breakdown central

“Sir, I need you to calm down.” Abbot said to the patient, voice raised in hopes of getting through to the him, however the man showed no sign of being aware of his surroundings or the danger he was causing to the staff. Abbot's eyes darted over to where Robby knelt next to you as you shifted on the floor in pain. Frustration flared through his chest. “Dammit, Perlah push 75 of propofol.” Within moments the man was unconscious again.

“Hey,” Robby said softly, alerting you to his presence, your hands still covering your face as the pain made your head throb. As he knelt next to you he did a quick glance over you to look for any obvious injuries. Despite the ringing in your head you attempted to sit up but Robby stopped you with a gentle hand pushing on your shoulder to have you lie back down on the floor.

"Robby…" You groaned into your hands.

“It’s alright, don’t move, let me see.” He took hold of your wrists and pulled your hands away from your face as carefully as he could so he could assess the damage. You winced at the brightness of the overhead lights, your eyes watering, and you took a deep, steadying breath. 

The patients knuckles had hit near your eye and his watch had made painful contact with your lips, splitting your bottom lip. There was smeared blood across your chin and your lip was still bleeding. You noticed Robby’s eyebrows come together in concern as his eyes moved across your face, his large hands moving to cup the sides of your head so he could gently move your head around to get a better look. His hands felt warm and comforting against your skin, helping to calm you. You unconsciously leaned your head more heavily into one of his hands, seeking that reassurance as his fingers probed around your skull while he watched your face for any sign of discomfort or pain.

“How’s it look Boss?” You asked in a shuddering breath, the pain pounding in your skull. You couldn't help the tears that filled your vision as your face throbbed with pain.

“Okay, nothing we can’t fix.” He gave you a small reassuring smile - the kind that gave you butterflies typically - but you could still see the worry in his eyes. The hand that wasn't holding your head grabbed onto your shaking hand in a gesture of comfort. "You have a small facial lac under your eye and a split lip."

“She also hit her head when she hit the floor.” Abbot said abruptly as he joined Robby on the floor on your other side after he handed the patients care off to Langdon. Abbot's eyes stayed on you the whole time. He pressed some gauze against your split lip to help with the bleeding and you reached up to take over pressing it against your face. His hands came up to your face, gently pushing some stray hair away to give him a better look.

“I didn't lose consciousness.” You said defensively, knowing that the two of them would probably insist on x-rays and labs. Abbot gave you a dry look, knowing exactly why you were making that distinction. Robby pulled out his pen light and clicked it on swiftly.

“Any dizziness, blurred or double vision?” Robby asked, his hand moving from your head to hold your shoulder as the other hand shone the light over your eyes to test your pupil response.

“No.” You blinked hard at the light which sent tears sliding down your temples. Both Abbot and Robby quickly brushed them away for you.

"Good pupil response, equal and reactive." Robby assessed. "Follow my finger." He moved his finger from side to side and nodded when you complied. "EMO is intact."

“Any headache?” Abbot asked.

“Yeah, my head is throbbing. I feel like my head’s been used for batting practice.” Robby and Abbot shared a quick look.

“Any pain in your neck or back?” You shook your head no.

“Okay, let’s move you to a bed.” Robby said, moving his hand under your shoulder to help you sit up, Abbot doing the same on his side.

“I don’t need a bed, just assess me at the Hub.” The upward motion of sitting sent waves of pain pulsing behind your eyes. You let out a low groan and covered your eyes with your free hand. Concerned, Abbot pulled your hand away so he could probe around your eye, checking for fractures, and you winced. Abbot let out a sharp breath from his nose.

“You absolutely need a bed. And x-rays.” Abbot stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. Without another word he banded an arm around your back and the other under your knees, lifting you easily into a bridal carry. You groaned in embarrassment and turned your face into his shoulder as he moved to his feet. Despite the likelihood that your head hurt too much for you to walk very far, and being carried was the smartest move in that moment, it didn’t make your coworkers seeing Dr. Abbot carrying you through the ED any easier. The man couldn’t be bothered to wait for a wheelchair and you told him as much.

