to pull him over for a “chat” in the first place.

“She went back for Alps.”

“Have you thought that maybe she went back for you!?” Steves voice raises as his tone sharpens and Bucky’s confused ‘what?’ only fuels the fire burning in his chest.

“She knows how much you love that cat. Seems to me like she saved Alpine for you, Buck.”

Having learnt to not get ahead of himself, Steve waits for yet another snarky remark. Instead, he watches his friend look over his shoulder to your place in the back of the ambulance. Banner is in the process of taking your blood pressure while Nat makes you and Pepper laugh by playing with Alpine; the sight has a warmth growing in Bucky’s chest, and he wishes more than anything that Steve hadn’t dragged him away so far so he could hear your laughter.

As though you can feel his gaze, you lift your head and lock eyes with your neighbour, unknowingly causing his breath to catch at the back of his throat. And then you smile at him, tired and meek but beautiful nonetheless, and it nearly has him on his knees, begging for forgiveness for treating you so cruelly.

Yet he remains cold and stoic, his face contorting to one even more scorning than before. Because you were minutes away from not making it out of there, and now you’re laughing with his crew mates like he didn’t nearly lose you.

The infamous Tony Stark left Firehouse 107 years ago, yet you’ve heard his name more than you could count. He’s practically an urban legend to you at this point; even now as you scurry around the kitchen of one of his many properties that his own wife Pepper lent yoy, you’re not 100% certain he actually exists.

“Girl, I can’t believe you get to live here!” Sophie, your manager, rounds the corner of the hallway just as you glance over your shoulder.

“Yeah having my apartment burn down was totally worth it.”

You don’t mean for your tone to be a sharp as it is, nor as hostile, but you can’t help it. The aftermath of today’s events has left a sour taste in your mouth, but it’s the cold shoulder from Bucky that’s left you feeling hollow.

Sophie’s face drops, features twisting into one of regret and pity. You both fight over each other to apologise first and the heavy weight on your shoulders lifts lightly when you both laugh a little.

“That was a shitty thing to say, I’m sorry.” She comes over and pulls you into a hug.

“No, I shouldn’t have been a bitch about it, Soph.” You murmur into her shoulder, grateful for the comforting embrace after receiving nothing from the one person you’ve needed it from the most.

Pulling back, Sophie rests her hands on your shoulders. “I think you get a pass for today, hun. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you tonight?”

You immediately shake your head. “Absolutely not. You’ve got a big day tomorrow and you need your beauty sleep.”

A few weeks ago, Sophie was nominated for the local small-business owners award and the prize giving is tomorrow. The last thing you need is to feel guilty for keeping her from such a momentous event.

“Only if you’re sure, I can-“

“Nope. You’re going, that’s final.” You cut her off with a reassuring smile and place your own hands on her shoulders to steer her to the door. “Like you said, this place is a dream. I think i’ll manage just fine!”

After a warm goodbye and another attempt to change your mind (and even more assurance that you’d survive the night alone), your boss heads out.

It’s quiet now; Stark’s swanky apartment is so high up that you can barely hear the hustle and bustle of the street below, a stark contrast (pun intended) to the paper thin walls of your old apartment.

Old apartment. Only been here 4 hours and you’re already along it the old apartment.

You turn on your heel and face your new home for the next few weeks, still taken aback by the shininess of everything. The plush ivory couch is spotless, the shelves of the fridge don’t bear a single crumb, you even had to peel the protective film off the damn shower head earlier. Everything is perfect. Everything should be perfect.

But it’s not. Not without him.

You’d take back the broken elevator and shitty water pressure in a heartbeat if it meant you got Bucky back too. Instead, you’re left with this incredible apartment and no one to share it with, not even Alpine.

Without noticing it, enough time passes by while you stare at the untouched home before you that it’s now dark enough for lamps to be turned on. You stumble around in the darkness for any switches you can find, eventually finding and turning on a lamp that you’re sure costs more than your whole ‘old apartment’.

One after the other, you light up the apartment enough to find your way to the fridge where you scour through the groceries Sophie collected for you, desperate for a drink to numb the pain.

Smiling weakly at the cakes she must’ve snuck in, a knock at the front door snatches your attention.

You hurry to the door, though you underestimate how long it takes to cross the width of the apartment, and prepare to remind your excessively concerned friend that you’ll be perfectly fine on your own for the night.

“Sophie,” You begin, swinging the door open with a sigh, “I’m starting to feel insulted at how- oh…“ oh. oh.

“Hey,” Bucky says, a hand stretched behind him to rub the back of his neck. His eyes are tired and lifeless, but at least they’re lacking the venom they possessed just hours ago.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

Your questions takes him aback, like he never once considered you wouldn’t blindly open your new home to him, offer him a beer and give him free rein of the tv. Of course, he didn’t expect that, but he didn’t expect this either.

“I’m ‘Bucky’ now?”

Your eyes drop to the floor. “James. I’m sorry, I meant James.”

The timid nature of your response has the firefighter cursing himself for trying to be funny. Instead, he made you feel like you have to please him, to call him James just because he said so.

“No, it’s-“ Bucky takes a breath trying to settle the rising frustration at how difficult it is for you two to talk normally when it used to come to you like breathing. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. I came to see how you’re doing?”

The softness of his voice has your head lifting, eyes meeting his to search for the warmth that you yearn for so dearly.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

“Can I come in?” Bucky asks, dodging your question like a hitter ducking from the first baseman’s glove.

You reply by stepping to the side, allowing your neighbour to slip past you.

“Nice place.”

‘Nice place’, Buck? Really? That’s what you’re gonna open with?

“Thanks.”

‘Thanks’, Y/n? Really? What, did you build it yourself or something?

The awkwardness between you is unsettling in itself and you have to physically shake your head to try and rid yourself of the feeling.

The firefighter’s eyes fall to your body and his brows draw closer. You look down at yourself and back at Bucky’s confused face when you put two and two together.

“They’re Sophie’s,” You run the hem of your- her -shirt between your thumb and forefinger, “she dropped them off with some other stuff to get me through the next couple days.”

Getting nothing in response, you walk to the kitchen where you resume your search for a drink. Your boss bought pretty much everything at the grocery store, but unfortunately for you, she must have skipped the alcohol aisle. You settle for a glass of water, a far cry from the kind of drink you need to get you through this interaction, but it’ll have to do.

“Do you want a drink?” You call over your shoulder as you pour yourself a glass. If it weren’t for his reflection in the tall, remarkably clean windows, you’d never even know there was someone in the room.

“The options are water or water?”

Receiving nothing but silence yet again, you pour a second glass. “Water it is.” The dead silence burns as you return the water jug to the fridge where your eyes fall upon the cakes Sophie brought. “Oh! And cakes from the café too. Soph got the cookies you really like, would you like one?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a-“

“What were you thinking?”

You freeze, part way through shutting the fridge door, and while you know exactly what he said, his words echoing through your mind, you ask him to repeat himself.

“I’m sorry?”

“What were you thinking, Y/n? Going back for Alpine?!” His words flow out faster than he can pronounce them, the damn holding back his emotions finally collapses.

You slam the door shut, glass bottles rattling away as you speak, “I couldn’t leave when I knew she was trapped and there was a fire across the hall!”

Bucky throws his hands in the air. “Do you not trust us to do our jobs, Y/n?” He yells. “It’s what we do! We would’ve gotten her out- I would’ve gotten her out!”

“Put yourself in my shoes, James, there was a fire and I panicked and I did what I felt was right. If that meant not waiting for you then that’s what I was gonna do.”

You hadn’t even realised you’ve been stepping toward your neighbour, closing the distance between you till only a few feet separates you. Bucky’s eyes are frantic, yours are cold as steel and the air between you is so charged that your hands are shaking; with a clenched jaw, you try to steady your breathing while Bucky steps back to pace across the room with his hands raking through his hair.

“I can’t-“ His hands drop to the base of his neck where he needs the skin in his fists. “I can’t believe you were stupid enough to run back into a burning building for a cat that’s not even yours!”

You son of a bitch.

“That’s not fair, I love her too!” You cry, only to flinch when Bucky turns back to you with tears in his eyes.

“Well, I love you!!” He bellows, voice breaking at the end. “Who looks after you, huh?! Who comes to save you when you get trapped?”

You mumble a ‘what?’ but you’re drowned out by his words and the weight they possess.

“How are you not seein’ this, doll? This isn’t about Alps, it’s about you.” You frown, gaze jumping between those captivating blue eyes in disarray. “It’s about you putting yourself in danger to save something that is not your responsibility.”

“But I-“

“Don’t.” Bucky warns. “Whether you feel inclined to or not, you are not responsible for keeping her safe, I am. And that- fuck- that means you stayed in a fire to do something that’s my job. I should be the only one who needs to go into danger to protect her but I wasn’t there so you did it.”

“James-“

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed over something that’s my fault-

“James!-“

“It’s my fault you ended up in there, doll, so if you got hurt then that-“

You grab his face in your hands and press your lips to his, grounding him with your touch. The rooms spins around you as you work to slow his descent down a rabbit hole of guilt, lips moving against his even though his remain still. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d find his hands still in the air, but you don’t pay any mind to that; you’re only focus is on showing him you love him too, that you’re safe and he doesn’t need to blame himself for a damn thing.

You don’t know how long it takes, but at some point along the line, Bucky’s arms wrap around your waist, pinning you to his chest while he finally kisses you back.

The salty taste of shared tears greet your tongue as your lips dance against his. Your hands travel from his cheeks to his hair, tugging at his roots till his lips part in a gasp. You take the chance to tease your muscle against his, moaning at the feeling.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry,” You breathe between kisses, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Bucky shakes his head as much as you’ll let him with your tongue still tangled with his.

“No, it’s my fault, I should’ve been there.”

You pull back with tearful eyes. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Not the fire.” He murmurs, eyes clenching shut as he tugs one of your hands to his mouth, presses a doting kiss to your palm. “For everything after it. I just- I couldn’t understand why you did it, doll. And that’s not an excuse, I don’t mean it like that- there’s no excuse for it but I was so scared and confused and-“

“Angry that I went back.” You finish his sentence for him, as painful as it is to admit. “I know, honey, I know I scared you, I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t apologise, you did nothing wrong, I need you to know that.” Bucky looks into your eyes with such intensity that you feel it in your chest. When he clenches his eyes shut and he somehow holds you even tighter than before, you brace for the question you know is coming. “But why, darling? Why would you go back? I don’t understand.”

He’s almost sobbing now, forehead rattling against yours as he fights back the tears he’s been withholding all day.

But you didn’t know why, truly. All day you’ve tried to figure out what happened to you, what possessed you to do what you did. But then Bucky, your James, turned up on your doorstep 5 minutes ago and it all made sense.

“Because I love you, too.”

His eyes snap open and a look of what you can only describe as disbelief. “Fuck, you do?”

You breathe a laugh, “More than anything.”

Before you know it, his lips are back on yours and he’s kissing you with a passion you’ve never felt before. It’s different this time, this kiss, it’s like you’ve submitted yourselves to the love you have for one another and everything feels so different but so so good.

But that feeling is stripped from you like a rug being swept from beneath your feet because he’s pulling back with conflict laced beneath his gaze. “That’s why you went back?”

You nod sheepishly, tears trailing down your cheeks.

“You’re killing me, you know that?” The firefighter says, words coming out strained like he’s still holding back.

“I didn’t mean to, James,” You bundle up his t-shirt in your firsts, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky cradles your head to his chest, holding you so close to him that his heart beat reverberates into your chest. He presses a kiss to the top of your head while you tighten your hold around his waist. “I know you didn’t, doll.”

You can feel his chest tightening each time he tries to continue and gently urge him to continue. “But…?”

Bucky’s small laugh is muffled by your hair and he pulls back slightly to hold your face in his hands.

“But,” He smiles softly, eyes baring into yours, “I need you to find a different way to love me. One that doesn’t have you running into burning buildings.”

You frown with your lip between your teeth. “What if I moved in with you and Alps? Then we wouldn’t have this problem!”

“You want to move in together?” Your neighbour is taken aback by the idea.

You go to nod proudly but it only takes a second for Bucky to snap back to reality and escape the clutches of your desperate attempt to change the subject.

“No, don’t answer that.” He warns. “That’s not what we’re discussing.”

“Well technically it is…”

“No it’s not. We’re not- I can’t-“

“You don’t wanna live with me?” You tilt your head to the side with a look like a scorned puppy.

Bucky’s quick to fall victim to your tricks yet again; he leans in and presses sweet kisses to your lips while replying. “Of course I want to live with you, I wanna do everything with you-“

“There we go then, problem solved!” You grin with a mischievous glint in your eye and watch as Bucky frowns in complete confusion.

“What? No! No, problem very much not solved!”

“I think it would-“

“Doll, I don’t give a damn what the living situation is - you can’t put yourself in danger for me.” His tone is leaving little to no room for argument. Little to no room…

“But-“

“No buts, Y/n.” Bucky stops you before you can work your magic on him again. “I love Alpine and i’d be sad if anything happened to her but i’d live. But you?” His voice cracks and he’s closing his eyes to hold back any more tears. “If I lost you I- I don’t think i’d be able to go on. You’re everything to me. I’d sacrifice the world to keep you safe and that means that you can’t go running into burning building or jumping in front of bullets- I don’t even want you drinking your coffee too quickly after I made it cause you might burn your tongue!”

You giggle and lean into his palm.

“You’re my priority, sweets. I need you safe and healthy, so I can’t have you being reckless like you were today. It’s you before everything, okay?”

You nod, and you mean it this time, though Bucky’s not convinced.

“See you’re nodding but I feel like you’re not getting it.”

With a laugh, you pat his toned chest and reach up on your toes to kiss him sweetly. “I get it, James. I’ll try not to do anything reckless going forward.” You pull back and look up at him cheekily. “Not even for your adorable pet cat who is probably tearing Steve’s apartment to shreds right now.”

Bucky’s face drops and he glares at you, though there’s a playful glint in it. Sliding his hand down your arm to catch yours before you try and return to the kitchen, he sobers up. “I need you to promise me, Y/n. Promise me you’ll never put yourself in danger for me.”

You look away as though you haven’t heard him and go to step back again and offer him an actual drink this time.

“Y/n…” He warns, tone low and gruff. “I asked you a question.”

“Technically, it was an order, not a ques-“

Bucky spins you around and pins you against the wall with your hands beside your head. If the look in his eye is anything to go by, you know you’ve successfully irked him. What can you say? After the day he’s put you through, a girl deserves a little fun.

“Quit playin’. I need you to promise me, please.” His tone is raw but firm, yet you continue to blur the line between teasing and down right psychological torture.

“And what if I don’t… sarge?”

Those blue eyes don’t stray from yours, nor does he flinch at your little attempt to claim dominance. You cock a brow at the firefighter with a growing smirk but it only takes one slight nudge of his knee between your thighs to have your confidence faltering.

Bucky leans down, nose ghosting past your ear and breath spilling down your neck. “M’not sure you’re understandin’ me, doll. I ain’t askin’.”

You don’t even think before replying, “Maybe you should.”

Bucky scoffs, “After the shit you pulled today?” He raises your hands above your head, still clamped in his tight grasp, “You’re hardly in a position to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, sweetheart.”

“And what do you think you should do?” You ask meekly.

