Delulu

You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.

You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.

While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.

“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”

You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.

The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house. 

“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”

Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath. 

“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”

You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”

“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.

“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.

“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”

Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.

“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.

You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound. 

These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.

You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.

“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”

You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.

“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!” 

You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.

“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.” 

Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately. 

“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.” 

The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom. 

You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.

“… attendance is mandatory for all households…” 

Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”

Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.

“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”

“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”

Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”

“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.” 

The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.

Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards. 

“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”

When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did. 

While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.

As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.

Attendance is mandatory for all households.

You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?

Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house. 

And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?

No. 

It was silly to indulge in such foolishness. 

Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.

But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.

With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.

The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you. 

Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.

You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.

Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.

You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.

Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid. 

You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.

You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going. 

You were actually going to the ball. 

Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood. 

“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room. 

You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.

“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath. 

The three of them froze. 

The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable. 

“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”

You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”

The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.

For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.

“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!” 

Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”

“You’re right, sister. It’s unbearable,” Agnes agreed, nodding.

You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.

“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”

She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you. 

“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”

You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you. 

Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.

“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”

Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.

They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.

A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.

“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”

“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.

Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.

Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.

You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down. 

You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.

Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.

“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”

She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart. 

“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”

As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time. 

“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”

It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face. 

Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.

As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.

“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”

“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable. 

“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”

“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”

“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne. 

“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”

Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”

Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”

He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought. 

“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”

Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.

You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”

Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet. 

“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”

She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.

With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store. 

It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?

Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment. 

Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.

You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips. 

To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.

Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.

“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”

You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him. 

“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”

Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy. 

“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”

Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.

“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”

You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.

“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”

Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back. 

Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.

“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”

As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.

There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him. 

“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”

The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you. 

Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.

“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”

You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”

You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.

Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.

“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”

You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.” 

Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.

“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.” 

“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”

“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”

“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”

Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.

You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms. 

As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.

Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.

Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk. 

“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”

“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”

Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves. 

She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.

That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.

“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”

Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.

“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”

The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”

Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.

“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.

Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that. 

“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”

Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.

“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”

A father?

Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.

You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing. 

“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”

Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.

“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”

Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.

“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.

There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.

“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”

Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view. 

You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.

Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe. 

He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless. 

He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.

Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.

“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”

Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.

“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”

You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color? 

“Blue?” you frowned.

“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.

“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”

You and Martha just blinked at him.

Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.

The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder. 

“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”

Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.

“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”

He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”

“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”

The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.

“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.

Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster. 

With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out. 

What happened? 

How’d you get these burn marks? 

You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t. 

Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.

“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”

“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”

Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.

Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street. 

The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.

Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”

She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.

“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”

“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating. 

You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before. 

“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”

You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”

Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.

“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”

You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh. 

“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”

It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.

They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.

With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”

You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you. 

He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust. 

He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy. 

It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.

You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you. 

You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.

You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine. 

The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you. 

If you went, you risked everything. 

If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.

As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well. 

You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.

You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.

You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard. 

You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery. 

This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.

“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes. 

You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.

Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.

The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave. 

“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”

The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.

“Child, what in heaven’s name—”

You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”

“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”

The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.

She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass. 

Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.

“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”

You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement. 

She looked like she belonged in a palace.

“Martha, I… thank you—”

“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.

She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.

Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.

“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head. 

When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.” 

A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.

“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”

“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”

“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.

She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight. 

“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”

Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.

He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.

Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.

Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.

He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.

As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”

Had he not been clear enough?

Now, he felt like a fool.

Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.

And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.

You were younger.

Much younger.

Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.

He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.

But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.

His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.

But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.

He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.

A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.

“King Barnes?”

Bucky turned to the attendant.

“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”

Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.

“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.

He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.

“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”

He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.

He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.

He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.

“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”

“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.

He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.

“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”

“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”

“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”

While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.

It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.

You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.

You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.

The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.

As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.

At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.

You were beautiful.

Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.

You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.

He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.

“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.

The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.

A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.

“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”

“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”

“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”

You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.

You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.

“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”

Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.

The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.

Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.

“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”

Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.

But you already felt as though you were suffocating.

You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”

As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.

There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.

Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.

The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.

You weren’t a princess.

You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.

One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.

“I… I cannot,” you whispered.

Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”

“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.

Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.

Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.

“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”

You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.

Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.

It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.

Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.

Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.

It was him.

The man you had risked everything to see just once more.

Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.

He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.

But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.

“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”

Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”

You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.

Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.

“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”

Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”

Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.

“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”

You felt like you were going to collapse.

The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.

Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?

Was that why he insisted you come tonight?

The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.

You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.

The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.

“Who’s there?”

Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.

There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.

“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.

Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.

It was you.

You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.

You had heard it all.

Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.

Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.

“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”

Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.

He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.

“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”

You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.

Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.

As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.

He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.

“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.

His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.

His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.

Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.

“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.

Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.

“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.

You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.

But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.

You decided right then to spite him.

To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.

Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.

Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.

“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.

“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”

You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.

“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”

As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.

“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.

Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.

Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.

Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.

“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”

He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”

Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”

Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.

“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”

Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.

“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.

Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.

It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.

Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.

“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.

Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.

The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.