“You couldn’t have gotten me a wheelchair?” You asked as Abbot rounded the nursing station, following Robby into South 15.

"No. We need to make sure you're okay. I'm not wasting any time." Despite the curtness of Abbot's words he set you down carefully and gently onto the bed in 15.

"I'm fine." You insisted as you shifted a bit on the bed to get comfortable.

"Let Jack and I be the judges of that." Robby said as he closed the door, unintentionally closing it in the faces of your colleagues who had followed you from Trauma 1 to check in and help. Robby pulled the curtain closed without looking back, cutting off everyone's view into the room. You gave Robby some side eye as he came up to stand by the bed.

"People are gonna talk you know." You chastised him. You knew how it would look to everyone else that you'd been secluded in a room with two attendings to deal with a few bumps and scrapes.

"I don't care." Robby said softly as he cupped the back of your head with one hand and placed a kiss in your hair. You hummed in appreciation at the display of affection from your boyfriend.

"Let us take care of you." Jack said as he wheeled a stool over to sit on. He picked up the hand that wasn't pressing the gauze to your lip and kissed your knuckles, soft and gentle. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the pain or probably the realization that that you had two wonderful men who dropped everything to take care of you that had more tears building in your eyes. Surrounded on both sides by your selfless boyfriends you felt safe. It sounded dumb, you knew what happened to you was an accident and the patient wasn't even really awake when it happened so it was unlikely it would happen again, but here on the gurney between Robby and Jack felt like the safest place in the world, like nothing else was going to hurt you. And whatever tried would have to get through Jack and Robby first.

The thought had you letting out a small laugh which bubbled into a sob. More tears spilled down your face and Robby and Jack were on you immediately, their faces twisted in concern as they put comforting hands on you. Robby put a reassuring hand on your shoulder and lowered himself to the edge of the bed to be in your eye line while Jacks palm rested steadily on your thigh.

"I'm fine." You said as best you could around the lump in your throat. "The shock is just wearing off and I'm realizing I'm gonna have a black eye probably and I'm also going to have to fill out an Incident Report which sucks and you two are doing such a good job looking after me and I'm so lucky you're here and I don't deserve it-"

"Hey." Jack said firmly, cutting off your spiral as Robby shook his head at your words.

"Honey no," Robby uttered quietly as his thumb rubbed affectionately across your shoulder. His kind brown eyes held fast on your gaze and the love you saw there helped to erode the emotion caught in your throat. "Jack and I are the lucky ones. You've been this beautiful bright spot in our lives and we couldn't be more grateful."

"And you absolutely do deserve our attention and our love and everything else we can possibly give you. You're not a fleeting thought or a consolation prize. We love you and we aren't going anywhere." Jack's words were filled with a caring finality. He stood up and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. Robby followed suit and leaned forward to kiss your cheek, being mindful of your injuries. You let out a heavy sigh and with their lips on your skin you felt the tension slip from your body. Jack pulled back and purposely made eye contact with you.

"Now for the last time, let us take care of you." You smiled at his loving reprimand and nodded your head, which earned you a smile from him. "I'm going to clean your lip, Robby is going to cleanse and close your facial lac." Robby stole one more sneaky kiss to your cheek before grabbing the supplies.

~

By the time your x-rays came back clean it was time for shift change and the three of you all went home together. You hadn't missed the curious looks on Samira and Mel's faces when their offers to drive you home were turned down on your behalf by Jack and Robby. You'd have some things to answer for in a few days.

Once you all got settled in at Robby's apartment, Robby helped you dress for bed while Jack heated up some soup in a mug for you. He came into the bedroom with your dinner, complete with a straw, and stopped in the doorway to watch you and Robby get settled in bed.

"Do you think she has enough pillows?" Jack teased as he watched Robby fuss over you, tucking in the blankets and fluffing your pillows.