“I think I should teach you a lesson.” Bucky’s lust blown eyes drop to your lips. “But seeing as you don’t listen to my words, maybe you’ll listen to your sarge’s cock instead, hm?”

A whimper escapes your lips before you can clamp them shut; his lips ghost over yours as he speaks and you find yourself fighting the urge to clash your lips against his.

“M’gonna fuck some sense into you, doll face. S’only fair after everything you put me through…” You let out a breathy sound when he traces his lips down your jawline to your pulse point, eyes fluttering shut.

“James…”

You’re met with silence, but the hand replacing his lips that works to tilt your face to meet his has your eyes snapping open once more.

“Not ‘James’.”

Your frown. “Jamie?”

Bucky chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re cute when you’re confused, but no. Not ‘Jamie’…” His hand squeezes your throat, leaving you clenching around nothing. “Sarge.”

Breathe catching in your throat, your body stills completely.

“What wrong, sweets? I thought you loved callin’ me sarge.” The longer you stay silent and the wider your eyes grow, Bucky worries he’s gone too far and his gaze softens. “We can stop if-“

“Don’t stop.” You rush out. “…Sarge.”

With a growl, Bucky’s eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. “On your knees.”

You slide down the narrow gap between your neighbour and the wall, reaching to unbuckle his belt as you do.

“Ah ah ah,” Bucky tuts, hands pulling yours free of his belt, “did I say you could touch me?”

You bite your lip and shake your head no, though a raise of his brow reminds you that you’re missing something. “No, sarge.”

The corner of his lips tugs into a smirk. “Good girl. Hands at your sides.”

Sweet Jesus.

Bucky unties his belt, closely followed by the button and zip of his pants and you think it might be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Turns out, it’s not just you. Your neighbour is fighting the urge to roll his hips into your face with the way you’re lookin’ up at him, eyes flicking back and forth between his and the way his hands are working to free his hard length. Gulping hard, you fingers flex and curl into fists at your sides as you fight the burning desire to touch him.

“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you? I leave you for a few hours and you’re on your knees for me in minutes.”

“Please,” you beg, thighs clenching.

“You want my cock, doll? Yeah?”

You nod quickly, dragging your eyes away from his leaking cock head to his and pleading with your eyes.

“Fuck, you look so pretty like this.” Bucky hums. He cups your cheek, tracing his pointer finger down the side of your face while his thumb tugs on your bottom lip. He groans so softly at the sight that it’s nearly drowned out by the blood rushing through your ears. “Are you comfortable, sweets?” He asks with softer features.

You whisper a yes before taking his moment of tenderness to test the waters. Dipping your head, you catch his thumb between your lips, lightly sucking on it while your tongue swirls around the tip.

“Knew that mouth was good for somethin’.”

You hold his stare and playfully bite his thumb, a small act of defiance, one that proves to be a costly mistake. The firefighter draws his thumb from your mouth instantly, a smirk toting his lips as he looks at you with disappointment.

“Play nice,” He warns as though he’s scolding a puppy, “or I can go and deal with this myself.”

Your mewl has bucky chuckling to himself.

“You don’t want that, do you baby?”

“No.” Bucky raises an expectant brow. “No, sarge.”

“Good girl.”

He presses the soft, weeping head of his cock to your lips as a reward for your obedience, heart racing as fast as his dick is throbbing when your desperate tongue reaches out to steal a taste of his pre cum off your lips.

“Go ahead, doll. Suck the tip for me.”

You don’t need to be told twice; tongue dipping beneath his cock head, you draw him into your mouth and latch your lips around him tightly. The day fades into the back of your mind like a long lost memory when you close your eyes to savour the feeling of Bucky’s weight in your tongue.

Bucky, meanwhile, can’t hold back his grunts. It’s only the tip and he already thinks he’s seeing God, his head tipped back in pleasure.

“Oh that’s it, that’s it.” He moans.

Your innocent little hums travel down his shaft and straight to his balls. The burning pleasure nearly distracts him enough for him to miss your attempt to take more of him in your mouth. Before you can even register the firefighter drawing his cock free of your warm mouth, you feel it slap across your cheek. The shaft, slick with you spit and his arousal, creates and obscene sound, one that draws a whimper from your now empty mouth.

“What did I say to you, hmm?” A calloused hand grips your chin and tilts your head up. “Tell me.”

“Suck the tip for me.” You don’t miss how pathetic you sound, but you’re drunk on Bucky’s cock and you’d do anything to have him back between your lips at this point. His intense stare smothers any confidence you thought you hand and you wait patiently for his next move.

He shakes his head, unimpressed. “And here I thought you were gonna be good for me.”

“I will!” Gosh, what are you even saying? If you weren’t so intoxicated with him, you’d cringe at how desperate you sound, how desperate you look.

Struck once again by his throbbing length, you can’t help but release a slutty moan. Seriously, you could be mistaken for a pornstar if the neighbours can hear you. They can, but who gives a fuck when you’re staring at your sarge’s dick?

“Does it turn you on when I do that?” Bucky’s head dips lower, pouting condescendingly. “Or is it the thought of taking your sarge’s whole cock down your throat that got your drippin’ onto the floor?”

Bucky notes how your fingers flex at your sides before pressing flat against your soft thighs. The anticipation is clawing at you but you know better now than to take matter into your own hands, even when Bucky takes his shaft and presses the tip to your lips, his other hand holding the back of your head.

“Come on, don’t get all shy on me now. Open up for me, doll. Open up for sarge.”

It’s like he’s toying with you now so your eyebrows pinch together while you let your jaw fall open.

“It’s okay, babydoll. Just keep those sweet eyes on me, that’s it.”

His cock slips further down your throat and by the time you figure out the catch to his sudden grace, the hand holding his cock joins the other at the back of your head and he’s snapping his hips forward.

“There it is, keep lookin’ at me.” Bucky groans, his cock hitting the back of your throat with bruising force. “I wanna see those eyes while I fuck m’girl’s throat.”

His words really aren’t warning enough for what comes next. For stroke and stroke, Bucky ruts into your mouth like you’re his personal little fleshlight, a toy whose sole purpose is to take his cum. He pauses every now and then to give you just enough time to catch your breath before he’s forcing his cock back inside.

The firefighter rambles to himself, praises and grunts reaching your ears intermittently. After all, the sound of your gags are hard to hear past.

As the shock of Bucky’s sudden dominance passes, you lean into your new role with ease; sticking your tongue out to give him free reign, bobbing your head along with his thrusts, occasionally holding your head close to the base of his shaft for seconds at a time. Every trick you know, you use.

“Argh, just like that. Making your sa-arge feel so good, doll.” He stutters through his words when you keep swirling your tongue around him, but when he looks down again and is met with your glossy eyes looking right back at him, his cock fucking twitches. “Fuck, sweets, you’re gonna make me cum!”

You moan around him, enjoying the way his brows pull closer together and his mouth curves into an ‘o’ when you do.

“Would you like that, doll? To taste me?”

Muffled by his sex, murmur a yes down his length, bobbing your head faster.

“Oh yeah, God- you’re gonna look so damn hot swallowing my cum. Might even sh-shoot some over your pretty face, take a photo for next time i’m- fuck- on a night shift.”

The insinuation that Bucky would use that photo to jerk off at the firehouse drives you to work harder. To suck harder.

“Fuck fuck fuck oh baby don’t stop. Please don’t stop, i’m so close.”

The ache in your neck begs you to ease up, but the look in Bucky’s eyes has you relaxing your throat one last time and bringing your hands up to his toned ass.

Hoping your performance will make up for disobeying him, your hands hold him closer. Bucky’s cock delves that little bit deeper down your throat and it’s enough to tip him over the edge.

“I’m gonna cum oh my fuckkkk- fuck doll, I’m cumming. I’m cumming ohh-“

Thick ropes of his seed race down your throat and you swallow around him, welcoming the salty taste. Realising you’ve not taken a breathe since he let go, Bucky tries to pull back and let you breathe, but you dig your fingernails into his ass just enough to make him hiss: a warning that he shouldn’t dare pull out.

You ignore your lungs scream for air and nurse on his cock, milking every last drop of his cum. You have no idea how you manage to stay conscious but it isn’t until Bucky’s length is soft in your mouth that you pull off him.

“There you go. Breathe, baby.” Bucky encourages, tucking your hair behind your ear as you cough and splutter for a moment. When your breath finally catches up to you, your voice is raspy and coarse.

“I promise.”

Your neighbour looks at you incredulously, his mind working overtime to figure out what it is that you’re promising until eventually, it dawns on him.

The promise that started all this. The promise not to put yourself in danger for him.

“And you decided that before or after I fucked that pretty mouth? Hmm?” He asks, his thumb tracing your cheek bone gently.

“Before I was even on my knees…”

Breathing a ‘fuck’ beneath his breath, Bucky pounces; within seconds, you’re suspended in the air and being carried bridal style down the hallway, leaving a trails of giggles and squeals in your wake.

“Last one on the right.” You share between laughs, reading you neighbour’s mind before he even has chance to ask.

Kicking the door open, Bucky carries you to the bed and places you down gently, a far cry from the rough and heavy treatment you got in the living room. You watch in a haze as he kicks off his boots and socks before he’s back on top of you.

“If you knew you’d promise beforehand, why’d ya let me keep goin’?” Bucky asks, eyes searching your own.

A knowing smile tugs at your lips and you look up at him through your lashes. “Cause I wanted you to.”

Your reply takes Bucky aback, his features contorting into one of surprise before settling back into one of awe, all while his heads shakes in what you assume to be disbelief.

“And what do you want now?” He asks with the slightest raise of his brow, waiting in anticipation for your next move.

With a brief glance at his lips, one that sends his cock jumping, you lean up to Bucky’s ear.

“I want you to do what you promised me in that note you left this morning.”

Bucky laughs, “You remember that, huh?”

You nod into his neck and kiss your way to the base of his throat. “Been thinking about your promises all day, sarge. You makin’ up for ditchin’ me for work…”

Latching your lips around the skin of his neck, you suck until it begins to bruise.

“…How you’d fuck me in your henley…”

Your lips travel north, up the ridge of his stubble covered adam’s apple, tongue trailing a bold stripe up his skin. The sensation has Bucky tipping his head back in pleasure and groaning; hearing his reaction to you never fails to make your cunt pulse, but feeling the vibrations beneath your tongue makes your cunt throb. Settling just above the peak of his adam’s apple, you bruise the skin with your lips once more.

“…maybe remake some of my dreams…”

Goosebumps rise in the wake of your touch as you tease a hand under your neighbour’s shirt, from his half buckled belt line to the muscle ridged plane between his shoulder blades.

“…oh and you’d love them, sarge.” You goad, teasing your tongue up to his ear. “You always fuck me so good in them.”

“Tell me about ‘em.”

Pulling back ever so slightly, you find Bucky’s half lidded eyes to be black, his pupils so blown wide that you wonder how on earth he’s not being blinded by the light, as dimly lit as the room is anyway.

“Well this one time, I dreamt you picked me up from work.” You hum. “You’d just gone for one of your runs, and it was hot out, so you were only wearing your shorts.”

Bucky sits back on his heels, careful not to squash your legs, and brings his hands to the hem of his shirt. Slowly, teasingly, he draws the navy fabric higher and higher until he’s freed himself from its constraints. Your blatant ogling of his chiselled torso is cut short when he leans over you once more, tendrils of hair tumbling into your face.

“Then what?” he asks, searching your eyes as though they hold the answer.

“W-well you’d left something at the firehouse, and we had to go get it. It was somewhere in your office, but while I helped look for it, I knocked an award off the shelf and it smashed in two. You made me pay you back.”

Bucky’s brows draw closer, “Well that’s not the type of dream I thought y-“

“With my mouth,” you interrupt, “on your cock.”

Lip caught between his teeth, the firefighter ruts into you, and you realise just how hard he’s gotten despite cumming down your throat less than five minutes ago.

“Sounds familiar.” Bucky drawls, eyes dropping to your lips. The ones he is now all too familiar with.

“Hmm, well seeing as we’ve already done that, why don’t you ask me what happens next?”

With bated breath, Bucky asks “What happens next, doll?”

“Well, you didn’t like that you were the only one half dressed, and you told me to take me top off.”

You watch your neighbour tug at the bottom of your top and gently slip it over your head. “Bra too?” You’re convinced you see Bucky pout when you shake your head.

“Not yet. Even with the one way glass, I got nervous that someone would see me through your office window.“

He smirks. “You weren’t nervous when you were sucking me off?”

“I wasn’t the one with my dick out for the whole firehouse to see.” You scoff. “But you wanted to prove to me that no one would see a thing.”

“How?”

“You texted Peter to come check you’d locked your office at the end of your shift, turned and faced the centre of the window, and stripped completely.” Reaching between your bodies, you push back Bucky’s jeans and boxers until he takes over and rids himself of them fully.

Eyeing up your neighbours body, bare just for you, you wet your lips and continue.

“And then you looked right at me, and starting stroking your cock.”

This time, it doesn’t take your guiding hands for Bucky to wrap a hand around his hardened length and jerk himself off.

“Fuck,” You murmur, “just like that. Looks even better like this, sarge.”

Your praise earns you a searing kiss, one that’s broken all too soon by Bucky ordering you to keep going.

“Peter walked right past the window and didn’t even flinch. Fuck, you were going so fast, I was scared he’d hear you.” Bucky responds by fucking his fist faster, and boy did the sounds your mind conjured up not do a damn bit of justice for the real thing.

Chest heaving and grunts tumbling from his lips like water from a fountain, Bucky tucked his head into the crook of your neck and began licking and sucking like his life depended on it. You bring a hand to his head, needing through his hair to distract yourself from the fact the man you love is laying on top of you and jerking off.

“Don’t stop.” He nips at the skin right beneath you ear in warning.

“Pe-Peter left after trying the door, like we weren’t even there. You pulled me in front of you and- fuck- you, um, you took my bra off and- ohh…”

Bucky releases his cock and reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. He tears it off you, and, like a man possessed, wraps his swollen lips around your left nipple and suckles on it. You moan immediately, back arching into him when you feel his throbbing length against your stomach.

“Jamie, please-“

“Don’t care if this didn’t happen in your dream, lemme suck m’doll’s tits.”

With his mouth feeling like heaven on your skin, you can’t remember anything about the dream, nor do you care to try. But it’s not long before Bucky has you dreaming about something else…

“Wanna taste your milk, sweets, gonna fuck a baby into you and suck on these full, pretty tits till I can drink from ‘em.”

Well that’s new, you think, pussy clenching around nothing at the image of your neighbour suckling on your own breasts.

He turns to love on your other boob, mumbling incoherently into your plush skin. “You like your sarge playing with your tits, doll?”

You mewl a yes when he looks up at you while continuing his assault.

“Atta girl.” He praises, “What next?”

You look down at him in bewilderment.

“In your dream, sweets. What happens next?”

“Oh…” you blush at how easily he’s distracted you. “Umm, you take my bra off and turn me around and you take my jeans and panties off.”

You faintly hear a ‘Yes Ma’am’ before you being flipping onto your stomach and having your hips lifted so Bucky can tug your jeans and panties off.

“So pretty,” Bucky swoons, “so fuckin’ pretty like this, all on show f’me. What now, sweet girl?”

You gulp, knowing what came after this, and knowing you’re finally about to get what you’ve been fantasising about ever since the damn dream itself.