He didn’t just want to dance.

He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.

As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.

Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.

“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”

You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.

Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.

“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.

You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.

“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”

He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.

Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.

“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”

“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.

“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”

He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.

“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.

“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”

“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.

“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”

The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.

“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.

You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.

That should be more than enough.

But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.

You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.

The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.

Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.

Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.

The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.

You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.

Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.

“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.

“Y-your Majesty—?”

With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.

You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.

“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”

“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.

You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.

“Stop trying to run away.”

You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.

“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”

“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.

“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”

“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.

His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.

“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”

Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.

“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”

His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.

“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.

Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.

“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”

Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.

His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.

“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”

“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”

You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.

“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.

“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.

With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.

“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.

He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.

“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”

You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.

“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”

“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”

Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.

“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”

His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.

“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.

“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.

“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.

He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.

“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.

“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”

Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.

Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.

Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.

“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.

“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”

Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.

He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.

He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.

“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”

You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.

“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”

Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.

“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”

You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.

The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.

Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.

“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”

Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.

You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.

“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.

Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.

You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.

He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.

“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”

Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.

“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”

Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.

It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.

He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.

He wanted you.

Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.

You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.

Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.

His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.

Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.

“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”

Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.

“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”

He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”

Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.

The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.

“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”

Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.

It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.

“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”

You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.

He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.

But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.

The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.

Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.

“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”

Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.

“Oh my god—!” you whined.

He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.

The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.

Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.

“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”

You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.

As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.

“Y-your Majesty?”

“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.

“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”

You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”

Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.

“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”

As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.

Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.

“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”

Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.

Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.

“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”

Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.

The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.

Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.

“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”

“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.

He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.

“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”

As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”

Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.

You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.

The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.

“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”

With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.

“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”

His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.

Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.

Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.

“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.

You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.

You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.

But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.

He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.

Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.

When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.

“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”

His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”

Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.

A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.

But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.

“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”

You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.

“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”

He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”

With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.

You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.

As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.

You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.

Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.

You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.

Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.

You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.

It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.

It was an impossibility of worlds.

He belonged to history.

You belonged in a basement.

As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.

“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.

The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.

“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”

Discretion?

You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.

He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.

To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.

You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.

You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.

How could you have been so foolish?

“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”

“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”

Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.

“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”

He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.

“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”

A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.

The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.

He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.

“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.

He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.

Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.

A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”

The word died in his throat and his smile faded.

The room was silent.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.

Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.

He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.

“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”

He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.

His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.

He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.

“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”

He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.

Did you not believe a word he said?

The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.

Did you still think he was that kind of man?

Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?

Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.

He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.

It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.

By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.

He was going to find you.

He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.

Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.

And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.

Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.

He held the glove up between them, snarling.

“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."

19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️

again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!

LIKE PAULINE I NEED TO TAKE A SECOND TO COMPOSE MY THOUGHTS BC DAMN… the cinderella au already had me hooked bc despite being a #feminist i am unfortunately a sucker for a rich handsome man taking me out of my shitty circumstances and giving me the life i deserve 🙂‍↕️

BUT THEN I SAW THE TAGS DILF BUCKY?! AGE GAP?!!! BREEDING KINK???? and then i read the summary and bucky’s the king and not the prince?? i am in awe of how your brain works and i knew i was gonna be fed so good and omfg… you absolutely delivered!

just a few of my live reactions below but know i was gasping and giggling and practically barking my way through all of it…

“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”

bitch stfu nobody gaf

“You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”

STEVE MENTION!!! THATS MY BOY!!!! (also why did i read this as they were gay kings at first raising a son and i was like… 💅 slay kings until I remembered that i wasn’t reading a stucky fic and that we’re going to be with bucky lmfao i just can’t help myself with them)

“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.” 

THIS IS TOOO SMOOTH AND TOOO SEXY I LOVE WHEN A MAN HAS THAT SOFT DOMINANT EDGE 😮‍💨

“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”

slayyyy not marta setting us up from the OFF. (also i bet u i know what else is very big and very lonely)

“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”

AHHHH ITS GIVING SUGAR DADDY HEHEHEEE

He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.

^^ u writing this like (and the entire fic tbh)

You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.

:( noooo girlie :(((((

He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress

CAP TRIO!!! BESTIES IN EVERY UNIVERSE I LOVE THEM!!!!

Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”

JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES I KNOW WINNIFRED DID NOT RAISE YOU LIKE THIS

Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder. “See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”

okay steve u r seriously pmo i take back my earlier that’s my man statement bc this in fact is NOT my man. when i get ur stupid ass steve i swear to god

Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted. “Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”

ASHDBDJDKWLSODIDIIE OKAY I KNOW I WAS LITERALLY JUST SHITTING ON HIM FOR BEING A PRICK BUT HNGGGGGGG i love a man who knows what he wants and has the power to take it 😮‍💨😮‍💨

“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”

mhhmmmmm period.

“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.

PFFFTTTT back on the possessive bucky train

OMFGGGG AND THEN JHSY THE WHOLE PART WHERE WE UNDRESS FOR HIM HAD ME (S)CREAMING OH GOD THAT WAS ONE OF THE SEXIEST THINGS IVE READ GODDAMN…

There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.