"You can never be too careful." Robby said back in retort. Jack set the mug on the bedside table and crawled into bed with you both after he removed his prosthetic leg. Your brows drew together in confusion at your dinner being abandoned on the table but Jack noticed and deciphered your look easily.

"Humor us for a second." Jack and Robby scooted closer on the bed until you were all shoulder to shoulder, sitting against the headboard. The two men wrapped their arms around you and each other, taking you into their embrace. Robby pressed his face into the top of your head and Jack nuzzled against your neck. You sighed contently and held on the best you could to their arms.

"We all had a bit of a scare today." Robby mumbled into your hair. "We just want to hold you and remind ourselves that you're safe." Jack sat up to his full height and kissed your temple before he leaned his forehead against it. A smile spread across your face.

"Of course I'm safe. Right here with both of you is the safest place in the world."

The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.

Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.

He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.

Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.

He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.

“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.

“No.”

“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”

“No.”

Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.

“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”

Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”

“It ain't charity.”

“Feels like it.”

Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.

“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”

Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.

“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”

That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.

Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.

He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.

Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.

The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.

Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.

Then another message.

He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.

What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.

There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.

Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.

He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.

The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.

There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.

The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.

The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.

But it isn't the room that makes him stop.

It's the hallway.

Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.

His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.

It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.

He pulls his phone out.

Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.

The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.

It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.

He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.

That last one almost makes him smile.

He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.

Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.

He never sees you once.

The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.

Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.

There is a sticky note on the fridge.

Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.

He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.

The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.

Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.

Then another on the kitchen counter.

If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.

It's strange, living with someone he has never met.

You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.

The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.

Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.

You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.

Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.

He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.

He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.

The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.

Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”

By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.

“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”

“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.

“You keep showing up, that's on you.”

He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.

The guy asks questions constantly.

You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?

Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.

Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.

Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.

The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.

He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.

He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.

“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”

He stops just inside the doorway.

You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.

He had built you into something abstract in his head.

Not a real person.

Certainly not a woman.

Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.

Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.

The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.

You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.

“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”

Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.

You freeze.

It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.

“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.

There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.

The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.

You recover first.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”

“Yeah.”Brilliant move.

You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”

He looks down too. “It was the plan.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”

He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.

The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.

“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”

There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.

“Don't worry about it.”

You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.

“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.

“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”

“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”

Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.

“So what do you do?”

“How are you liking the place?”

You stop. He stops.

“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.

“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”

And it is.

He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.

You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”

More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.

“And you? Were gonna say...?”

“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”

“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”

He blinks once. “Wow.”

You laugh softly at the look on his face.

“That sounds awesome.”

“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”

He leans back slightly against the doorframe.

“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”

You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.

“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”

Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.

“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”

Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”

You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.

“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”

“You leave good notes.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.

Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”

You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.

“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.

A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.

The apartment feels different after he meets you.

Not immediately and nothing dramatic.

You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.

But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.

The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.

He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.

You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.

Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.

Soup is still alive. I think.

He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.

Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.

You stop when you see him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.

“Soup still alive?” you ask.

“Barely.”

You drop your bag onto a chair.

“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”

Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.

After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.

Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.

He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.

Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.

Another day:

Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.

He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.

You had one job.

Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.

Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.

You leave back:

So do I.

He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.

One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.

New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.

He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.

Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.

The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.

I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.

And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.

As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.

Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.

So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.

Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.

The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.

He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.

Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.

You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.

The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.

This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?

He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.

After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.

You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.

Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.

Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.

The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.

You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.

One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.

You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.

“Rude,” you say.

“You weren't home yet.”

“You could've texted.”

He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.

“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.

You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.

You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”

“Normal people don't have metal arms.”

That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”

Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.

You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.

He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.

You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.

The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.

Thanks for the blanket.

Below it, in smaller handwriting:

That was very disgustingly nice of you.

A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.

He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.

You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.

You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.

He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”

You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.

“Sometimes.”

“You sure?”

“Not particularly.”

He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”

You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”

“You didn't know?”

“I thought it was maybe midnight.”

He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”

You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.

“I'm… up for a promotion.”

Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”

“A curator position.”

He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”

You nod.

“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”

As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.

“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”

“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”

You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”

Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.

“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?”

You laugh softly to yourself.

“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”

That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”

He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.

He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”

You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.

“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”

Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.

“I don't know,” you say after a second.

“Yeah, you do.”

The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.

Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.

A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.

It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.

The shelves are uneven in places.

Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.

It feels lived in, it feels like you.

He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.

You actually read all of these?

He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.

He pulls it free.

Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.

He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.

There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.

Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.

The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.

You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.

The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.

I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.

He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.

You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.

He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.

But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.

A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.

Well?

He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.

Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.

The next day:

That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.

He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.

They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.

One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.

A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.

Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:

Thought this looked lonely.

Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.

After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.

You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.

Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.

One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.

“You got me one?”

“You looked tired.”

You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.

The hot dog guy notices eventually.

“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.

Bucky frowns. “Who?”

“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”

“No. Not happening.”

The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”

Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”

He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.

Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”

You look up from your book. “Yeah.”

“So what was the first?”

You smile immediately.

“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”

He watches your face change as you talk.

“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”

You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.

“I used all the money I had to buy it.”

“And then?”

“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”

“You found all of them?”

“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”

There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.

In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.

After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.

The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.

Dad's birthday. Dentist appointment. Collections meeting. Mine.

Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.

He knows immediately you're going to forget it.

And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.

“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”

Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.

“Happy birthday.”

You stop and blink at him.

“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”

You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”

Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.

So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.

It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.

He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.

That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.

He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.

The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.

“You forgot your birthday,” he says.

You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.

“Bucky...” is all you manage.

He gets flustered immediately.

“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”

The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.

“You got me a cake?”

“Yeah.”

“With candles?”

He glances at the little crooked row of them.

“That's usually how birthdays work.”

You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.

The candles flicker softly between you.

“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But you did anyway. Why?”

He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.

You look down at the cake then back up at him.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”

You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.

The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.

“And this is... also a thing.”

You blink. “You got me a present?”

“You don't have to sound so surprised.”

You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.

Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.

“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”

“Just found it.” He shrugs.

“Bucky.”

“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.

You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.

"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.

A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.

Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.

“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.

You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.

“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”

He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.

You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.

The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.

Bucky laughs.

“So you've always been weird about books.”

“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”

“Those are different.”

“They're really not.”

You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.

He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.

By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.

He notices you fighting sleep before you do.

“You're falling asleep.”

“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.

He smiles. “You absolutely are.”

You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.

For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.

You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.

“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.

“I got you.”

You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.

He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.

Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.

The call comes on a Tuesday.

Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.

You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”

He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”

“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”

For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”

The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.

You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.

Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.

“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say immediately.

He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”

You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”

“You won't.”

“What if they ask me something I don't know?”

“You'll know it.”

“What if I freeze?”

“You won't.”

You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”

He leans back against the couch.

“I know you.”

That quiets you for a second.

Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.

Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.

“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”

“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”

You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.

“You mean that?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”

You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.

Then you freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.

You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he echoes.

After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.

Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.

Now it just feels like home.

Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.

He fails.

By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.

You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You blink. “No.”

He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”

You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”

“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”

That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.

“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”

“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”

That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.

“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”

“Hey.”

You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.

“It's crooked.”

“Oh.”

His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.

“You got this,” he says.

You nod once then you're gone.

The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.

By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.

“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”

You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.

“I didn't get it.”

The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.

“Oh.”

You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.

But then you shrug one shoulder.

“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”

He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”

“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”

That takes him a second to process.

“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”

“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”

Bucky nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.

“Come on.”

You look up. “What?”

“Let's go get hot dogs.”

You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.

“Okay.”

The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.

“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”

You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.

“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.

“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.

“You had a bad day.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you a hot dog.”

You don't fight him after that.

On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.

It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”

He glances over at you. “...No?”

You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”

“Okay.” He nods once.

“But that's not what I was getting at.”

He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.

“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile is smaller now.

"I think it just came true.”