“You bend me over,” He lifts you up onto your hands and knees but pushes you into the bed between you shoulder blades. “And you hold my hip with one hand, and r-run your cock through my- um-“

Stumbling over your words, Bucky leans forward until his lips brush the curve of your ear. “Through your pussy lips? Hmm?”

You nod eagerly, waiting patiently for him to follow suit. It feels like hours before a hand finds your left hip, and days before you finally feel the swollen tip of his cock delving through your folds. Hiding your whimpers into the pillow, Bucky presses lovingly kisses to the back of your neck and across your shoulders.

“Like this, baby?”

Your muffled agreement brings a smirk to his lips as he continues to rut through your sex. So consumed by the moment, Bucky doesn’t notice you reaching behind yourself to tug on his hair. The feeling surprises him enough that you hear a small gasp fall from his lips, and you take full advantage of him being off guard to push your hips back into his, at just the right point for his cock to slip inside your desperate hole.

“And then,” you pull Bucky by his hair till you’re able to look him in the eye, “you fuck me.” You say, watching as his pleasure-struck expression morphs into one of awe; the stillness of the moment leaves nothing but your tangled breathes to be heard before your neighbour’s body catches up with his thoughts, and he finally rocks into you.

It’s slower than you’d expected. Deep thrusts arrive inch by agonising inch, allowing the walls of your weeping cunt to memorising every vein of Bucky’s length. Mouth curved and brows pinched, the firefighter buries his face deeper into your neck, cries of your own name falling upon your ears like a prayer.

“So fuckin’ tight for me, doll.”

“Just-“ A moan tears through you as Bucky’s cock edges further inside your pussy, “just for you, Jamie.”

“God, you can’t say shit like that, baby. I won’t last.”

Well in that case…

“S’all yours, sarge, yours to fuck wh-whenever you want.” You drawl, enjoying the way Bucky’s hips stutter mid thrust. “Cock’s fillin’ me up so damn good, you’ve ruined me for anyone else. Only you can make me feel this good, baby.”

Spurred on by your praise, Bucky speeds up, ramming into you faster with each stroke. The searing hot pleasure has him releasing a long train of swear words, muffled by your own skin.

“You really want me to bust, don’t you? Practically begging for your sarge’s cum like a whore.”

A fresh wave of arousal rushes around his dick and the sound of his balls slapping against your folds grows louder.

“Hear that, sweets? How wet this pussy is f’me? Fuck, we sound so good together, babydoll.” Bucky grunts while fucking into you with vigour. Long gone is the slow rutting he started with, his hips now slamming into you faster than you can cope.

“I know you’re close,” Bucky murmurs, “I am too. My balls’ haven’t felt this full in my life. Gonna give you every last drop, sweets. Bet that’s what your dirty little head imagined, isn’t it?”

Words fail you and your left with nothing but whimpers to give in response, but your neighbour isn’t satisfied.

“Tell me, doll, you’re the one who wanted this, huh? Tell me how hard you came in your dreams when I filled you up with my cum.”

“Argh!” If your throat weren’t so bruised from being a fleshlight for a certain firefighter, your exclamation may have sounded like a scream. Instead, it comes out broken, tired, and laced with a burning desire to be bred. “Squirted a-all over you, sarge, it went everywhere, I- oh fuck- I’ve never cum so h-hard in my life!”

“That’s my perfect girl, gonna make you cum so hard you never have to dream of my cock ever again, okay? I’ll give it to you whenever my girl needs it.”

The knot in your belly is tightening just a step faster than Bucky’s balls are; you’re mere seconds away from giving him everything, but you wait for him to tell you that you can.

You peer over your shoulder to find him with his lip between his teeth, his eyes closed as he focuses solely on making you feel good. You watch in real time as he slides a hand around your waist and delve between your thighs, his fingers finding your clit faster than you ever have.

God, he knows you so well.

“Jamie, please, please- oh- I’m gonna cum. Please let me cum, sarge, please!” You cry, the strumming of your clit ready to send you over the edge.

“You want my permission, doll?”

“Yes! Yes, please, Jamie.”

“I’ll let you cum,” He begins, mouth drawing closer to yours as those glassy blue eyes bear into your own, “if you tell me you love me.”

“Fuck, that’s it?” You all but scoff. “That’s like asking me to breathe.”

Resting his forehead against yours, Bucky rocks his hips into yours and his eyelids flutter shut. “Just need to hear it, doll.”

With a single, love-soaked kiss, you tell him what he wants to hear. Not because you’re desperate to finally let go, but because it’s true.

“I love you, James.”

The next few minutes are a blur. You orgasm tears through you like a freight train and your sweet juices soak Bucky in just seconds. He, however, has buried himself so deep inside you that the cum shooting from his cock head hits your g-spot, and sends you tumbling into yet another orgasm.

Your ever tightening cunt grips onto Bucky like a vice, and it keeps him from pulling out. Not that he ever planned on it. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d give you every last drop.

Hot, white seed spills out around his length and onto the sheets, enough that you wonder if he ever came inside you in the first place. But while your sex’s remain fused together, as do your foreheads; Bucky never pulled back, and neither did you, the sheer need to be closer than close keeping you from parting.

Despite your sorry attempt to stay awake, Bucky whispers sweet nothings into your ear until you still beneath him. He has no intentions of forcing you to stay awake, not when he gets the honour of watching over you, to keep a close eye on your sleeping form as you rest in his hold. Eventually, once your breathing has evened out and the rise and fall of your chest has slowed, he’ll reluctantly pull himself out of your warmth and clean up any cum that’s clung to your thighs. He’ll wipe the drying beads of sweat from your brow and run his fingers through the soft but tangled hair tumbling over your shoulders. The lamps will be switched off, clothes will be folded neatly on the dresser, front door will be locked and blankets straightened and tucked in around you.

And then he’ll climb under the sheets to join his beautiful doll, the one he’d give everything for. He’ll thank the heavens you got out of that building today, but he’ll thank them more for bringing you back to him. Back to his loving arms, that he’ll wrap around you and pull you to his chest. You’ll snuggle into him, press a sleepy kiss to his bare chest, and drag him into your dreams with you.

a/n: ok ok ok i’m sorry it took like a year to get this done. most of it has been written for months, but i just couldn’t figure out how i wanted it to go when bucky turned up at her doorstep. i hope you liked it, i also hope it’s not too horny (but let’s be real, it’s a smut fest). let’s see if i actually get on with any other projects 🤭

🧡

@wkemeup

Guiding Light: It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get the intel and go home. Until everything goes wrong and you’re taken captive by Hydra. While you struggle to stay alive and hold your sanity, Bucky begins to lose himself to a darkness and gives into the soldier because he doesn’t know how to breathe without you. Not until he brings you home. If he even can. (13 PARTS)

@thebarneschronicles

Closer to Home: As you settle into your new role as the team’s “girl in the chair,” helping Sam and Bucky with their missions, you find yourself increasingly drawn to Bucky's intense presence. His brooding silence is matched only by his watchful eyes, and despite his gruff exterior, your kindness begins to chip away at his walls. When Bucky insists on walking you home one night, clyou chalk it up to his old-fashioned sense of duty and think nothing of it. But as the night unfolds, you realize there’s far more behind his actions than just good manners, and your growing feelings for him may not be as hidden as you think. (6 PARTS)

@crowsofdarkness

Moment of Weakness: Reader is the assistant to New York's most feared mob boss, James Buchanan Barnes. He had the picture-perfect life: status in the mob, friends, and a beautiful wife. So why can't he keep his mind and eyes off of reader? (31 PARTS)

@literaryavenger

Broken: after Civil War you meet and bond with Bucky Barnes. You want to help him, but do you really realize how hard it's going to be? Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | bonus part

@the-winter-spider

Say Don't Go: College!Hockey Bucky x Reader (10 PARTS) The Alchemy: Ten years ago, life pulled you and Bucky in opposite directions—yours to escape a painful past and his to chase dreams of glory. Now, fate has brought you back together, but the years apart have left their mark. As the golden boy of the NFL, Bucky seems to have it all, but the boy you once knew is still there, searching for something he lost. And you? You’ve spent years learning to survive in silence, carrying secrets you’ve never dared to share. When a chance reunion thrusts you into each other’s lives, old wounds resurface, and new ones threaten to break open. Bucky isn’t just determined to make up for the past—he’s determined to prove that he’ll never let you face the darkness alone again. But as shadows from your past tighten their grip, and Bucky’s world demands perfection, can the two of you find a way to rebuild what you lost? Or will the weight of what’s unspoken tear you apart once more? (6 PARTS) Invisible: You’ve always been Bucky’s best friend, his steady presence and trusted confidante. But somewhere along the way, your feelings shifted, leaving you caught between loyalty and longing. Now, with Bucky as charming and elusive as ever, you can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever see you as more than a friend. Every stolen glance, every shared laugh feels like a step toward something deeper—if only he’d notice. (27 PARTS) Waiting Room: ↳ Part One, Part Two, Part Three Yours, Always: You built a life filled with love, stability, and everything you thought you needed. A devoted husband. A beautiful daughter. A future that makes sense. But then, out of nowhere, the past comes knocking. It starts with a picture, an old memory, faded at the edges. You and Bucky, your childhood best friend, the boy who once stood by your side like he always would. The boy who left for the army without telling you. The boy who never came back. As buried emotions rise to the surface and the life you built starts to crack, you have to face the truth you've spent years avoiding. Because no matter how much time has passed, no matter how much has changed, one thing remains the same. He was always yours. And a part of you? A part of you was always his. (25 PARTS)

@navybrat817

Hold You Tight: Club Owner! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader. The Owner of the 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not. (25 PARTS)

@cosmos-coma

My Sun, My Star: You wait up late for your boyfriend Bucky to return from his mission, but it isn't Bucky who finds you. (4 PARTS)

@redwing4life

Ashes to Embers: When an unfortunate event forces you to confront the crush you’ve had on your neighbour since you moved in, you learn that Bucky knows you better than you know yourself. As the two of you grow closer, how does he deal with his past without pushing you away? (5 PARTS)

@rocketrhap3000

The Road Goes Ever On and On: Life as a single mother of a three year old certainly has its struggles. But when a sweet stranger makes his way into you and your little boy’s life, a one of a kind connection sparks. (11 PARTS)

@sashaisready

Sweet and Sour: Bucky Barnes Mob AU x Femme Reader. You’re hard at work in Pepper’s Bakery when notorious mob boss James ‘Bucky’ Barnes darkens your doorway one typical afternoon, and life is never the same again. (25 PARTS) Starting Over: Mob!Bucky x Female Reader. When Bucky throws you out of the house for a betrayal and won’t listen to your side of the story, you know the only way out is through - it’s time to start over. Maybe this was never going to be your happy ending. (5 PARTS)

@ofheroesandvillains

I Needed You: Fem!Reader tries to make sense of her feelings, it doesn’t really go too well, especially when Bucky already has a girl. Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

@winterarmyy

Plot Twist: beefy mafia!bucky x female!reader (3 PARTS)

@enchantedbarnes

Uncle Buck: You take your nephew to a Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson Q&A event. The mischievous 8-year-old asks if he can get in line to ask a question. Against your better judgement you agree and let him go up by himself. (7 PARTS)

@all1e23

Astrophile: Orion Rebecca Barnes’s favorite thing in the whole world (besides her daddy of course) is spending hours after school in the bookstore by her house and the owner GIVES her any book she wants; she’s the coolest girl Orion has ever met. It doesn’t take long for Bucky to notice his daughter’s sudden interest in constellations and the large stack of astrology related books piling up in her room. He’s spent her entire life trying to teach her about the stars and where her name came from with little interest from his little comet and all of sudden she’s in love. All thanks to the girl who owns the bookstore? Firefighter!Bucky, Single dad AU (18 PARTS)

@sanguineterrain

No Such Thing: You’ve been assigned to write a column for your school paper on the team’s spectacular running back. You don’t care very much for your university’s football team; you just can’t understand the hype, okay? Turns out your distaste for football bigheads was exactly on point: James Barnes is insufferable. (10 PARTS)

@cassiemaebarnes

Grumpy & the New Girl: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan. (18 PARTS)

@espinosaurusrexex

Save Me: Bucky Barnes has never had it easy, which ultimately turned him into a caveman-like introvert with no desire to see the positive side of life. But what happens when the clumsily charming art student, Y/N, stumbles to his rescue, determined to show Bucky how truly wonderful the world is? (3 PARTS)

@classylo

Should've Been You: He was supposed to meet you at the game. He was supposed to be the one you went on a date with. He was the one you were supposed to fall in love with. Yet, here you are three years into a relationship with another… it should’ve been him, not his best friend. part 1 | my boyfriend’s best friend | part 2 | three years ago (buckys version) | part 3 | three years ago (readers version) | part 4 | for you? I’d do absolutely anything | part 5 | breakfast at Steve’s | part 6 | London? London. | part 7 | it should’ve been you | part 8 | see you soon | part 9 | forever (finale)

@marvelwitchergilmore

Meant to Be: Bucky helps you adjust to the modern world. Part One | Part Two | Part Three

@probablybucky

Falling: When you find yourself falling for Bucky Barnes (literally), you wonder if you can let go of the past enough to trust him. Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5  // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 // Part 9 // Part 10 // Part 11 // Part 12 // Part 13 // Part 14 // Part 15 // Part 16 // Part 17 // Part 18 // Part 19 // Part 20

@mandoalorian

Congress & Carnality | Congressman!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader series: As the dedicated personal assistant to congressman bucky barnes, you’ve spent years keeping things strictly professional—until one heated night shatters the boundaries between you. what was meant to be a fleeting lapse spirals into an undeniable pull, tangled with secrecy, power, and unspoken emotions. but while you fight to keep things professional, bucky is falling fast, and resisting him might just be the hardest battle yet. (21 PARTS)

@animereaderinsertwriter

I saw you in a dream: In this life and every life; waking and dreaming; this I swear. These are the words inscribed on Bucky’s wedding ring. A wedding ring that he doesn’t remember ever having. It’s not a vow he made– not that he remembers, anyway– but it might just be one that he decides to keep anyway. (5 PARTS)

@writerlyhabits

“Oh my god, Bucky, get out!”

Your voice resounds off the steamed-up tiles, somewhere between scandalized and entirely unconvincing. A squeak of the shower curtain rings as it trembles slightly, your poor attempt at pretending this isn’t the weirdest and most you moment of your life as Bucky Barnes’ roommate.

“Relax, doll. She missed you.”

You peek through the waterfall of hot water stinging your eyes, blinking furiously, heart lurching somewhere high into your throat.

A shadow casts on the shower curtain. A tall figure with broad shoulders and the boldest audacity, backlit by the bathroom light.

And perched high on his forearm, just barely bobbing into view over the shower curtain, is a tiny white paw. Then another. Then two crystalline blue eyes.

You sputter a wet laugh, nearly choking on a mouthful of water. “Buck! Did you seriously bring Alpine in here?”

The kitten meows. Sweet, high-pitched, held up by Bucky’s arms, peering over your goddamn shower curtain as though she’s Simba in The Lion King.

Your heart is hammering.

Not because of Alpine.

But because Bucky Barnes is standing just on the other side of the plastic barrier, mere inches away, and you’re stark naked, and your feelings are very much not platonic, and your brain is officially trying to outrun you.

Bucky sounds way too casual about the whole thing. “She was cryin’ outside the door. Thought maybe she just needed to see her mama.”