… the visual of this, how did u know this is one of my biggest turn ons bc….

“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”

BREEDING KINK ACTIVATED ✅

^^ live Photo of me moving all my shit into the palace as WE SPEAK

He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.

:((((( NOOOOOOOOOO PAULINE DONT DO THIS TO MEEEEEE

“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."

AHHHHH OMFG OMFGGGGGG YES COME AGTER ME BUCKY AHHHH PURRRRRR

oh god this was… i don’t even have words… HOW was this over 19k words i swear it passed by in an instant until i got to the end in pure horny shock and my mouth AGAPE at the cliffhanger you’ve left us on… truly a masterpiece idk how i’m supposed to return to my excel spreadsheet after this bc this was life changing. goddamn

“Mrs. Rogers, as per your request, I am informing you that Captain Rogers has now landed.”

“Thank you, Jarvis,” you replied to the assistant, closing the book you had on your desk in front of you. “Please activate the privacy protocols until further notice.”

You slipped out of your seat, returning the book to one of the bookshelves that covered every wall of your office. Rituals, religions, practical magic; a separate, locked and enhanced section with the darkest and the dangerous. You hummed with the anticipation rising inside you as you felt Steve rush through the corridors towards you.

The door was flung open so hard that if the hinges hadn’t been magically enhanced after another similar homecoming, they would’ve been ripped out of the wood, and then Steve stood there in all his glory. Brimming with adrenaline and desire, still in his tactical suit and the shield on his back, love and gratitude filling his aura to the point of pouring off of it, his eyes darkened with lust.

“Welcome home, dear,” you murmured.

Your husband took in the sight of you, the tailored blouse and the fluffy navy skirt that was one of his favorites. He knew that the skirt hid a garter belt that held up your stockings, and his eyes raked over every part of you with an intensity that made your skin light up in invisible sparks of power.

“Fuck I missed you.”

Before you could even think about uttering an answer to his low growl, he was striding through the room and leaping onto you. His arms, always so safe, always so strong, hauled you up against the bookshelf you were standing in front of, and his lips slammed onto yours. You had the brief, brief constitution of mind to will the door closed and locked before your brain and your powers shorted out on the sheer force of everything that radiated off of Steve.

“You shouldn’t be here, Captain Rogers,” you teased, half breathless, when he freed your mouth from the kiss in favor of teasing your neck with his teeth and drawing in the familiar scent of you.

But your words were contradicted by the way your physical hands were raking over the muscles of his thighs while your invisible hands were busy undoing all the clasps of the upper part of his suit. Your blood was quickening, the emptiness in between your legs becoming unbearable as Steve’s greedy hands reacquainted themselves with the shape of your legs and hips and ass before finally snapping your underwear clean off your body.

“You’re right, my love,” he murmured, and that dark delight in his voice told you to get ready, even as you weren’t sure for what.

Without another warning, he flung you upwards like you weighed nothing, lifting your thighs to his shoulders and bringing his left hand to your ribcage to press your back safely against the bookshelf. You squealed in surprise, and his eyes sparkled up to you as he tilted his head to look at you, his hot breath teasing the soaking wet apex of your thighs.

“I should be here,” he whispered, bringing his face as close to you as he could without touching, tearing a whine from your lips. “Tell me you’re mine, Mrs. Rogers.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed out, letting your fingers thread into his hair. “I’m yours, love.”

It was the last coherent sentence you were able to utter for a long, long while.

The next few years are an absolute whirlwind. Once your business takes off, you start traveling nearly as much as Steve does. You get invited to fashion shows, design outfits for celebrities, and do all sorts of collaborations and charity work across the globe. You’re at a show in Milan when the whole Ultron/Sokovia fiasco occurs. Then again in Paris, when the Accords break up the team. After that, the only times you get to see Steve are during stolen moments in hotel rooms or for a few weeks at a time in Wakanda.

It’s there that you get introduced to Bucky’s firecracker of a soulmate, who’s staying there with him while he’s in recovery from the Winter Soldier commands. The two of you bond immediately over your shared experiences of being soulmated to the two super soldiers and become fast friends. Also, whenever you’re in Wakanda, you get to use all the training Natasha has been giving you and take it to the next level by training with the Dora Milaje. They kick your ass basically every time, but you’re lasting longer against them with every session.

Everything changes when Thanos appears. That time, you had actually been home in New York. You saw the giant circular spaceship hovering over the city with your own eyes, only for it to disappear back into space carrying Ironman, Doctor Strange, and Spiderman. When Steve called you later to warn you about what was coming, it felt like a stone settling in your stomach. You knew that he had faced several dangers before and always managed to survive, but something about this particular threat just seemed so much worse than anything he had faced before. And then, the unthinkable happened. Steve lost.

Sam. Rhody. Bucky and his soulmate. T’challa and Shuri. So many people. Gone. With just the snap of a finger.

When Steve came back, he wasn’t the same. He was broken. Defeated. He’d lost more than just the battle. He’s lost his team. His friends. He lost half of the whole world. And he shouldered that burden as if he were the embodiment of Atlas. He carried the guilt like shackles on his wrists and weights on his ankles.