He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”

“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”

Everything in him goes still.

The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.

He ducks his head, shaking it a little.

“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.

You blush immediately. “Shut up.”

But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.

A week later, you come home before sunset.

Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.

“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.

“I know. Weird, right?”

He smiles a little. “You get fired?”

“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”

He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.

“Do you wanna come by the museum?”

He looks up. “The museum?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”

He tries to act casual. “Sure.”

But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.

The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.

You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.

Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.

You smile the second you spot him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.

You talk with your hands when you're excited.

You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.

“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”

Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.

Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.

At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.

“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.

Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”

You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”

He laughs harder than he should an you grin.

“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”

“You cried over a label?”

“I care deeply about accuracy.”

“You're insane.”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”

He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.

The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.

You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.

They're beautiful.

But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.

“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.

He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.

“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”

You lean back a little farther against the bench.

“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”

Bucky frowns slightly. “I don't think you're insignificant.”

You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.

“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”

The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.

You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.

“It's pretty, huh?”

He smiles.

“Yeah...”

But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.

When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.

“What are you gonna do now?”

You blink. “With what?”

“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”

You let out a quiet breath, thinking.

“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”

He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”

You look up at him and smile softly.

“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”

"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"

The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.

"Need a hand?"

You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.

"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."

He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.

"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"

"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."

Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.

"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"

"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."

He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.

"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."

"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."

"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.

"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.

Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.

It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.

He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.

"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."

"No problem."

He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"

He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.

"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."

It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."

He's so fucked.

The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.

When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?

So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.

But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.

You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.

"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."

"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.

"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."

You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.

Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.

He should stay away.

He doesn't.

"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"

"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."

"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."

"I smile."

"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"

Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."

"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"

The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.

"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"

"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"

"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."

Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.

"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."

"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."

Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.

But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.

"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.

Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."

The faucet thing turns into a whole production.

You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—

"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."

The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.

"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.

"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."

He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.

"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"

"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.

Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.

"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.

"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."

He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.

"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."

"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.

Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."

It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.

"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.

"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."

"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"

"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."

"So don't go."

"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."

He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask me to go with you."

"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."

"I really don't."

"There's an open bar."

"Still no."

"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."

That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...

"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."

The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.

He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.

The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.

"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."

"Did it work?"

"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."

He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."

"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"

"I said no dancing."

"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."

"That's not a law."

"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."

The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.

You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.

"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."

His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."

Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.

"Bucky—"

"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."

You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."

But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.

He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.

"I'm sorry if I—" you start.

"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"

"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."

"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."

You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.

You pull back after that.

It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.

"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.

"I don't mope."

"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"

Bucky's silence is damning.

"What'd you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."

Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."

"...okay?"

"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."

"Why?"

"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"

"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"

"Then she's naïve."

"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."

"It's worked so far."

"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."

Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?

He's already standing before he realizes it.

"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."

Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.

"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."

He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.

"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.

"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"

"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.

You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."

The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.

"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.

"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."

Each observation feels like being flayed open.

"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."

"You can't know that."

"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"

He kisses you.

It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.

The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.

You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—

Reality crashes back like ice water.

He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.

Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.

"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."

"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"

He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.

"I should go," he manages.

"Or," you say, "you could stay."

The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.

You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.

He leaves.

The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.

He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.

Now he wants to break his own.

You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.

It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.

"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"

He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."

Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."

Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.

It's fine. It's working. You're safe.

He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.

Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.

"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."

"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.

"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."

Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.

The mission goes sideways in minute three.

"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"

The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.

"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.

It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.

"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."

Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.

They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.

His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—

Your door is open.

Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—

The deadbolt is broken.

The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.

Bucky goes utterly still.

His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—

Blood.

Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.

"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—

Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.

Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.

He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.

His phone rings. Unknown number.

"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Where is she?"

"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"

Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—

"What do you want?"

"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."

The line goes dead.

Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.

Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.

He's going to paint the city red for it.

"Buck, slow down—"

"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.

Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"

"Watch me."

"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"

"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."

Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"

That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.