Huffing, you push your wet hair out of your face, the weight of it slick and heavy down your back. “She’s a baby, Bucky. Babies cry. Doesn’t mean you come walking into the bathroom while someone’s taking a shower.”

Bucky holds her up with both arms, the way someone might offer a sacred relic or a bottle of wine. His bare forearms flex slightly, and you hate that, even though he’s holding an adorably sweet and fluffy white kitten, Bucky is still somehow distracting.

“But she was cryin’, doll,” he says, now softer. “Wouldn’t let up. Climbed up my pants. Clawed her way up like I was a tree.”

“Seriously?”

“Swear on Steve’s good name. Wouldn’t stop till I picked her up. That’s how I figured she missed her mama.”

Your heart stutters. That stupid word again. Mama.

“Bucky, get out,” you only repeat exaggerated.

“You left the door unlocked,” he shoots back through the veil of hot air, all indignant as though he’s the one being violated.

You make a strangled noise, rubbing your temples, breathing through your nose, trying to remember that you do like him most days. You chose to live with this idiot. You’ve lived with him for a while now. You’ve survived him accidentally setting a potholder on fire, singing 90s power ballads at 2 am, and alphabetizing your spices just to mess with you.

“That’s not an invitation to come in here like a psycho and lift our kitten over the curtain to watch me shower.”

There’s a rustle on the other side. The shuffle of his feet on the tile. “But she was sad, doll. Missed you. Thought maybe you abandoned her for good.”

“She saw me ten minutes ago,” you state with a sigh in your voice, turning to rinse shampoo out of your hair.

“Well.” You see his shadow shrug behind the curtain, adjusting Alpine’s wiggly butt in his hands. “Ten minutes is like a week to a baby. You ever gone a week without your favorite person? It’s tragic.”

The words trip something in your chest. You hear the slight quirk of his mouth in his voice, as though maybe he knows what he is doing. As though this isn’t entirely about Alpine.

Alpine mews again, that high-pitched kitten sound like a squeak toy dipped in sugar, and Bucky chuckles, soft and low and affectionate in a way that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

Her tiny nose twitches, eyes wide, paws scrabbling at the edge of the curtain as Bucky still keeps holding her aloft like a proud, ridiculous cat dad.

You sigh, one hand on your face, the other holding the curtain in a defensive scrunch. “I’m still naked, Barnes.”

There’s a pause. Like a thoughtful, huh kind of pause. You hear him shuffle on the tile. As though he only just caught up with that part. As though he hadn’t really thought this through beyond the cat misses you and you probably miss the cat and maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see you too.

“I mean, technically she’s naked too,” he deadpans after a beat.

You let your forehead thunk gently against the tile wall, groaning into the rising steam.

“And she’s a girl, y’know. So… girl to girl. Girl solidarity. Ain’t weird,” he adds helpfully, as though this might somehow serve as a legal defense in court.

“She’s also two pounds and can’t even use a litter box without falling in,” you hiss back.

“Details.”

You sigh, slumping back under the spray and dragging your hands down your face. Soap hangs off your eyelashes. Alpine meows, a chirpy sound, as if she’s telling you to be nice to your ridiculous roommate.

“She says she didn’t get a real goodbye,” he says, voice low and a little sing-songy as though he knows he is pushing your buttons and is committing to the bit anyway. “Her little heart’s broken now. Might never recover.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the snort that leaves your lips. God, you’re so in love with him it’s embarrassing. Your heart feels like a paper lantern too close to the flame.

Alpine meows again, tiny paws curling over the curtain as she cranes her neck to spot you better, big blue eyes wide with wonder, as though you are the best thing she’s ever seen.

And Bucky is holding her so gently he might have spent the last ten minutes convincing her that yes, mama still exists and no, she didn’t disappear, and yes, you can go look at her now.

Reaching out, you poke your hand over the curtain, water dripping from your fingers as you scratch softly at Alpine’s chin.

“There you are, baby,” you utter amused but soft. “You’re such a drama queen.”

Bucky chuckles, deep and low, but there is something fragile under it. His hand - still holding the kitten - brushes yours for a second and he stays still.

You can see the shadow of his boots from under the curtain, the soft shuffle of his weight shifting, but not moving toward the door like a normal person would do after realizing they’ve invaded your steamy sanctuary of suds and sanity.

Then, you lean out. Just your head. Damp hair dripping, chin tucked, eyes narrowed as you peek past the edge of the curtain like a very cautious ghost.

And there he is.

Standing. Holding Alpine as though she’s the goddamn crown jewel. But his hands have stilled on her fur, mid-stroke, and his face is softened, startled. As though he just remembered something he wasn’t supposed to forget.

Then his gaze flicks - unintentionally, just a tick - toward the vague silhouette of your body behind the curtain. His breath hitches. Just slightly. And then his ears go red.

His eyes do an awkward flutter toward the ceiling, toward the tiles, toward Alpine, anywhere but toward the slice of your face. He looks like a man trying not to glance at a solar eclipse without sunglasses.

“You good?” you ask, dry as bone, drops of water landing on the edge of the shower.

He clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. Just gonna let you finish up. I, uh- think Alpine’s satisfied now,” he says, one hand coming up to scratch behind the kitten's ear. She purrs lazily, utterly unaware that she has single-handedly plunged her two favorite humans into an emotional fever dream.

You bite back a smirk. “Sure she is.”

“I didn’t see anything, obviously,” he goes on, still looking at literally anything other than you. “Not that I was tryin’ to. Not that there was anything to see- I mean- that’s not how I- I meant, that you- Fuck, now I’m makin’ it weird. Which is not what I meant. I mean- it’s not bad, just- Jesus Christ.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Not because it’s funny - though it is funny - but because there is something in your chest threatening to melt. Something painfully weak. The kind of thing you don’t want to touch too hard in case it turns real and runs away.

“Right. Great,” he mutters. A pause. “I’m gonna take her out,” he adds, finally lowering Alpine down to the little mat beside the door. She immediately tries to climb his pant leg again.

You tilt your head.

“You sure? She might still want to see her mama.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, well, her mama deserves a shower in peace without bein’ ogled. Just thought she’d calm down if she saw ya. You can resume whatever mysterious shower rituals you do in there.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, it’s called cleaning myself, Barnes.”

He huffs a laugh. “Alright, alright. I’m goin’. Don’t yell at me in front of the kid.”

“She’s a cat.”

“She’s sensitive.”

You shouldn’t be this warm. It’s not the water anymore. It’s something else creeping under your skin, behind your ribs. You want to say something. Want to reach out and grab his shirt and pull him in - not into the shower, not like that, not yet. Just into your space. Into the same space you’ve been for a while now. Waiting.

But you’re also very wet. And very naked. And this isn’t exactly the moment you want him to remember for the rest of his life when he thinks of your first real step forward. If he even believes you could take such a step.

So instead, you smile, shake your head. “Get outta here, Barnes. I’ll be out in five.”

He lifts his eyes at you, long enough to catch your expression. And even though you’re barely there - just your head, framed in fog and water and shampoo suds - he smiles. Something tender glimmers in his eyes. Maybe he’s already counting down those five minutes.

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Take your time,” he says, voice gone quiet now.

And it’s soft. Not teasing. As though maybe this wasn’t as embarrassing as he thought it would be. Maybe he’s not entirely sorry.

Your face does something treasonous. Your heart does something worse.

With a clear of his throat, his hand takes hold of the doorknob, opening it a crack. Alpine trots out of the bathroom, tail swishing, entirely pleased with herself. He watches her for a beat. Then stares at a tile. Lingers. Then looks back at you. His eyes snap quickly to your body shielded by the curtain, and fly away instantly, as though he caught himself in the last moment. “Alright, I’ll give you some privacy,” he utters, voice a little raspy. “Gotta go now. Gotta go learn about boundaries or somethin’.”

And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him.

You’re standing there dripping, heart pounding for reasons that have less to do with steam and everything to do with him.

He’s got that effect on you. Even when he’s being a ridiculous dork. Especially when he’s being a ridiculous dork.

The door cracks open again.

“Oh my god, Buck-” you begin to protest, but he interrupts you quickly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just-” Bucky calls out, soft, voice low as though he’s trying not to scare a bird. “Uh, I was thinkin’. You want takeout?”

One hand freezes mid-reach for your body lotion, the other still braced against the curtain. You didn’t expect him to ask that.

“Thought maybe you’d be hungry,” he explains, as though it’s the most reasonable thing in the world to have a food conference while you’re still literally naked and trying to have some privacy. “I’ll order. You take your time in there. By the time you’re all… y’know-” You see his shadow gesture at you behind the curtain, “human again, it’ll be here.”

You laugh. It kind of bursts out of your mouth before you can stop it. “Human again?”

“Well, you’re half-shampoo, half-grump right now,” he says with a smirk you can hear. “Didn’t wanna assume you were ready to talk logistics until you de-soaped.”

You don’t know what to say. So you sigh and wait for him to leave.

But he lingers.

You peek your head around the curtain again, water droplets trailing down your temple like punctuation marks to your raised eyebrows. “Barnes.”

His eyes flick up. Instantly. And then down. Instantly-er.

“Oh,” he blurts, practically recoiling, sheepishly running his hand down his face. “Still- uh- yep. Still naked. Right. Shit.”

“You literally knew that going in the first time. And now you did it again,” you deadpan, grinning at how fast he suddenly backs away again.

“I wasn’t- I mean, I still didn’t see anything, not that I was looking. Or trying to look. I just thought- well, Alpine was done sniffin’ the rug and I figured maybe food- ya know what? Never mind.”

The door squeaks.

“Bucky,” you call just before it closes again.

He pauses. Leans back with only half his face showing - one hand gripping the edge of the frame as though it might keep him tethered.

You soften. You can’t help it. “Takeout sounds good.”

He smiles, small and crooked and pleased, and god help you, it tugs at something in your chest that makes you want to sit down and cry for no reason at all.

“Got it, sweetheart.” His voice is warm again. Familiar. “I’ll get the usual. You just… take your time. Wash the world off.”

You nod. And he’s gone again.

You hear his footsteps pad down the hallway.

With a sigh that’s 60% fondness, 30% embarrassment, and 10% utter, unrelenting this man, you lean back into the steam, your heart performing some frantic dance in your chest.

Outside, Alpine lets out a mewl that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

“You don’t accidentally end up sharing a life.”

- Erin Hahn

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

He sometimes still can’t believe it – that you, this family you’ve created together, this life is really his. Every now and then, he’ll randomly wake during the night in a panic that he’s somehow dreamed it all. But then he feels you begin to stir beside him, and it quickly brings him back to reality. Just one glance at the sleeping infant on the video monitor’s screen and he can close his eyes knowing that this isn’t just something his subconscious conjured up as a twisted joke.

It might feel too good to be true at times, but it’s not. It’s real, and that’s all thanks to you.

He skims the tips of his fingers up the expanse of your bare arm. Peach fuzz and goosebumps rise and you make a noise akin to a sigh at the feather light touch. Your eyes flutter open, a sleep-dazed grin appearing on your face when you register that he’s already looking at you.

“Really? Waking me up early? On Mother’s Day?”

“Sorry, doll,” he purrs, his Brooklyn drawl making an appearance in his voice, still raspy with sleep. “Didn’t mean to. I just can’t help myself.”

You half yawn, half laugh as he brings his face to yours. His lips capture yours in a messy kiss that starts innocently enough. Then you part your lips as you pull him closer to you by the back of his head. He slips his tongue past your lips, lazily exploring the inside of your mouth as if it’s brand new territory for him.

He twitches inside his boxers – he’d blame it on the morning wood that had yet to fully dissipate, but he knows damn well that this is all you. Your scent, your touch, your taste. He continues to move his lips against yours as he pulls the comforter back enough to maneuver himself over you. You’re wearing a thin cotton tank top and a pair of panties that he’s particularly fond of – but right now, he’d prefer both articles of clothing to be on the floor.

Reaching between your bodies, his flesh hand finds the hem of your top. He pulls the fabric upwards, above your breasts. Your nipples are already pebbled as he breaks the kiss and lowers his face to your chest. His lips lock around the peak and you arch your back into his touch, a melodic whine escaping your lips.

Only after paying careful attention to each breast does he begin to leave a trail of wet kisses down your sternum, over your belly button, and to the hem of your panties. He dips his fingers into the waistline of the fabric, ready to tug them down your thighs when your hand grabs his. He pauses, looking up at you with raised brows.

“Winnie will be awake any minute now,” you breathe. He chuckles, shaking his hand free of your loose grip to resume pulling your panties off of your hips.

“Guess I’ll just have to be quick, then,” he smirks up at you from his position between your thighs. “Come on, honey. It’s Mother’s Day, yeah?”

Any further objection from you dies on your tongue before your underwear can hit the bedroom floor.

Normally, he’d take his time with you – make you squirm and plead just a little. But you do have a point. Winnie usually wakes up earlier than the sun, so it's only a matter of time before you’re interrupted by the sound of cries coming from the nursery at the end of the hallway.

But that’s okay. He doesn’t need long. He’s spent enough time studying your body to know exactly how to get you where you need to be.

Settling himself between your legs, he licks a thick strip up your center. One of your hands dashes to the top of his head, where you thread your fingers through his hair to help guide his ministrations. Your other hand instinctively covers your mouth, in an effort to muffle your moans.

He circles your clit with his tongue while he teases your hole with the tip of a long, vibranium finger. You whimper as he nudges the icy digit past your entrance, eagerly sinking yourself onto the length of it. Your walls constrict around the metal, and while he selfishly wishes it was a different part of him buried in your tight heat, he knows that this – this whole day – is all about you. Loving you, worshiping you, making you feel as loved and appreciated as you make him feel every day.

You writhe against the mattress, grinding yourself against his mouth. His lips lock around your swollen clit, sucking until you’re on the verge of climax. He adds a second metal finger, sending you crashing over the edge.

Sitting up on his knees, he uses his t-shirt to wipe his mouth before looking down at you with a satisfactory grin. Your chest is still heaving and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on your skin.

He thinks you’re glowing.

“See? Told you I’d be quick,” he teases as he looms over you, leaning down to give you another quick peck on the lips. “And baby girl is still fast asleep.”

As if on cue, a soft cry begins to sound from the room next door. You laugh, looking at him as if to say what is it you were saying?

“Don't get up. I'll get her,” Bucky stops you when you start to swing your legs over the side of the mattress. He quickly puts on the pair of sweatpants that he had discarded before falling asleep last night. “Tea or coffee this morning?”

“Hmm,” you contemplate as you lay back down against your pillow and readjust your tank top. “Coffee. Thank you, baby.”

After making a quick pit stop in the bathroom to wash his hands, Bucky hurries to get a crying Winnie from her crib. She’d recently started standing up on her own, so Bucky isn’t surprised that she’s already standing up and holding onto the railing of her crib when he opens the door. As soon as she sees him, the crying stops and she breaks into a huge grin that showcases her brand new bottom teeth.

“Good morning, Winnie girl,” Bucky coos as he lifts her into his arms. “It’s Mother’s Day. Are you ready to go give Mama her presents?”

Winnie’s response, of course, is a bunch of incoherent babbling, but Bucky likes to think that she understands.

He makes quick work of changing her, making you a cup of coffee just the way you like it, and grabbing the gift bag that he’d hid behind a bunch of extra cleaning supplies in a storage closet a few days prior. In one arm, he juggles a wiggly baby and your present, and in the other, a hot cup of coffee.