All you could do was be there for him. You were a shoulder to lean on. Someone to help carry the load on the rare occasions he would let you. A warm embrace to chase away the nightmares of that day on the battlefield. You let him grieve and take the time he needed to figure out his next steps.

Then Scott Lang arrived at the front gate of the Avengers compound, and suddenly Steve was full of hope again. The plan was insane, but you couldn’t deny the spark that was making Steve’s eyes shine brighter than they had in years. You watch from the foot of the time travel platform as the team shrinks out of sight to retrieve the infinity stones from the past. The feeling in your chest for the few seconds that they’re gone is incredibly uncomfortable. Even though you know Steve is alive, apparently, him existing in a separate timeline from where you are makes the bond do strange things. It feels like your heart is beating in an echo chamber. It’s slightly painful and highly unpleasant, but then you blink and he’s suddenly back. The echoes of pain disappear, only for your heart to break all over again when you realize that Natasha didn’t make it back at all. You’re still grieving the loss of your close friend when the team assembles the new Infinity Gauntlet and Bruce uses it to snap everyone back into existence.

When the second Thanos appears and blows up the compound, it’s only Steve’s fast reflexes that keep you both alive. He wraps his arms around you and clutches your body to his chest, using his shield to protect you from the majority of the blast and the falling rubble. The ensuing battle is complete and utter chaos. You thought the battle at the Triskelion was bad, but that was like a child playing Battleship in the bathtub compared to the madness of this fight. There are enemies raining down from the sky. Allies coming out of glowing, mystical portals. Steve is fighting with fucking Mjolnir. And you’re using every single bit of training you’ve learned over the last several years just to stay alive.

When Tony uses the stones to snap away Thanos and his army, you nearly weep from relief and exhaustion, but then you realize what he’s actually just done, and you rush over. “Strange!” you yell out, grabbing his attention. You ignore the sting of your knees when you fall onto them next to Pepper and grip her shoulders. “Deep breaths, Pepper. Don’t let your heart stop,” you tell your mentor and friend sternly. You hear the crunch of gravel behind you where Steven Strange lands and crouches in front of Tony. “Hurry and use the Time Stone to reverse the damage,” you tell him.

He inspects the damage that’s been done to Tony’s arm and frowns. “I can’t reverse something that the time stone already directly caused.”

Your hands rub over Pepper’s shoulders encouragingly. “Then use it to reverse the damage created by the other stones. That should be enough to minimize the damage to keep Tony alive. We are not making an orphan of his kid. You’re a doctor, so fucking fix this.”

He raises a brow at being ordered around by you, but proceeds to pull the green stone out of Tony’s gauntlet and starts trying to reverse the damage. The other stones resist at first, but Steve had told you about how the first Thanos used the Time Stone to bring Vision back to life, so you knew that you had to at least try it here.

Sure enough, the damage from the other stones begins to reverse, and Tony gets some color back into his cheeks. Pepper collapses in your arms, but her breathing stays steady. By the time Strange is finished, Tony is also passed out, but is still alive. There’s a collective sigh of relief from nearly everyone on the battlefield. It had been an extremely close call.

The Sorcerer Supreme gives you a nod of approval when he’s finished. “That was some quick thinking there, Mrs. Rogers.”

You give him an exhausted smile. “I learned from the best.” Your eyes move to find your husband’s, where he’s standing just a few steps away, looking just as exhausted as you feel, but smiling so proudly that a gentle warmth settles deep in your belly.

There are several days of celebration all across the globe. Steve practically doesn’t let you out of his sight. He kisses you just about every chance he gets and keeps you in bed in the mornings until well past sunrise. You’ve both decided that you’re going to return the stones together. Just those few seconds apart had been a nightmare for you, and even though he’d traveled to timelines that still had you in them, his own experience with the separated bond hadn’t been very pleasant either. You spend those days after the battle planning out the journey before the two of you are suited up and ready to go.

Dr. Strange has already used the time stone to turn the other stones back into their original forms, and then you shrink them using Pym particles, so that they’ll all fit nicely inside a single carrying case. The Wakandans also repaired Steve’s broken shield for him, and he had Mjolnir ready to be returned back to the time where Thor took it from.

Steve takes your hand and helps you step up onto the platform. “Ready to go?” he asks, feeling your elevated heart rate in his chest.

You squeeze his fingers for reassurance. “I think so? Kinda nervous.”

He smiles and places a sweet kiss to your cheek. “You know I’ll keep you safe.”

You nod and shift from one foot to the other. “I know you will.” You take a deep, steadying breath, trying to expel the last of the nerves from your system. “Okay,” you nod once again, feeling a little more settled. “2013 first, right?”

Steve nods in confirmation. “Right. One less thing to worry about by returning Mjolnir first. It can’t be shrunk, so it doesn’t fit in the case with everything else.”