"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."

"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"

"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."

"Buck—"

"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."

"So what, you're going in alone?"

Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.

"They touched her," he says simply.

"I know, man. I know. But—"

"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."

"Buck, come on. At least let me—"

"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"

"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that."

Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—

Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.

"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.

Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.

The trail goes cold in six hours.

Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.

"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"

Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."

"We'll find her."

We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.

He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.

Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.

"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."

"Get out."

"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"

"I said—"

"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."

The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."

"I know that."

"Then stop giving them what they want."

Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.

"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.

"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.

"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."

"I am focused."

"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."

He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.

"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"

Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.

His blood turns to ice, then flame.

"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."

She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.

"Just me," he says. "Let her go."

"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."

The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.

You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.

"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.

You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."

The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.

"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."

You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."

Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.

"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."

"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.

This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.

"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."

Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"

The video cuts.

Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.

"That bad?" Yelena asks.

He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.

Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.

"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."

"I know."

"You can't just walk in there like idiot."

"I know."

"So what's plan?"

He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."

"Barnes—"

"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."

The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.

"Don't you fucking dare."

Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.

"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."

"Rooftop," from Yelena.

"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."

"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.

The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.

"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."

"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."

"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"

Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.

"Where is she?"

"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."

"We?"

The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."

"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."

The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."

Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.

Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.

"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."

"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."

"Sweetheart—"

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."

"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"

The knife moves toward you.

The world explodes.

Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.

Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.

Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.

"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"

He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.

When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.

"Come any closer and—"

Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.

"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."

But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.

"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."

"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.

He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.

"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.

Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.

After that? After that, everything changes.

But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:

Never again.

Never fucking again.

The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.

"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."

"I'm fine."

Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.

"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."

He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?

"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."

Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.

"When will she wake up?"

"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."

"Sam already made that joke."

"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."

She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.

Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.

"You're spiraling again."

Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.

"You're awake."

"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"

"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"

"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."

"It's fine."

You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.

"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"

"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."

Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"

"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."

"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."

"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."

"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"

"That's not—"

"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."

"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"

"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."

You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.

"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."

"Stop."

"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."

The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.

"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.

"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."

"How can you say that?"

"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."

"I should have protected you better."

"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."

"I should have never let them take you in the first place."

"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."

"This isn't funny."

"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."

"You are—"

"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."

He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."

"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."

"I know."

"Like, incandescently furious."

"I know."

"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."

His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"

"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"

He kisses you.

There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.

His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.

The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.

Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.

"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"

"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."

You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."

"I'm already in therapy."

"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."

"...fine."

"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."

"Okay."

"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."

"Deal."

"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."

He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.

"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."

"I know."

"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."

"I can take it."

"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."

"Noted."

You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."

He freezes. You squeeze his hand.

"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."

His throat feels tight. "I can do that."

"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."

"It's not that bad."

"Bucky."

"Fine."

But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.

The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.

"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.

"Yeah."

"And stubborn."

"Definitely."

"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."

He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.

The least he can do is try to prove you right.

When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.

And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.

"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.

"Hey yourself."

You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.

It's terrifying.

It's everything.

It's enough.

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

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

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

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

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

Ask and you shall receive. 

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

Every. Single. Day. 

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

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

“Steak alarm.” 

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

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

“Now that’s a meal.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat floods your cheeks. 

“Quit it, Wilson,” Bucky growls.

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

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

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

Handful. A handful.

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

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

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

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

You had mistaken that kindness for something more. 

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

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

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

Instead, Bucky stands at your door. 

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

He still looks delicious.

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

Your throat is dry. “Uh, hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, thank you,” you swallow thickly.

“You don’t look sick though.”

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

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

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

“Anything I can do to help?”

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

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

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

Real smooth. 

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

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

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

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

“What?” You whip up to face him. 

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

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

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

Flinching, you shift your gaze away this time. 

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

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

“Then why?” 

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat and shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

Your lips part.

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

“Bucky—”

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

“Bucky!”

“Yes,” he shuts up.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. “I’d love that.”

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