Back in your and Bucky’s bedroom, you’ve changed into a casual lounge wear set. Your face instantly lights up as soon as Bucky enters the room with Winnie in his arms. She reaches for you right away, almost throwing herself out of Bucky’s arms.

He can’t help but take a moment to admire the scene in front of him. You attack Winnie with kisses and she bursts into a fit of giggles. He places your mug on your bedside table and then sits down on the edge of the bed, smiling to himself as he watches his two favorite girls.

Everyone tells Bucky that Winnie looks just like him, but he thinks that she’s the spitting image of you. Especially the smile – he adores that she has your smile.

“What is this?” you croon at Winnie when you notice the bag in Bucky’s lap. You place her bedside you on the bed as he hands you the present. “Did you get something for me?”

“She can’t take all the credit,” Bucky teases. “But she certainly helped.”

You pull the tissue paper out of the bag, handing it to Winnie so that she can entertain herself by crumpling it up in her fists. First, you pull out the gift that Bucky is most proud of.

It’s a glass frame containing various polaroid pictures of the three of you, as well as small flowers that Bucky had dried from a bouquet that he’d given you just a few months ago. On top of the glass are two small, pink footprints. Bucky had bought acrylic paint just so he could paint Winnie’s feet and print them on the glass.

You stare at the gift, taking it in as you chew on your bottom lip. Your silence makes him a little nervous. He’s not normally one for handmade gifts, but he wanted your first Mother’s Day gift to be sentimental.

“Oh, Bucky,” you whisper after a moment. Your fingers trail over the glass, settling on a picture of you, him, and Winnie sitting in front of your Christmas tree several months prior. “It’s so beautiful. How did you come up with something like this?”

“Yelena told me that I should check Pinterest for ideas,” he admits, suddenly feeling bashful. “And she may or may not have helped me and Winnie do the footprints without making a complete mess.”

You throw your head back in a genuine cackle. You place the frame on your bedside table, exactly where he expected you to put it. “Oh, so that’s why you wanted to take Winnie to the team meeting last week.”

“To be fair, I didn’t lie. Everyone did really want to see her.”

You reach back into the bag, pulling out your next present. He didn’t bother wrapping it, knowing that you would have the wrapping paper in shreds within seconds. It’s a simple, pale yellow box. You open it up, a look of awe immediately coming over your face.

“Do you like it?” Bucky asks softly, though your teary-eyed expression answers his question without you having to say a word. You nod rapidly, removing a delicate gold chain from the box. In its center, is a W shaped charm. On either side of the letter are stones – Winnie’s birthstones.

“Help me put it on?” You request, turning around so that he can latch the necklace for you.

It looks as perfect on you as he imagined it would.

“Thank you, baby,” you murmur, pulling him to you by the collar of his t-shirt to bring his lips to yours. “So much. They’re both just beautiful.”

He cups your face in the palm of his hand, massaging your cheek with his thumb. He’s silent for a moment, reveling in how thankful he is for you and the fact that he now gets to celebrate you on this day.

“Happy Mother’s Day, honey.”

You could’ve cried, you could’ve begged, or collapsed into a sad cliché with a tub of ice cream and Sex and the City reruns. But no, you had a mission, and one mission alone. Get so unbelievably drunk on whatever you could get your hands on, so drunk in fact that you wanted to black out before midnight and preferably unconscious until sunset the next day.

Tony’s penthouse parties weren’t usually your scene. Too many sleazy rich men with superiority complexes, trophy wives sipping champagne through botoxed grins, and a carousel of extras that Stark always vehemently denied were hookers. What you did know was that, being an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D., your name was always on the list, and tonight, free top-shelf booze felt like divine intervention.

You just had to get in, get drunk, and avoid eye contact with your co-workers long enough to pull off a quiet mental breakdown and ignore the fact that you were rather underdressed for the type of party Stark was hosting. Scantily clad club clothing clashed hard with the pearls and Prada crowd.

A few raised brows and vague greetings followed you as you slithered through the gathering. 

But you held back a groan when you spotted the trio parked at the bar: Yelena, Steve, and Bucky. Great. The Greek god chorus of shame, in all their sculpted, judgmental glory. They looked just as uncomfortable as you felt, loitering by the bar instead of mingling with Stark’s circus.

You ignored their stares and made a beeline for the shelves behind the bartender—some poor kid who looked far too green for this gig. He gave you a look of dismay as you grabbed a bottle of tequila without asking. Slamming down a shot glass, you poured with shaky hands and knocked it back with the elegance of a car crash.

You barely registered the silence that followed until you glanced up and saw the stunned expressions staring back at you.

Yelena was the first to speak. “What happened to you? You never come to these things.”

You poured another shot. “Free drinks,” you muttered, then downed it, already lining up the next. No salt. No lime. Just pain, raw and unfiltered, sliding down your throat.

“I thought you were going out with your boyfriend?” She continued to press, while Steve looked rather scandalised as he watched you swallow back your third shot in a row with a shudder. 

Yelena reached over and snatched the bottle from your hand before you could pour again. “You should slow down.”

​​You blinked at her, teeth gritted, blood thrumming loud in your ears. She meant well. Of course she did. You’d always gotten along—ever since she’d been assigned as your mentor in your early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. You two had clicked effortlessly. It was all a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s long-term strategy to make field missions run smoother and reduce casualties. Avengers were paired with up-and-coming agents to pass down their experience and training, with the hope that one day, those hard-earned skills would save lives.

But everything changed when they reassigned you.

You’d been told it was to ‘broaden your skillset’, that it was about growth, adaptability, and learning from different leadership styles. What they didn’t say was that it would mean training under James Buchanan Barnes, aka Mr. No-Praise-All-Pain.

You’d tried. Really. At first, you gave it your all. Took his criticism, bit your tongue, pushed harder. But Bucky didn’t bend. He didn’t compliment. Didn’t guide. He just judged, cold and final, like every failure confirmed whatever low expectations he had of you.

Five months of that, and you were drowning. You begged for reassignment—back to Yelena, to Natasha, to anyone—but were denied every time. Some higher-up probably thought your mutual disdain was ‘motivating’, like locking two angry wolves in a cage and expecting them not to rip each other’s throats out.

And now here he was. Bucky Barnes. His suit jacket was slung carelessly over the back of his bar stool, his tie loosened just enough to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. His dress shirt clung to his muscular frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those unfairly defined forearms and the gleam of vibranium wrapped around a bottle of beer. His expression was stony, but familiar—stern brow, mouth set in a tight line, like he was already displeased with you and you hadn’t even said a word yet.

That look. That look you couldn’t stand.

Disappointment, or maybe pity. You couldn’t tell. Either way, it made your skin itch.

You wanted to punch him in his sullen, pouty face.

Instead, you laughed bitterly and reached for the bottle again, only for Yelena to hold it further away, firm.

“I said slow down,” she warned.

You made a face at Yelena. “Uh, you can’t talk. I saw you do shots out of a candle holder once.”

She didn’t even blink.

“Yes. And you called me messy. So I stopped.” She turned away just long enough to vanish the tequila bottle from sight like some sleight-of-hand magician. “This is me returning the favour. Stop it. You’re being messy.”

You barked out a harsh laugh and rubbed a hand down your face, smearing frustration across your cheeks. “You know what’s messy? My boyfriend. Well—ex-boyfriend.”

Across the bar, Bucky shook his head and muttered something low under his breath. You didn’t catch it, but you were sure it was vile because even Steve glanced over at him in disbelief, his eyebrows climbing high. Great. Judgment from Captain Morality and the Tin Soldier. Just what you needed.

Yelena sighed, already exhausted. “What did he do this time?”

You could tell she was reaching the end of her patience, and honestly, it was fair. She’d been your reluctant witness through the entire tragic saga of your love life. Two and a half years of emotional landmines and loser boyfriends who all somehow managed to be worse than the last. It was impressive, in a bleak kind of way.

You gestured vaguely, your expression somewhere between rage and disbelief. “I was supposed to meet him at some sleazy club downtown, his buddy was DJing—-fucking terrible DJ by the way. I’d barely walked in the door when I caught him in a back booth, fingering some girl who wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it!”

Yelena’s lips pursed. Steve stared like he’d never heard someone use the word ‘fingering’ out loud before.

“What did you do?” Yelena asked, her voice low, careful.

“Oh, the usual,” you said sweetly. “I punched him. Hard. He hit the floor like a sack of shit. Then I stepped on his hand until I felt something snap.”

Steve choked on his beer, coughing violently into his elbow. Bucky just watched you with the world's best poker face, a slight clench in his jaw muscles. 

You smiled at Steve, feral and unbothered. “Don’t worry, Cap. He won’t be playing DJ with anyone’s body parts anytime soon.”

Yelena gave a low whistle, somewhere between impressed and alarmed. “You actually broke his hand?”

“Felt like justice.” You shrugged. “Plus, he was always texting with that hand. Two birds, one stomp.”

“That’s assault,” Steve managed, his voice slightly strangled.

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “We’ve all done worse.”

Across the bar, Bucky finally spoke, his voice gravel-edged and unimpressed. “And now you’re here, drinking like a lunatic in front of half the team. Real graceful recovery.”

Your shoulders tensed, that familiar heat creeping up your spine.

“I’m not showing up for training tomorrow,” you said flatly. “Hell, I don’t plan on being conscious tomorrow.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “It’s going on your report.”

Your mid-year report. Just another excuse for Bucky to publicly drag you, whining to the higher-ups about what a terrible mentee you were. How you needed to ‘apply yourself’, ‘show initiative’, or whatever corporate nonsense they lapped up. And of course, those same higher-ups were always looking for a reason to cut dead weight. One misstep, and you were done.

“Of course it is,” you snapped, spinning on your heel. “You miserable, ancient cunt.”

Steve choked on his beer again.

Without another word, you reached behind the overwhelmed bartender, who looked about five seconds from quitting, and grabbed the nearest bottle. You didn’t even look at the label. You stormed off with tequila already burning in your veins and spite lighting the way. 

—

You were leaning casually against the wall outside the gym’s changing rooms, dressed in workout gear that was probably a little more flattering than necessary. Tight enough to flatter your waist, breathable enough to pass as practical. Around you, the low hum of chatter buzzed from a small group of fellow agents. You were killing time before your dreaded one-on-one training session with Barnes.

Theo leaned a shoulder beside yours, towelling sweat from the back of his neck. He’d been an agent about as long as you had—charming, competent, and a little too easy to get along with. The two of you were part of that unofficial after-hours crew: drinks on Fridays, complaints about the job, stumbling home tipsy and hungover texts on Saturday mornings.

“You’re on sparring duty all week too?” Theo asked, glancing at you with mock pity. “I swear Rogers gets off on making me eat mat.”

“I know what you mean. Barnes definitely loves making me suffer,” you replied with a grimace. “That man has a personal vendetta against me.”

Theo grinned, tossing the towel over his shoulder, and he gave you a playful sidelong look. “When I get knocked on my ass, promise you’ll kiss it better?”

You arched a brow, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. “Careful. I’m starting to think you’re flirting with me.”

“Starting to?” he shot back, unfazed. “Let me make it clearer. If I don’t get my ass handed to me by Rogers, I’ll buy you a drink Friday.”

You leaned back against the wall, arms folding over your chest. “And if Rogers wins?”

Theo leaned in, voice low and smooth as his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lingering just a moment too long. “Then I’ll buy you two,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to respond. Flattered, a little surprised, already mentally debating whether it was worth shaving your legs, when a voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

“Agent. You’re late.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. That gravel-edged tone, sharpened with disapproval, could only belong to one man.

Bucky stood at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, jaw set like granite. His black compression shirt clung to every sculpted line of his chest, joggers slung low on his hips in a way that really shouldn't have been legal. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a combat simulation and into a fitness magazine.

But the expression on his face? Full-on battlefield.

That signature scowl was locked in place, thunderclouds brewing behind his eyes as he stared straight past you, straight at Theo. Typical. You hadn’t even done anything, yet somehow, he already looked pissed.

“Training doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.” You reminded him.

He didn’t seem interested in whatever argument you were about to make, and he turned on his heel without another word.

You sighed, uncrossing your arms as you pushed off the wall and flashed Theo an apologetic smile. 

Jogging to catch up, your boots thudding against the hallway floor, you called after Bucky. “You know, there’s this really neat thing called a schedule. Maybe try sticking to it?”

He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. “You could use the extra time.”

You scoffed in disbelief at his audacity. Classic Barnes, gruelling, joyless, always ready with a critique and never a compliment. He’d made it his mission to grind you down, one scathing remark at a time. And yet, you knew you were one of the top agents. The higher-ups had told you as much in your mid-year review, even going so far as to say that your mentorship with Barnes was working brilliantly. You hadn’t bothered correcting them, though it irritated more than you liked to admit. All your hard work, and somehow, he got the credit.

Bucky didn’t stop until you were both inside one of the gym’s private sparring rooms. The door clicked shut behind you. No audience. No distractions. Just him and you and the electric tension that always seemed to spark the moment you were alone together.

“Seriously, Barnes, what’s your problem today?”

Bucky stepped onto the mat, gesturing for you to follow.

“You’re here to train, not flirt in the hallway.”

You barely resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Bucky always had a problem whenever your love life even breathed into the conversation. Said it was irrelevant. Unprofessional. A distraction.

Back when Yelena was your partner, the two of you used to spar and gossip at the same time, her dodging your punches while you gave dramatic play-by-plays of whatever your latest fling had done to you in bed the night before. She lived for it. Bucky? Not so much.

He’d cut the conversation short every time. Couldn’t even stand the sight of you laughing a little too long with someone else. He’d yank you away with some bullshit excuse like, ‘distractions on the field will get you killed’, or ‘do I need to report you for slacking off?’ Like you were breaking protocol instead of just being a human being.

You stepped into position across from him, tightening your stance, heat already prickling beneath your skin. From the glare he was giving you, he looked ready to fight. Good. So were you.

“Are you always such an asshole,” you said, voice flat, “or is that just a special little treat you save for me?”

He gave you a look, deadpan and infuriating. “Only when I’m working with someone who’s constantly late, distracted, or hungover.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose and threw a lazy jab, just to shut him up. He deflected it with a flick of his wrist like he could’ve done it in his sleep.

“And yet,” you muttered, circling to your right, “you wrote me a glowing mid-year report.”

His hand faltered for a split second. It was brief, but you caught it, a crack in the armour he hid behind.

“So you read it,” he replied, already shifting back into motion.

“Hard not to. Maria practically quoted it word for word at me in the hallway.”

His mouth flattened. “It was accurate.”

You scoffed and came at him again, this time with more force, a blow aimed at his jaw. He blocked with ease, catching your wrist mid-air and twisting just enough to tip your balance. You staggered, caught yourself, then stepped back with a glare.

“‘Most adaptive mentee in the current program,’” you quoted, circling him again.

A jab. He blocked it.

“‘Performs under pressure.’”

You followed up with a low kick aimed at his calf. He side-stepped like you were moving in slow motion.

“‘Good instincts in the field.’”

Another punch, this one he met palm to palm, stopping your momentum cold. You grit your teeth and shoved him off.

“‘Promising.’” You swept your foot in a feint and then struck at his ribs. He pivoted out of reach, breath barely changed. “‘Capable.’”

He lunged this time, arm out, trying to lock your elbow, but you twisted under it, ducking away, the mat skimming under your feet.