The two of you sync your time watches before the nanosuit materializes around your tactical uniforms. You share one last look between the visors of your helmets, and then you’re both shrinking down into the quantum realm. You land in Asgard immediately after the timestamp of Thor and Rocket leaving. Your helmet lifts automatically as the nanosuit disappears from around you. Steve catches your eye, a look of concern on his face as he checks to make sure you’re okay. You nod to assure him before breaking your gaze to look around.

“Wow…” you marvel at the architecture around you. Everything feels both ancient and timeless. There’s an open balcony just ahead, revealing the beauty of Asgard in its sprawling glory. “My God…” The view is breathtaking.

“Yeah, the Asgardians really downgraded when they came to Earth,” Steve jokes, admiring the view with you.

You scoff and smack his shoulder.

“You must be more of Thor’s friends.”

You both tense and turn quickly at the voice. A beautiful woman exuding grace and maternity stands behind you both, smiling in amusement.

You and Steve share a look of embarrassment. “Yes,” Steve confirms. “I’m Steve Rogers, and this is my wife,” he introduces you. “You must be Frigga.”

Her nod is demure and concise. “I see that my son has rather exceptional taste in friends,” she indicates to the hammer being held in Steve’s hand.

He lifts Mjolnir, that unearthly twang coming off of it as the air shifts around the space it occupies. “It’s pretty amazing, but we don’t need it anymore.” He sets the hammer down at his feet, where it will remain until its original owner calls for it again.

Frigga eyes Steve with all the ancient wisdom of a goddess looking upon a mortal seeking judgment. “It’s a testament of your worth to be offered a taste of the power of the skies and be honest in your willingness to relinquish such power.”

Steve holds her gaze evenly. “I don’t need a hammer to tell me if I’m worthy. I just want to be worthy of being a good husband to my wife.”

His words make your heart skip a beat. He looks over at you, grinning in a way that tells you he felt it. Your cheeks turn to flame, and your gaze drops to the floor.

Frigga laughs delicately. “You’re a smart man, Steve Rogers. I foresee a bright future between the two of you.”

You lift your eyes back up to Steve’s and find that he’s still looking at you, eyes soft and tender. “I hope so,” he tells her while continuing to look at you like you’re the reason the sun shines.

You clear your throat in embarrassment and nudge your foot against his. “Aren’t you forgetting that there’s something else we need to be returning, too?”

“Am I not allowed to boast about how amazing my wife is?” Steve teases while setting the case down on the floor and kneeling in front of it to pull the lid open.

“There’s a time and place for that, Steve.” He pulls out the cylindrical container that carries the fluid-like Aether, which swirls and glows ominously inside the tube. You take it from him while he re-seals the case. “Um,” you hesitate, looking between the Aether and Frigga. “We need to get this back into Jane…”

She steps closer and holds out her hands. “I think it would be best for you to entrust that task to me. That strange talking creature that was here earlier with Thor has stirred up the guards. Getting to Jane now will be quite difficult.”

“Oh,” you blink in surprise and hand her the container. “That would be incredibly helpful. Thank you.”

She smiles, “It would appear that you both have quite the journey ahead of you.” She nods to the case, having recognized its remaining contents.

“Yes, this is our first stop,” you confirm.

“Then I wish you luck and good fortune on the remainder of your endeavors.” She steps back to give you both space.

“Thank you,” Steve nods respectfully, and you do the same.

You activate the time-watch on your wrist once again. “Battle of New York?” you confirm with Steve.

“Yes,” he agrees. Your helmets snap into place moments before you’re both shrinking back to the quantum realm.

You land in 2012 immediately after the time stamp of when Steve and the others had left previously. You’re in an empty alleyway not far from Avenger’s tower. There’s dust and debris all over the place, since the battle has literally just concluded.

Steve sets the carrying case down on the hood of a dust-covered car and unlocks it. He removes the miniaturized version of Loki’s scepter and returns it to its original size. “You sure you want to handle the scepter? Getting the time stone back is going to be simpler.”

You give him a determined nod and take the scepter from his outstretched hand. “Yeah, I’ve got this.”

“You know where to go?” He confirms, holding your gaze to make sure.

You hold the scepter with both hands, being mindful of the pointy end. “Yes, Steve. You explained it like a dozen times.”

His mouth spreads into a tilted grin. “Better to be overprepared than underprepared. Contact me if anything goes awry.”

“Will do. You be careful, too.” You know what he’s doing should be less risky than what you’re about to do, but you still feel like you need to say it.

He leans in and captures your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. “Love you,” he whispers against your mouth in a way that makes your knees weak. In the next moment, he’s gone, leaving you standing there, blinking into the space he had just vacated.

The corner of your mouth lifts into a bemused smile before you turn and start on your own task. He’s been extra touchy-feely recently, not to mention the things he said to Frigga. You’re not entirely sure what it’s all about, but you’re certainly not going to deny him.

You sneak into the tower through a back door using an override access code that Tony had given you before you both left the present. Luckily, most of the tower personnel appear to be preoccupied in the main lobby due to Loki’s escape, so the back halls are clear. You make your way up to the level where Steve told you he’d battled his counterpart.

"Good grief..." you mutter under your breath when you see what state your husband left his 2012 self in. He's been knocked unconscious, face down, with broken glass all around him. The specialized carrying case for the scepter has been kicked a few feet away. You crouch in front of it and lay the scepter on the cushioned interior of the case before pulling it shut and locking down the latches. You then move to kneel next to 2012 Steve, and with a grunt of effort, you managed to roll him onto his back.

You peel his helmet off of his face to check him over and make sure your husband didn't accidentally murder himself in this timeline. You're a little shocked by how young he looks, but then you remember that he is 11 years younger than your Steve. Your thumb brushes against a slight smudge on his cheek, either from the battle against the Chitauri earlier, or from his fight with Steve, you're not sure. He does appear to be breathing, and doesn't seem too worse for wear.

Feeling better about his situation, you pull your hand back and move to stand. You don't get far before there's a tug on your wrist. You look down to find his red leather glove holding you in place. Your eyes flicker back to his face to find him awake and staring at you with wide eyes.

"It's you..." he breathes out with shock.

You brush away your own surprise. "Hi, Steve." Your smile is gentle and warm.

He sits up slowly, refusing to even blink as he looks you over. "Are you real?"

You laugh, suddenly remembering yourself asking that very question the first time you saw your Steve standing in the doorway of the SHIELD safe house in 2012. "I am." You confirm. His hand releases your wrist before he reaches up to tentatively cup your cheek. You give yourself just a second to allow your eyes to fall shut, and you nuzzle into his leathery palm. When your eyes blink back open, you meet his gaze and give him an apprehensive smile. "But I'm not the version of me that belongs to you."

His brow furrows, and his head tilts into that confused puppy look that you think is so adorable. "What do you mean?"

You glance over at the sealed case. "I'm just here to bring back the scepter. We only needed to borrow it."

He looks at the case, that brilliant tactical mind of his beginning to connect the dots. "That other Steve... that wasn't Loki?"

"No," you tell him while shaking your head. "That was my Steve."

"You're from the future?"

You look away and bite your bottom lip. "I shouldn't say too much."

"Wait." He uses the hand on your cheek to tilt your face back to his, a sense of urgency in his tone. "He said that Bucky is still alive. Is that true?"

Your breath catches in your throat. You know you shouldn't say anything, but you can't lie to him. "Yes."

The air rushes out of his lungs in one big breath, his hand falling from your face. "What?"

"When he fell from the train, he didn't die. HYDRA got to him. They wiped his memory, turned him into the Winter Soldier, and now they keep him in cryo-freeze until they need him to perform high-level assassinations."

The horror on Steve's face grows with every word that comes out of your mouth. "But we destroyed HYDRA..."

You give him a sympathetic look. "SHIELD hired Zola after the war ended, and he revived HYDRA from within SHIELD. Don't trust the STRIKE team, Alexander Pierce, or Jasper Sitwell. They've infiltrated the government, too. You can trust Fury and Natasha, but they don't know about any of this just yet. Also, they all think that you're a part of HYDRA, too. That's how my Steve managed to get the scepter away from them." You release a soft sigh and move to stand. "That's probably a lot more than anything I should have told you. I need to go. Please be careful."

He scrambles to his feet. "Wait, please!" He grips you at your elbow, though his touch is gentle.

You turn back hesitantly.

"Where are you right now?" he asks desperately. "My version of you."

"I'm safe. SHIELD pulled me out of the city at the first sign of trouble. Fury will know where I am."

His gaze drops to the floor, and that furrow is back between his brow. "Do you hate me? For what I've done to us?"

Your shoulders drop, and you can't help reaching out for him. "No," you assure him. "I'll be confused and scared, but I could never hate you." You lean forward and place a kiss on his cheek. "It'll be okay, Steve."

Relief shines in his eyes as the corner of his mouth tilts up. "Thanks. Is it weird that I'm nervous to see you, even though I'm looking at you right now?"

You laugh lightly. "No, but it's very adorable."

His ears burn pink. "You look incredible, by the way," he mutters through his embarrassment, eyes raking over your uniform. "You wear that better than I do."

You look down at your tactical suit. It's a feminine counterpart to Steve's latest uniform. You made the matching set as an anniversary gift years ago, but didn't have the chance to wear it until now. "Thank you," you smile up at him. "Don't worry. When I'm the one making your uniform, I'll make sure you look good." You grin teasingly and wink.

He blushes even more and looks down at his own uniform. "Yeah, this one is definitely missing your personal touches."

You look at him tenderly. "Go get your girl, Steve. Then try to find Bucky. HYDRA's holding his soulmate hostage, too.”

He pushes a gloved hand through his golden locks and breathes heavily. “This is a lot to take in.”

“Trust your friends and it will be a lot easier.”

He nods resolutely. “Thank you for telling me.”

You smile in that way that always reminds him of sunshine, no matter what timeline he’s in. “Of course, Steve.” You share one last look with him. A Steve who wasn’t betrayed by the reveal of HYDRA when it was almost too late. A Steve who didn’t have to face losing his closest friends during the Accords. A Steve who never lost to Thanos. There’s an air of hopeful innocence around him, and you hope that what little information you’ve given him might ease some of the burdens he’ll have to face in this timeline.