“‘Excellent recall.’” 

You squared off again, eyes locked on his.

“Why the hell,” you asked, low and angry, “are you always such an asshole to my face when you’re singing my praises behind my back?”

He didn’t answer right away, moving like a shadow around you, eyes locked on yours. 

“As much as it pains me,” he finally spoke, tone flat, “you are my best mentee. Even if I dislike you personally, I felt your report should reflect that.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown. That was… probably the most praise you’d ever got from him—buried beneath the usual bullshit, sure, but praise nonetheless. On a good day, you might get a grunted ‘good’ if you were lucky. Most of the time, training with Bucky was just an endless list of everything you were doing wrong, punctuated by a jab to the ribs for emphasis.

“Do you always make your compliments sound like insults?”

“It wasn’t a compliment. Just the truth.”

You threw a kick toward his side, fast and impulsive. He caught your ankle and held it, grip firm around your calf for a second too long. His vibranium fingers were cold, even through the fabric of your leggings. You could’ve sworn they tightened around the muscle just a fraction as your eyes swept up to give him a look of disbelief. But instead of pulling away, you leaned into the moment and used the hold for balance. You pivoted hard on your grounded foot, letting the captured leg swing inward. Then you launched yourself forward, hooking your other leg around his waist, aiming to bring him down with you.

For a half-second, it worked. His balance shifted. Your hips were flush against him, legs locked tight around his torso as you twisted your weight, trying to drag him off his feet.

With a grunt, he straightened, twisted, and you suddenly found yourself airborne.

You hit the mat hard, slamming against it with a thud that knocked the breath out of you. The ceiling lights above blurred for a second as the impact rattled through your spine. His shadow hovered for a beat, chest rising with exertion, jaw clenched.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just stared down at you, maybe it was the oncoming concussion you probably just suffered, but you could’ve sworn there was a flash of concern in his eyes.

“Next time, I won’t let it slide if you don’t turn up because you’re hungover.” He wiped a forearm across his brow.

“How do you know my heart wasn’t broken?” You asked, shaking off the blow as you rose to your feet once more, feet finding their usual stance.

He arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Don’t you have sympathy for me?” you asked, somewhere between a joke and a challenge.

“I wouldn’t call it sympathy,” he said coolly. “More like pity.”

That stung more than you cared to admit. You rolled your shoulders, stepping in again. Your guard was up, but there was a crack in it now, frustration flaring under your skin.

“I can’t imagine you were actually that sad about it.” Bucky bit out, not even bothering to hide his annoyance now. “Don’t you have a new fling every other week? Sure sounded like you were lining up another one in the hallway.”

“Oh wow,” you drawled, voice harsh. “Slut shaming? This isn’t the 1940s, Barnes.”

“It’s not my fault who you choose to date.”

You exhaled, long and low. The tension between you had teeth now, gnawing at the air. “Y’know, for someone who hates me, you sure pay a lot of attention.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, fists flexing at his sides, poker-faced.

You waited, ready to shoulder any insult he laid on you. You could see irritation simmering under his skin, jaw ticking, knuckles white.

“I think you should take a lap or two around the room.” He huffed finally. “Your blocks are late, your punches are soft, and your stance is a joke. Try warming up before you embarrass both of us.”

You grinned back at him, though it was closer to baring your teeth than a show of amusement. “But I’m still your best mentee, huh?”

“Let’s make it five laps then.”

You gave him a lazy salute and turned for the edge of the mat.

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

As you jogged the first lap, footsteps echoing lightly in the private room, you could feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement and watching you like a hawk, like a fuse lit, waiting.

And damn it, you ran a little faster because of it.

—

If you’d known how this mission was going to turn out, you would’ve called in sick. Faked a family emergency. Broken your own damn leg. Anything to avoid being stuck alone with Bucky Barnes in a freezing H.Y.D.R.A. bunker from hell. You’d even considered whispering a desperate prayer to whatever all-seeing god might be listening—or hell, maybe begging Stephen Strange to yank you into an alternate universe where this wasn’t your reality.

Gunfire rattled somewhere outside the cement walls, and you imagined your fellow agents in the middle of all the fun, chucking grenades, dodging bullets, living the dream. Meanwhile, you were practically glued at the hip with Sergeant Sunshine, babysitting an ancient Soviet-era computer that looked like it still ran on dial-up.

You were perched on the edge of a desk, legs swinging, having shoved aside a mountain of dusty files scribbled in Russian. All completely useless to you.

“What is it with H.Y.D.R.A. and brutalist architecture?” you muttered, eyeing the thick ceiling. “Why does concrete get them so hard?”

“I can’t concentrate with all your whining.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s literally the first thing I’ve said in ten minutes, Barnes.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even throw you one of his signature grunts. Just kept clicking away like the keyboard had wronged him personally, eyes narrowed at the screen as if trying to decode the goddamn Rosetta Stone.

You groaned and rolled your head back, staring up at the ceiling.

More concrete.

You weren’t usually this unbearable on missions, but this? This whole situation felt like a personal attack. You’d been mid-flirt with Theo on the quinjet (who had been very committed to making bedroom eyes at you) when they’d called out team assignments. The second you heard your name paired with Barnes, tasked with data extraction while everyone else got to blow things up, you’d spun around to glare at him.

He’d been sitting there in his usual cold, statue-like stillness beside Steve, as if this wasn’t a death sentence. You’d stormed over, demanded if he knew anything. He just shrugged and muttered something about ‘higher-ups’.

The walls shook suddenly—another explosion—and dust drifted from the ceiling. You blinked it out of your lashes and slid lazily off the desk, sauntering over to where Bucky hunched at the terminal.

“Can you hurry it up? At this rate, they’re going to bury us alive in here.”

“Give me a second,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

You leaned in slightly, eyeing the screen. A wall of Cyrillic met you, completely unreadable. You couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that left your lips.

“Remind me again why we’re the ones doing this? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to send someone who actually speaks Russian to help you? Or, I don’t know, someone who has the patience to teach you how to use a flash drive?”

He didn’t answer, just kept typing and clicking, as if the keys owed him money.

You crossed your arms, scowling. The only thing more miserable than being stuck in a concrete crypt was being stuck in one with him. When he was distracted, like now, he forgot to wear that usual look of thinly veiled disappointment. His brow furrowed in focus, lips twitching as he muttered to himself in low, clipped Russian. He looked—God help you—human. Not like the cold-hearted pain-in-your-ass who’d spent the last six months tearing you down. But like someone thoughtful. Careful. Quietly brilliant.

And stupidly, stupidly attractive.

You hated how your eyes lingered on the way his rolled-up sleeves hugged his forearms. The way the shadows danced over his cheekbones and the little groove between his brows. The way that little furrow deepened when something didn’t go his way, like he was trying to wrestle the entire world into submission with sheer concentration alone.

It would’ve been easier if he were just awful. Easier if you didn’t catch glimpses of something else beneath the gruffness. Something that made your chest tighten a little when you weren’t focusing. 

You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes to the screen. What was wrong with you?

The download bar finally appeared on the screen, crawling forward at a snail’s pace. You exhaled loudly, half in relief, half in impatience. 

“About time,” you muttered.

He shot you a look, cold and flat. “You wanna do it?”

You turned your back on him, pacing the room. Your nerves were coiled tight, the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions growing louder. The base was a pressure cooker and the damn download bar still hovered at 34%.

While you were busy taking your own turn brooding, the heavy metal door at the far end of the room slammed open with a deafening clang, nearly launching you out of your skin. Three armed H.Y.D.R.A. agents stormed in, rifles raised, eyes locked on target.

So much for the diversion. Clearly, it hadn’t been enough—or worse, H.Y.D.R.A. had seen through it. They must’ve realised it wasn’t a full-blown William-the-Conqueror-style invasion, just a cleverly dressed-up distraction.

“Company,” Bucky muttered, pulling his sidearm in one smooth motion.

You were already moving, instincts kicking in before your brain could catch up. You dove low, sliding across the slick concrete floor as a hail of bullets tore through the room. You grabbed the nearest overturned chair, dragging it into place just in time as metal pinged and sparked against it.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. A single, precise shot rang out, dropping the first H.Y.D.R.A. agent without a flinch. You didn’t stop to think. You surged forward, catching the second agent by surprise, your knee slamming into his gut with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. He doubled over, right into the crack of your gun butt across his temple. He crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the floor.

Then you saw the third.

Rifle up.

Aimed right at you.

“Get down!”

The shout was raw, sharp enough to slice through the chaos. You barely had time to turn your head before a body crashed into yours. His arm slammed into your torso, hurling you sideways just as the trigger was pulled.

The shot cracked like thunder.

Your back hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor. Pain flared along your shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the sound that followed, the harsh, guttural grunt that tore out of Bucky’s throat.

You twisted around.

He was down, gasping, clutching at his side and blood already soaking through the black fabric of his suit.

You scrambled back to him just as the final agent aimed again. Snarling, you fired three quick shots into the bastard’s chest before he collapsed in a heap.

The air went still for only a moment, then the ground trembled violently before you had a chance to assess the damage done to Bucky. Chunks of the ceiling cracked and began to rain down. Concrete groaned like a beast waking from a long sleep.

You turned to the computer, some unreadable symbols flashing across the screen, but you were quick enough to decipher that it meant the download was complete. Snatching the flash drive, you spun back to Bucky, who was trying to sit up, blood spilling between his fingers as he pressed them hard against the wound in his side.

“Get up,” you barked, crouching beside him. “We need to move, Barnes!”

—

The two of you had spent nearly two damn hours stumbling through the snow-blanketed mountainside, following the rough coordinates burned into your mind from the mission briefing. By the time the cabin finally came into view—half-buried in the snow, smoke long gone from the chimney—you were soaked to the bone and one more smart comment away from throttling him.

The escape had been messy, the H.Y.D.R.A base nearly becoming your tomb. You’d been forced to bolt through a collapsing back corridor, dragging the injured super soldier along with the last of your adrenaline. Between the debris, the gunfire, and the growing dark stain across his side, you weren’t sure how either of you had made it out. Worse still, you’d missed the quinjet extraction window by twenty minutes. The skies had turned black with storm clouds, wind howling across the range as ice and snow stung your cheeks. The base had finally picked up your call for aid on the mission-assigned satellite phone, but due to zero visibility and increased H.Y.D.R.A activity in the area, the replacement quinjet wouldn’t arrive until first light.

Which meant you were stuck together. In the cold. For the whole night.

The safehouse, at least, was still intact. A small timber cabin tucked between trees, barely standing but just enough. It had a lounge no bigger than a broom closet, a wood-burning stove long dead and cold, a bathroom you prayed had running water, and a single bedroom with a mattress that looked like it had seen better decades.

Your breath misted in the air as you slammed the door behind you, the wind nearly ripping the handle from your grip. Bucky collapsed onto the torn couch by the stove without a word, letting out a low groan that he probably thought you didn’t hear.

You should’ve made starting the fire your first priority. But one look at the blood soaking through Bucky’s side made that choice for you.

Now, kneeling between his legs with the remnants of the first-aid kit splayed out on the coffee table, whoever had been here last hadn’t restocked it properly. You glared up at Bucky as he shifted under your touch again. “Stop squirming.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” you hissed, dabbing antiseptic across the wound with a gauze pad. “You keep flinching.”

“Because you’re digging in like you’re trying to punish me.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” you muttered.

He scoffed, muscles twitching beneath your hands as you pressed down. “Are you always this demanding?”

“Are you always this whiny?”

His glare was instant, eyes narrowed. “Is it your goal to piss everyone off?”

“I’m a fucking delight, and you know that.”

He gave you a deadpan look. “I think you’re mistaken. I definitely don’t like you.”

You lifted your brows, trying to keep your voice light despite the roiling mix of emotions spilling out. “You say that like you didn’t just take a bullet for me.”

You hadn’t even had the time to process it when it happened. The crash of his body slamming into yours, the sound of the gunshot, and the sickening thud of him hitting the ground. But now, with him sitting across from you, shirt dark with blood and a fresh gash still weeping crimson, the weight of it began to settle in.

He took a bullet for you.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Part of you expected him to twist it somehow, to throw it back in your face as some kind of lesson that you were careless. That you’d left an opening. That he had to clean up your mess. You were already bracing for it, the sting of snide remarks spread over weeks like salt in a wound, little digs during training about how you ‘owe him one’ or how ‘distractions get people killed’.

And yet... he hadn’t said any of that.

Instead, he just shrugged, wincing slightly. “I heal faster because of the serum,” he muttered, voice gruff but quieter than usual. “I’ll be back on the field faster than you ever could.”

You stared at him.

At the stubborn line of his jaw, the tight press of his lips as he tried not to show how much pain he was in. The way his hand gripped his side was too tight. The blood beneath his fingernails.

Why had he done that?

You weren’t always the easiest to get along with. You’d spent months pushing each other’s buttons, arguing, fighting, constantly locked in a cold war of insults and bruises. So why? Why would he throw himself into a bullet’s path for you?

It was hard not to feel... something. Flattered, maybe. A little shocked. And, against your better judgment, grateful. You didn’t want to be grateful—not to him, of all people—but your stomach wrenched every time you replayed the moment in your head.

You didn’t ask him to do it. And yet, he did.

And now he was pretending it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t made a split-second decision to put your life before his own. What if that bullet had hit a little higher? His heart? His throat? His skull?

“Sure,” you drawled, trying to cover for your sudden silence. “Great excuse.”

“It’s the truth.” He muttered. 

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the floor and said nothing.

Which, somehow, said everything.

You stared at him for a moment longer, shaking your head as you tossed the bloodied gauze into the small bin beside the couch. The cold was starting to settle into your bones, your fingers stiff with it.

“Whatever. I’m going to try to find some firewood before we freeze to death.”

He glanced toward the boarded-up window, ice clinging to the edges. “You sure there’s any left out there?”

“Nope.” You pulled on your jacket. “But I’d rather get eaten by a bear than stay in here with you.”

You were halfway to the door before you paused, glancing over your shoulder.

“Can you get to that bed yourself, or do you need me to do that for you, too, super soldier?”

His answer came quickly, teeth clenched. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

You couldn’t deny the nausea in your stomach. Not from worry. Definitely not that. Just frustration. That’s all it was.

The wind nearly ripped the door from your hands as you stepped outside. Snow came in sideways, biting at your skin the second you crossed the threshold. You tugged your jacket tighter and trudged into the blizzard, squinting against the blur of white.

The woodshed was exactly where the briefing had said it’d be, about ten feet from the side of the cabin, half-hidden by trees. Or at least, had been. What you found instead was a crooked mess of collapsed timber and broken beams. Snow had settled deep into the heap, and every piece of wood you managed to drag free was soaked, the logs heavy with ice and rot.

You swore, breath clouding in the air.

You searched anyway, fingers numb, arms shaking. You tried the back of the cabin. Nothing. Even the branches scattered beneath the trees were too damp. No kindling, no dry bark, not even a damn pinecone. The cold was sinking deeper now, crawling down your spine and settling like an anchor in your chest. You didn’t want to push further into the wilderness, not in this weather and not with H.Y.D.R.A. agents crawling all over the mountainside. 

By the time you stumbled back inside and forced the door closed again, you could hardly feel your fingers or toes. Every limb ached like they were five seconds away from turning purple and black from frostbite. The cabin felt just as cold as the outside, but it was a momentary relief to be out of the wind that cut through your thick layers.