“How long have we been married?” he asks you, indicating toward the ring sparkling on your finger.

You glance down at it, smiling fondly. “8 years this past January.”

He looks both surprised and highly pleased by your answer. “How did I ask you?”

You don’t fight the laugh and hold a finger to your lips like you're about to shush him. “I’m not going to reveal that spoiler,” you tease.

He chuckles and drops his head, nodding. “That’s fair.”

You begin to step back. “Take care, Steve.”

“You too.” He watches you longingly as you turn to leave.

You glance back one last time before you slip into the stairwell. He’s holding the case to the scepter, but is still watching over you. The door shuts behind you, blocking him from your view. You press a finger to the communicator in your ear as you begin to walk down the stairs. “Scepter is secure.”

“Any problems?” The voice that comes through is slightly older and more mature than the one you’d just had a conversation with.

“All good. I’m heading to the rendezvous now.”

“I’ll see you there.”

You slip out of the tower undetected and make your way back to your Steve. He’s anxiously pacing the length of the abandoned alleyway, his head snapping up at your approach. His shoulders drop with relief as soon as he spots you. “Are you okay? What happened?”

You tilt your head. “Why do you assume something happened?”

“You took longer than I was expecting, and your heartbeat was irregular.” He steps in close and grips your hips.

Your hands find their place on his chest, just to either side of the silver star on his uniform. “The other you woke up, but nothing bad happened.”

His eyes flare. “Did he try to hurt you?” He looks just about ready to march back into the tower and fight himself all over again.

“Steve, it’s still you. Of course you didn’t try to hurt me. We just talked.” You press your hands even harder against his chest to prevent him from trying to get past you.

“What about?” A muscle in his jaw ticks.

You roll your eyes at your husband’s apparent jealousy. “About Bucky. And HYDRA. You kind of left him with a ticking time bomb and no explanation.”

Some of the tension eases from his shoulders. “Did he try to flirt with you?”

You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Yeah, because you were such a wild Casanova in 2012,” you answer sarcastically.

“Did he?” Steve presses.

“Of course not! He’s a cute and adorable puppy right now, not some wife-stealing, philandering, bad boy.”

Even though he got the answer he wanted, Steve still looks rather put out. “I can be cute and adorable…” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t know whether to sigh in exasperation or laugh. “You’re being ridiculous.” You grab his face and pull him into a messy kiss. His arms immediately curl around you, tugging you in close against his body. One hand grips the nape of your neck while the other presses firmly into the small of your back. Before things get too heated, you pull back with a gasp. “Feel better?”

His eyes flash with desire. “Marginally.”

This goofball certainly knows how to keep things interesting. “We’re already halfway there, Rogers. Three down, three to go. Shall we move on to the next stone?”

“Not yet.” He leans forward and kisses you once more, nearly sweeping you off your feet. He kisses you like a man who’s starved for affection. Like it will never be enough. You’re left breathless and on shaky legs when he’s done with you. “Now we can go.” His smile is far too innocent for a man who kisses like that.

When you land in 1970, it's in an empty clearing a mile north of Camp Lehigh. Steve scans the area, then reaches to grab your hand, interlacing your fingers as he leads you through the trees. "We can do some reconnaissance, but I imagine they'll have tightened up security with the way Tony and I left things before."

The two of you observe the security gate from the tree line. Sure enough, there's an overabundance of security personnel thoroughly checking over everyone’s documentation before letting them in. Steve decides to call it and instead leads you deeper into the woods. You trek on foot to the town closest to the camp. Steve forces open the window to an empty motel room and helps lift you over the sill to climb inside.

The room is clean, smelling faintly of patchouli, but the shag carpeting and wallpaper are hideous. Steve jumps fluidly through the open window before turning to push it shut and closing the curtain. You flick on one of the bedside lamps, filling the room with a soft orangey glow. Steve moves to the foot of the bed and sets down the carrying case. He lifts the lid and pulls out two miniaturized duffel bags, then uses a particle disc to get them back to normal size.

He offers you your bag, which you take with a smile and a soft, "Thanks." You move over to the small loveseat on the other end of the room and pull the tab on the zipper to open the bag. Right on top is the '70s-inspired dress you made, packed specifically for this part of the trip. You also pull out a pair of Mary Jane flats and some other accessories to complete your outfit.

You pull out your toiletry bag next and unzip that too. You frown when you notice a specific item is missing. "Oh, shit..." you mutter under your breath. You pull out your tube of toothpaste and a hair brush, trying to see if it might have fallen deeper into the bag. When you fail to locate it, you set down the toiletry bag and start rifling through the duffel. "No, no, no..."

Feeling your elevated heart rate, Steve stops going through his own bag and looks over at you. "Everything okay?"

"Uh..." You stall your response while continuing to look through your bag. When the object you're looking for fails to magically appear before your eyes, your shoulders drop, and you release a long sigh. "I didn't pack my pills," you finally admit. You bite your bottom lip and look over at Steve.