Bucky was on the bed, half-sitting up against the wall, the blanket pulled low across his hips. His eyes flicked up as you entered, taking in your dripping hair and shaking hands.

"Let me guess," he muttered. "No luck?"

You didn’t answer right away, just peeled your jacket off and dropped it near the door with a wet splat. “Everything’s soaked. The shed’s collapsed.”

He exhaled through his nose, chest deflating with the effort. “You’re freezing.”

You ignored him, stomping the snow off your boots. “I’ll live.”

“Not if you keep acting like a damn idiot.”

You turned to glare at him. “I’m sorry, which one of us got shot again?”

You crouched down, your knees protesting as you bent to untie your boots, but your fingers were too stiff, trembling from the cold. The laces had frozen slightly, the knots tight and uncooperative. You hissed through your teeth, fumbling and cursing under your breath as you tugged uselessly at them.

Bucky watched from the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn’t move to help, but you could feel his eyes on you. He tilted his head slightly and gave you a look that was half-concerned, half-exasperated, like you did this to yourself.

With a final frustrated yank, you freed your boot and kicked it off, followed quickly by the other. A damp string of muttered profanities trailed from your lips as you scrambled back to your feet, wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. 

“Which one of us,” Bucky spoke pointedly, breath fogging in the air between you, “went outside to play in a blizzard and came back looking like a drowned rat?”

You were shivering now, teeth on the verge of chattering, but you still squared your shoulders and stared him down, as defiant as ever. A bead of melted snow trailed down your temple. He stared right back.

“Get over here,” he said finally.

“Excuse me?”

“You need to warm up.” His tone was flat, too practical. “And the bed’s the only warm place in this shithole.”

“Oh, now you care about my well-being?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Just lifted the edge of the blanket.

You hesitated, eyeing the small mattress like it might bite you. "You’re the worst."

"And you’re still standing in wet clothes. Take them off and get in."

Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“Not all of them,” he said, eyes rolling. “Just the top layer before you die of hypothermia. Stop being dramatic.”

With a theatrical sigh for good measure, you peeled off your wet sweater, leaving the thermal shirt beneath and then your pants. You did not check to see if he was watching you shivering in your underwear, cheeks flushed. You padded toward the bed like it was a walk to your own execution, hesitating again at the edge.

You tried—really tried—not to let your eyes linger on the broad plane of his chest, but it was impossible not to. His shirt was rumpled and half-untucked, the hem tugged up where he’d peeled it back to expose the bandage on his side. The white gauze was already marred with deep red, blooming in uneven patches that made you pause with something halfway between guilt and concern. Your gaze drifted to the sharp curve of his waist, the ridge of muscle visible beneath the bloodied wrappings. 

It was distracting. 

He was distracting.

But what you tried hardest not to think about was the bed. Specifically, how absurdly small the mattress looked with him sitting on it, shoulders nearly brushing both edges. There was no way you’d both fit. You’d be pressed against him. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, knee to thigh. 

You swallowed hard and told yourself not to think about it.

But you were already thinking about it.

“Don’t make it weird,” Bucky muttered.

“I’m not making it weird.”

He let out a low, tired huff, the kind that told you he was in pain but too stubborn to say it. You rolled your eyes in reply, more at yourself than him, and climbed in carefully, slipping beneath the blanket with a reluctant shiver. The bed was warmer than expected. Or rather, he was. Bucky radiated heat like a furnace, the kind that seeped into your skin and made your limbs relax before your mind could catch up. You hovered near the edge of the mattress, body stiff, spine straight like it might help you keep your distance. But it was a hopeless attempt. The bed was tiny—criminally small, really—and with him taking up so much space, there was nowhere to go but closer. One wrong move and you’d be on the floor.

“God, you’re warm,” you muttered into the pillow, trying not to sound too affected.

“Serum,” he replied shortly, his voice rough with exhaustion.

Slowly, inch by inch, you gave in. The chill in the air made it too easy to justify. You shifted toward him, the blanket tugging between you as your arm brushed against his. Then your hip. Then your thigh. Until, somehow, your bodies were nearly flush. 

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word.

And that somehow made it worse.

The silence settled between you, heavy and warm and intimate, like the air itself had thickened. You could hear his breathing, steady, but a little too deliberate. You could see his chest rise and fall from the corner of your eye. And worse, you could feel him. Every inch of him. The solid line of muscle at your side. The way your knees had somehow locked together under the blanket. How your forearm grazed his with every breath you took.

You needed a distraction. Desperately.

Reaching over to the nightstand, you snatched up the battered satellite phone, almost too quickly. The cold metal was jarring against your palm. For a moment, you considered activating the self-destruct protocol and blowing both of you up to end your shared misery. You flicked it on, the screen’s pale light casting long shadows across the room and across him.

Your eyes flicked over before you could stop them.

He was already staring at the ceiling, the faint furrow between his brows still present even in rest. His profile was defined in the low light, long lashes, strong nose, and the stubble on his jaw catching just a hint of light.

You forced yourself to look back at the tiny screen to check for any new updates.

Nothing. You were well and truly in for the night.

You scrolled to the mission briefing instead, flicking through the files to pass time, anything to distract you.

And then you saw it.

There, buried under the pre-mission notes, weather expectations, and extraction protocol, was a small addendum in the personnel request section.

Operation HARVEST: Agent Barnes, James B.Requested field partner: Agent 00149. Request approved.

You stared at it, the room suddenly quieter than it had been all night. 

That was your agent number.

He asked for you.

The same man who had spent the last six months grunting his way through every interaction, who seemed perpetually annoyed by your existence, who had made a point never to give you more than an ounce of credit, had explicitly asked to be paired with you.

You felt your throat tighten.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, as if he could sense your world shattering around you. His voice was low, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion 

You didn’t answer right away. You sat there, still curled under the heavy covers. The warmth of his body was helping, yes—but your blood was starting to simmer for a very different reason.

You turned slowly, holding the satellite phone up between your fingers.

“You want to tell me why it says on the briefing notes that you requested me as your partner for this mission?”

Bucky blinked once. His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“I asked you on the quinjet if you knew anything,” you went on, voice harsh now. “You told me it was a higher-up’s decision. You lied to my face.”

Bucky sighed through his nose, already bracing himself as he sat up straighter against the headboard. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Didn’t matter?” you scoffed, pushing yourself to your knees to face him, ignoring the goosebumps that rose as the blankets fell from your shoulders. “You picked me. You had me assigned to a mission with you, just the two of us, didn’t tell me, and then lied about it.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“You did lie.”

He dragged a hand down his face, slow and weary, but there was tension in the movement, an edge of frustration barely restrained. “I didn’t want you partnered with the other guys, alright?”

You faltered, unsure if you heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“No, you can’t just say that and not explain—”

“Fine!” He groaned, exasperated. His eyes dropped away from yours, fixing instead on a knot in the cabin’s dark wood wall. “I heard them talking. Theo and a few of the other agents.”

“What?” you asked, voice tight. “What were they saying about me?”

He didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and awful.

“Just say it,” you bit out.

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And it hit you square in the chest, something dark and protective burning behind his eyes. But it was reluctant, too, as if he hated that he was about to say it out loud.

His voice was low and rough when it came. “That you’re easy. That it’d be simple to get you into bed because you’re always asking for it. That you’re a slut. I gave them a piece of my mind and reported them, but I still don’t want you around them.”

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

Your breath caught, the sting behind your eyes immediate and hot. You blinked once. Twice. The words echoed, raw and ugly, and for a second, all you could do was try not to let them settle too deep. Not to let them stick.

You weren’t naïve. You knew you didn’t sleep around any more than anyone else your age. You knew that if the situation were flipped, if you were a man, no one would bat an eye. And still, the weight of it settled heavy in your gut, all twisted up with something darker. Dread. Shame. Fury. And under it all… that sick, crawling feeling that maybe Bucky had said something. Given them reason to think they could say it. That maybe he thought the same thing deep down.

That, maybe, to him, you were just some mess he had to clean up.

The words came fast, your voice shaking. “And what, you thought you’d ride in and defend me like some white knight? You know I could easily drop Theo, I could easily drop any of those assholes!” Bucky blinked, caught off guard, but you were already going, bitter heat rising in your throat like bile.

“You thought that would make it better?” you snapped. “You think that helps? They’re probably all laughing behind my back about how I can’t defend myself—”

“I wasn’t going to stand there and let them talk about you like that!”

“Why?” you demanded. “Because you didn’t want to hear it? Or because you’ve thought the same fucking thing?”

His eyes flared with disbelief, maybe even insult.

“I would never think of you that way,” he barked, and his voice cracked like thunder. “Let alone say it out loud. Because I’m not an asshole. Not like those guys you date.”

You laughed, blunt and hollow. “Why do you care who I date?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t come up with any words, but to your surprise, he exploded before you. “Maybe because you deserve better!” he shouted, the words ripping out of him before he could take them back.

The silence after that was suffocating.

You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest, a strange cocktail of feelings in your stomach that you didn’t care to identify. He sat there, breathing hard, his hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to speak again.

“Jesus,” you muttered. You weren’t foolish enough to believe him, to fall victim to whatever joke he was trying to play. “Give me a break.”

“I’m serious,” he mumbled this time. 

You turned your face away. “Oh yeah? Like you could do any better? Don’t be ridiculous.”

His breath hitched, like you’d slapped him. You could feel him shift beside you under the covers.

“You really think that?” Bucky asked in disbelief.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But Bucky didn’t let it stay quiet.

“You want to know the truth?” he asked, voice low and rough, as if the words had been caged for too long in his throat. “Fine.”

You turned back toward him, uncertain what expression you were even wearing anymore.

“I’ve liked you since the first damn time I saw you,” he said. “Group training. You were paired with some agent twice your size, and you still knocked him on his ass.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“I thought you were… brilliant. And sharp. And confident. And yeah, beautiful too. You had this way of looking right through people—through me—and it scared the shit out of me. When they assigned me to mentor you, I panicked,” he said, with a dry, bitter laugh. “I thought if I pretended, if I was distant, if I acted cold, I could make it go away. Trick myself out of it.”

“But it just got worse,” he went on. “Every time I saw you smiling at some sleaze who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, every time I had to watch you flirt with some smug asshole agents, I wanted to break something. Because it should’ve been me.”

You shook your head slowly, stunned. “Bucky…”

“I hated watching you get your heart broken over and over again,” he said. “Hated seeing you walk into training after pretending like nothing happened. You didn’t deserve that. Not when I knew I could treat you better if I just had the fucking guts to say something.”

Your ribs felt suddenly too small for your body, bones pressing into your lungs.

“And now we’re stuck on a mountainside,” he said, his voice softer, hoarser, “and I’m here bleeding in a bed with you, still lying to you, still trying to act like it doesn’t kill me every time you look at me like I’m just your mentor who you hate.”

You gaped in stunned silence, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Bucky watched you expectantly.

No. No, that couldn’t be what he meant. Not really.

“I don’t know what kind of cruel joke you’re playing on me,” you finally said, voice shaking, fingers knotted in the sheets. “I don’t get it. You’ve spent this whole time being…”

“I’m being serious,” he said, eyes locked on you. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I’ve fucked this up too many times. But I swear on my life, I’m not playing a game.”

You stared at him, blinking hard. “So what, this entire time you’ve been an asshole because you were what, pretending? Pretending that you didn’t like me, pretending that you weren’t jealous, when you could’ve just talked to me?”

His silence was immediate. Heavy. It told you everything you needed to know.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your mind was spinning, flipping through every memory like a film reel: his cold shoulder, his clipped instructions, the scowls when you joked with someone else, the way he always hovered a few steps too close in combat zones. The way he always caught you when you fell. There had been moments. Tiny fractures in his mask. The way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The time he bandaged your hand without a word, but so gently it had made your throat tighten. The night you caught him staring at you across the gym like he was in pain.

How had you missed it?

“I need to…” You whispered, slumping back under the sheets, pulling the blanket higher around yourself as if it might guard you from the ache in your ribs. “We should sleep. It’s late. Evac’s coming once the sun is up.”

He didn’t protest. He just nodded once, jaw tight.

Neither of you said another word.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

—

You hadn’t seen much of Bucky since you were both airlifted off the mountain.

He’d been recovering from his wound, officially. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was avoiding you. No texts. No nods in the hallway. No eye contact across the cafeteria. Just cold silence.

Coward.

You’d spent the past week half-waiting for him to come to his senses. The other half had been consumed wondering what the hell you’d do if he did. Because yes, you found him infuriating. Yes, he was emotionally constipated and moody and had the charm of a brick wall. But he was also gorgeous in that tortured-soul, sharp-jawed, arms-too-big-for-his-shirts kind of way. He cared about you, in his own twisted Bucky way. He’d taken a bullet for you. Defended you. Chose you.

And now he was just… gone.

You were leaning against the wall at the edge of the main gym, arms crossed, purposefully not looking at Theo and the other assholes you had suspected Bucky had been right about, when you heard footsteps and someone cleared their throat beside you.

Yelena stood beside you, her smirk suspiciously wider than usual.

You turned, brows knitting in apprehension. “Hey.”

“Congratulations,” 

“For what?” You replied hesitantly, watching as her brows lifted in delighted surprise. 

“You haven’t heard?” Her voice was alarmingly gleeful, like she was especially thrilled to be the bearer of whatever news she was about to lay upon you. “Barnes finally accepted your mentor transfer request.”

Your heart flatlined for a second. 

“What?”

Yelena, oblivious to your distress, continued to dig further. “I don’t know what you did to him up on that mountain, but… damn. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“I didn’t ask for a mentor transfer,” you muttered, dread settling in your chest.

Yelena’s expression faltered. “Oh. Well, you have one now. You’re with Thor. They tried to pawn you off onto me, but you know, got my hands busy with the new group coming in—”

“Thor?!” You snapped, interrupting her spiel, “He’s a drunk! And he’s not even here half the time, too busy in Asgard—”

Yelena gave you a helpless shrug, and that’s when the doors to the gym opened and in walked the ghost of your week-long frustration.

Bucky was in full training gear, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, compression shirt clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was ruffled, pushed back half-heartedly like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it, a few strands falling into his eyes. The corded muscles of his arms were on full display, the glint of his vibranium arm catching the light with every step. He looked unfairly good, carved from grief and sleepless nights. But it was the way he wouldn’t look at you that struck harder than anything else. His jaw was tight, lips set in a permanent pout, that brooding scowl etched so deep it felt deliberate. He looked everywhere but at you, like you weren’t even there. 

Your blood boiled.

Without a word, you peeled yourself from the wall and marched toward him. He spotted you mid-stride, his posture tensing like he was preparing for impact.

“Hey—” he started.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, voice low and venom-laced.

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the other agents filtering in behind you. A few of them had already glanced over curiously, settling in for whatever show was about to unfold.

“Too late,” you hissed. “You requested a mentor transfer for me without even telling me?”

“I thought it was what you wanted.” You both knew he was lying, and he refused to meet your eye. This wasn’t about what you wanted. It was about him feeling embarrassed after his outburst on the mountain. 

“Oh, really?” You stepped closer. “Because I don’t remember asking you to make my career decisions for me.”

“I was doing you a favour.”

“Yeah? Maybe try talking to me like a normal fucking person, and then I’ll tell you what I want.”

His eyes flickered up, stormy blues locking onto your face. “And what is it you want?”

You stared him down, tilting your head slightly, weighing the war going on inside you.

You.

I want you.

The thought was immediate, impulsive, and so painfully real it made your chest ache. But you shoved it down, crushed it before it could breathe. No. That was stupid. Why the hell would you want him—this man-child who’d ghosted you for a week, who’d spent the last six months acting like every word out of your mouth was a personal offence, who seemed to find joy in making you feel like nothing?

But then again… maybe you both had been trying so hard to deny the truth, burying something under six months of thinly veiled insults and sparring matches that got too rough. Maybe he was pushing you away because he didn’t trust himself to keep it professional. And maybe you were just as bad, biting back, rising to the bait, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered or the way his voice softened when you were actually hurt.

You had to know if it was real.

The shuffle of movement and muffled chatter around you signalled the start of group training, slicing through your heated stand-off. Agents around you began to pair off, leaving you and Bucky still locked in place, face to face, breath mingling.

You lifted your chin. “Be my sparring partner?” you asked, voice loud enough for the others to hear, but eyes fixed solely on him.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, tight-lipped, like he’d been waiting for the invitation all along.

You squared off on the mat, bouncing on your toes, adrenaline already coiling in your veins. Bucky moved like a soldier, controlled, fluid, annoyingly graceful.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he muttered as you circled.

“I’m not,” you said, “Just testing a theory.”

He raised a brow. “What theory?”

You lunged, caught his arm, and twisted into a low grapple—just enough to draw him in.

His chest brushed yours. His breath hitched.

Then you kissed him.

Hard.

Your lips crashed against his mid-motion, stealing the next move right off his tongue. You felt him freeze, just for a heartbeat, before his hands twitched at your waist like he didn’t know whether to shove you away or pull you in. You felt the tension roll off him in waves. The way his body reacted was instinct. Shock. Hunger. 

His movements hesitated, and to your delight, despite the entire gym watching, he began to kiss you back. 

And that hesitation?

It was all you needed.

You shifted fast, breaking the kiss, then ducking low, hooking your leg behind his knee as you spun. In one fluid motion, you swept his legs out from under him and used the twist of your momentum to pull him down with you. He stumbled, off-balance, and you moved like lightning, hips snapping around his waist, thighs locking tight. You rotated with the drop, forcing him onto his back as you rolled with the momentum.

He hit the mat hard.

You were straddling him, thighs clamped around his ribs, palms flat on his chest. You smirked down at him, panting. 

Bucky stared up at you, winded, stunned, and very, very pinned. “That was dirty.”

You leaned down, your face just inches from his again. “So was your little mentor stunt. Call it even.”

Throughout the room, the entire gym was dead silent, staring. You gracefully dismounted him and marched off the mat, but Bucky scrambled up and followed you.

“Oh, now you want to talk?” you snapped as he caught up beside you.

“You can’t just kiss me and then walk away like that!”

“Why not?”

“You kissed me to mess with me.”

“I kissed you to see if you meant what you said on the mountain.”

The two of you burst through the gym doors and into the hallway. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Bucky’s heavy footsteps were right behind you, his presence unmistakable, all coiled frustration and breathless anger.

A few agents stood frozen near the water station, others lingering by the mission board, all of them caught mid-conversation as they turned to witness the fallout. You were aware of the eyes on you, the awkward silence that followed, but you didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them gossip.

You stormed past them without pause as Bucky chased you like a dog on a leash that was just about to snap.

“You just kissed me in the middle of sparring,” he shouted after you, voice ragged and accusing. “In front of everyone. Is this a joke to you?” 

You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. The elevator was too slow, too exposed. Instead, you veered to the stairwell and shoved the door open with enough force that it bounced off the wall. The clanging echo followed you as you started up, two steps at a time.

“Oh my god, would you just shut up already?” you snapped over your shoulder, breath catching as your hand slid along the metal railing, spiralling up the concrete stairwell. 

Behind you, Bucky cursed under his breath. “It was unfair.”

He reached for you and just missed your wrist. You yanked it away before he could try again, your skin buzzing with the ghost of contact.

“Isn’t that what you taught me to do? Use anything to my advantage?” you bit out, pushing through the next door as you reached your floor. The hall here was quieter and dimmer. You passed rows of familiar doors. Your apartment was at the end of the corridor, and every step toward it made your pulse throb louder in your ears. “What, you have a problem with me using my assets against you?

“Assets, huh? You know, you really are unbelievable—”

You let out an exasperated groan, cutting him back. “You kissed me back.”

That stopped him.

His boots scraped the floor as he slowed a few paces behind you, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock.

“What?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned your key in the door. The metal clicked, and you pushed it open with a little more care this time.

“You kissed me back,” you repeated softly, almost to yourself this time and stepped inside. 

Bucky barged in after you.

“You don’t understand—I’m… I’m trying to protect you!” His voice followed you into the room, desperate. 

You kicked off your shoes without looking at him. “I don’t need protecting.”

“Would you just listen for once—” he snapped, shutting the door behind him. 

You rolled your eyes and started pulling off your shirt, tossing it onto your bed and turned to face him, arms crossed. “I am listening, you’re the one not listening to me.”

Bucky stood just inside the door, like he hadn’t decided whether to walk out or burn the whole damn building down. 

“I shouldn’t have told you that on the mountain, it was unprofessional of me.” His voice cracked as his words poured out faster than it seemed he could stop them, emotion thick in every syllable. “I requested the mentor switch because I don’t trust myself to keep pretending. I can’t control myself around you!”

You padded barefoot across the room to the small bathroom.

“How am I supposed to go on training you?” He muttered, gesturing vaguely in your direction. He was repeating himself now, rambling like a crazed man completely oblivious to your actions. “You pull that stunt in the middle of training, humiliate both of us in front of the others, and then act like it meant nothing? Jesus, I can’t even think straight when you—”

You peeled your leggings off and let it fall to the floor behind you.

“—and don’t even get me started on that assets comment! What the hell does that even mean? You can’t just go around weaponising your—”

You unclasped your bra and bent to turn on the shower. The hiss of water filled the room, steam already curling up the mirror.

“—I mean, are you even hearing yourself? You just, what? Decided to tackle and kiss me like it was some kind of training tactic?! That’s not even…Are you using my confession against me? God, you’re impossible, I swear—”

He looked up.

And stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-breath.

There you were, back turned, steam catching on the bare curve of your spine and trailing over the lines of your thighs, standing in nothing but your underwear.

His words died in his throat like a car slamming into a wall.

Mouth slightly open. Eyes locked. 

You glanced at him over your shoulder, saw the exact moment it hit him and raised a brow, feigning casual curiosity as you stepped toward the open shower door, letting the foggy heat billow around your legs.

“You joining me?” you asked sweetly. “Sure sounds like you need to cool off.”

He said nothing.

Just stared.

Like you’d just knocked the wind out of him for the second time that day. Just that haunted, hungry look in his eyes like he was trying to figure out if he’d died and gone to hell. Or heaven.

His mouth opened, like he had something to say, some half-assed rebuttal, some snarky comeback.

But no words came out.

Only a low, helpless breath.

“I wasn’t using it against you.” You clarified as you dragged your underwear down your legs, tossing them somewhere across the room. “I was seeing if you meant what you said.”

You stepped nto the shower, leaving him stood stunned in the bathroom doorway. A soft sigh slipped from your lips as warm water poured down your shoulders and back, washing away the dull ache in your muscles. For a moment, you simply stood there, facing the stream, eyes closed, the patter of droplets against your scalp soothing like white noise in a storm.

Then came the soft rattle of the shower door behind you. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was him.

The subtle swish of movement was followed by the cool press of metal against your waist, his vibranium arm snaking around you, cool against the heat of the water and your flushed skin. Goosebumps prickled instantly across your stomach, nipples peaking at the contrast.

You turned slowly, steam swirling around you in thick waves as you met Bucky’s eyes. His wet hair was slicked against his neck, droplets clinging to the dark strands and sliding down his jawline. Beads of water traced the line of his throat and the rise of his Adam’s apple, disappearing over the muscle of his chest. His hands found your hips, warm and solid, the grip almost possessive.

You tried not to look down, tried not to let your eyes drift to the answer to a question you’d been too proud to ask. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you stepped into him, letting your palms slide up the hard planes of his chest, past his dogtags and looped around the back of his neck.

“I think this is going to do the opposite of cooling me down,” he muttered, voice husky, half-lost beneath the steady rhythm of water hitting tile.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, and then you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

Your mouths crashed together like you’d both been holding back for too long. Hungry. Desperate. Sloppy. The water only made it messier, lips sliding, catching, breath hissing as teeth grazed. He kissed like he needed to claim this moment before the world snapped back into place. You returned the kiss with equal urgency, fingers threading into his wet hair, tugging, needing more.

His hands slid down your back, firm, sure, guiding you until your spine pressed against the slick wall of the shower. You wrapped a leg around his hip, instinctive, needy, and he growled softly into your mouth as his hand dropped to support your thigh, holding you steady. You ground your hips into him, once, twice. His grip tightened, and the next thing you knew, he was lifting you, hands firm on your ass as he carried you effortlessly from the shower. The bathroom was thick with steam, fog curling along the edges of the mirror and dripping from the ceiling. Water trailed down both of you, soaking the tiles as he strode across the room.

Your back met the edge of the counter with a soft thud, followed by the chill of the fogged-up mirror behind you. The coolness shocked your skin and made your spine arch sharply, drawing a low noise from your throat. Bucky didn’t miss a beat. He was still kissing you, still swallowing your gasp as his hands ran down your thighs and urged them further apart.

He stepped in, slotting himself between your legs, his body flush against yours. The sensation of him made your head spin. Water from the still-running shower continued to hiss in the background, steam billowing out and filling the room like a cocoon. You were both soaked, skin slick and glistening, lips swollen, breaths short. Your fingers found the back of his neck again, anchoring yourself as he kissed you deeper, slower now, like he was savouring every second.

His hands slid down your hips and tugged you forward until your thighs bracketed his waist. You felt his cock, solid and insistent, pulsing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and your breath caught.

“I think I’ve dreamt of this moment.” He confessed between kisses, before consuming you again.

It took little resistance for him to push into you in one smooth motion. You weren’t just drenched from the shower. Your whole body sang from the shock of it, a strangled sound tearing from your throat as your fingers fisted in his wet hair. His mouth tore from yours with a ragged gasp, trailing down your jaw, your neck, leaving fire in his wake. Bucky braced a hand behind you on the counter, the other gripping your thigh, steadying you as his hips began to move precise and relentless.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this?” he muttered into the curve of your neck, voice wrecked. His lips brushed against your pulse, the edge of his teeth grazing the skin like he was half a second from losing control. “How many nights I told myself I couldn’t touch you... shouldn’t want you, couldn’t have you.”

You let out a breathless laugh that quickly turned into a gasp as his hips snapped forward again. 

“Keep going,” you rasped, one hand clawing up the curve of his back, the other buried in his hair. “Don’t stop.”

His only reply was a low, broken groan against your skin, like he was coming apart just from the feel of you wrapped around him. You locked your ankles behind him and rocked your hips forward, drawing him deeper. A spark of pleasure flared up your spine, making your head fall back against the fogged-up mirror..

“I tried so fucking hard to keep my distance.” He chuckled low against your collarbone, though the sound was strained, caught between shallow pants and a raw groan of need. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His vibranium hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with gentle strokes, and your body jolted in response. An uncontrollable whimper left you as your thighs trembled around him.

“I’ve been dying to hear those sounds from you.” Bucky panted against your ear. 

You pressed closer to him, shaking legs tightening around his waist as you pursued his fingers. He chuckled at your poorly hidden desperation, chest vibrating from the sound. As his fingers swirled, cock pumping in and out, you felt your body clench involuntarily around him, drawing a moan from him. 

“Fuck, Bucky, ” you breathed, barely able to form the word as your pleasure surged, unrelenting and dizzying. “If I’d known this was what you were holding back, I would’ve pushed harder.”

Bucky’s rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming uneven and desperate, chasing the high he could feel coiling tighter in both of you. Your raw moans echoed around the small bathroom, rising above the hiss of the shower and the frantic beat of the slap of wet skin. Your climax broke over you like a wave crashing against the shore. Your entire body arched, legs trembling as you whimpered, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure tore through you like lightning, leaving your nerves sparking in its wake.

With a guttural groan muffled against your neck, Bucky followed you over the edge. You felt him twitch inside you, warmth spreading as he spilt into you, his hips stuttering erratically as he buried himself as deep as he could go. His arms tightened around you, as though he needed to hold you close to keep himself grounded.

For a long, breathless moment, you stayed like that. Tangled together, trembling, the heat of the afterglow. The water still rained behind you, forgotten, as you both came down slowly, limbs heavy and slick with sweat and steam. Then, slowly, Bucky lifted his head to look at you. His hair was plastered to his forehead in wet strands, water trailing down the lines of his cheekbones and along his jaw. His eyes, dark and hungry, searched yours with a mix of dazed satisfaction and something else. A flicker of awe, maybe. Or disbelief.

You gave him a slow, wicked smirk and reached up to brush a dripping lock of hair off his brow, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I need you to pull that transfer request, by the way,” you murmured, voice low and rough with breath. “There is no way in hell I’m training with Thor.”

His lips twitched, a hoarse laugh escaping him, short and surprised. But the fire in his gaze didn’t fade. If anything, it darkened.

“I’ll pull it…” he said, voice thick with promise as his hands slid back down to your waist, “…when I’m done with you.”

From the way his fingers gripped your hips, you had a feeling that wouldn’t be anytime soon. 

---

Silence.

Cold. Dead. Silence.

Everyone looks at you.

Nat squints. Sam raises both eyebrows so high they disappear into his hairline. Peter drops his pen. Steve, bless his heart, blinks like someone just smacked him with a frisbee.

Bucky doesn’t breathe. Your soul detaches from your body, floats toward the ceiling, and screams.

You scramble. “I—I said bro. Like, ‘Did you hear that, bro?’ That’s what I said. Like a…cool, soldier-y nickname. Haha.”

The room is quiet again. No one believes you. Especially not Sam.  “You said babe. You said it casually.”

Bucky doesn’t even look at you. He’s locked in full Winter Soldier mode, eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall like he’s trying to transcend to another timeline.

“I think she said brrr,” Bucky offers, stone-faced. “She’s cold.”

“She’s wearing a hoodie,” Peter mutters.

You laugh way too loud. “It’s the energy in here. Very chilly.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, arms crossed, staring straight ahead like if he makes direct eye contact with anyone he’ll combust.

Steve slowly turns to him. “Barnes?”

“…Yeah?”

“You cold too?”

Bucky shrugs. “Freezing.”

You know he’s going to murder you in the hallway. Probably kiss you breathless after. But first—death.

Steve stares a moment longer. Then—mercifully—moves on. But the damage is done.

Nat doesn’t. “So… bro, huh?”

You glare at her.

Later, when the meeting is already over, you burst in Bucky's room, already talking. “I told you this would happen, I told you I’d forget—”

Bucky slams the door shut and corners you. “You said babe. In front of Rogers.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I wanna crawl inside a ventilation shaft and disappear.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and pulls your hands away.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs, leaning in.

“…What?”

“I liked it.”

You blink up at him. “You liked almost being exposed?”

“No,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “I liked hearing you call me babe.”

Your heart stutters.

“…Say it again.”

You grin. “Babe?”