He holds your gaze, "Your birth control pills?"

"Yes," your voice cracks on the word. You rub your hand over your face while taking a heavy breath. "Those were specially made by Dr. Cho after her analysis showed that generic contraceptives probably wouldn't work against the serum. They're not something we can just pick up from a pharmacy, and certainly not in 1970." Your mind starts to race to come up with a solution. The easiest answer would be to jump back to present day, but that would be a major waste of Pym particles. Could you and Steve have the self-control for abstinence for the remainder of this mission? Should you just risk it with condoms alone?

Before you can spiral down a mental rabbit hole, Steve's voice pulls you out of your thoughts. "I want to retire."

Your head whips back to him. "What?" You're not entirely sure you heard him correctly.

He smiles hesitantly and moves to sit on the corner of the bed. "I know I haven't been very... present over the last few years. After that first battle with Thanos, I was broken. All the guilt and regret made me feel like I was drowning."

Like a magnet being pulled North, you walk over to Steve and stand between his legs. You run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching soothingly at his scalp as he looks up at you. His hands reach for your hips, unable to resist touching you and keeping you close.

"I failed so spectacularly, and yet even after losing so much... after losing Bucky and Sam... somehow, by some enormous miracle, I still got to keep you." His hands squeeze your hips, and he leans forward to press his forehead to your stomach, his voice going hoarse. "And I know the bond is probably what kept us together, but even without it, I don't think I would have survived losing you, too. But you've been so good, and patient, and strong this whole time. In some ways, that was exactly what I needed, but in other ways, it made me feel even more unworthy of you than I felt even before taking the serum. I was lost at sea, and you were the beacon I felt like I didn't deserve."

"Steve," you keep your voice even and gentle, like a soothing balm on an open wound. "You don't need to win every fight to be worthy of me." You tilt his head up, cradling his face between your palms. "These last few years have been hard on everyone, but you always carry so much weight on your shoulders. It's okay to be a little selfish. It's okay to want things. It's okay to be happy."

He swallows thickly. "I know, I just couldn't. I'm sorry."

Your head tilts curiously, thumbs brushing over his cheeks in a soft caress. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I do," he refutes. "I remember after Morgan was born, when we went to see Tony and Pepper at the hospital. I'll never forget the look in your eyes when you held her for the first time. You were so beautiful, and you looked at her like she was so precious. And I was... terrified. I didn't know I could want something so badly and be just as equally afraid of it. I already felt wholly unworthy of you, that I couldn't even face the thought of holding our own child for the first time. Of something else I was entirely undeserving of." A single tear slips down his cheek. You catch it on your thumb and brush it away. "I know that I promised you a future, but after Thanos, I couldn't let go of the past. That's why I'm apologizing. I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you want. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger. I'm-" His voice breaks on a choked sob.

"Oh, Steve..." You crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders, allowing him to bury his face in your neck. His own arms tighten around your waist, holding onto you like a lifeline. "You do not need to apologize for your grief. A loss like that is not something you get to just walk away from. The wounds that you can't see leave the deepest scars and tend to be the hardest to recover from." You hold his nape reverently with one hand and rub his back with the other. "I never expected you to move on after Thanos. I fully understood that you were going through something unimaginably horrific. I knew you needed time, and I was perfectly okay with giving it to you. I don't blame you for anything, and I don't have any regrets. You don't need to be sorry."

He breath shudders before he places a kiss to the side of your neck and raises his head. His eyes are rimmed with red, but he has a soft smile on his lips. "I swear, you have the patience of a saint."

You laugh softly, running your fingers from his hairline down his temple. "I have the patience of a woman who's insanely in love with her husband."

His eyes sparkle like sunshine reflecting on tropical waves. "You're amazing. I love you so much." He takes a steadying breath before his eyes flash with determination. "But what I've been trying to get at... is that this is my last mission. Once we finish returning the stones, I'm done. We beat Thanos. We brought everyone back. Now, I want out. I want to be with you. I want to start our family. I'm done putting our lives on hold. Let's buy a house. Somewhere with lots of space, and trees, with a swing on the porch and a raised garden in the back. Let's get a dog. Let's sleep in past noon. Let's have breakfast for dinner. Whatever you want, I want to do all of that with you. I'm done with just surviving from one battle to the next. I'm ready to start living."

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you're not sure if it's from you or him. You want to respond to his confession, but your throat is now tight with emotion, and you're not entirely sure what you want to say.

Steve's knuckles brush tentatively against the edge of your jaw. "I know you've got a lot going on with Heart Skip Apparel, so I'll understand if you need a little more time before we do any of this. I just wanted you to know where I'm at right now. If I need to be the one with patience, I can do that." His hand leaves your face and reaches to grab something out of his duffel bag. You hear the clatter of small objects shifting against plastic before he reveals your missing bottle of pills. He grins a little sheepishly. "I saw them out on the bathroom counter, while you were packing up the car, and realized you forgot to grab them. A part of me kind of wanted to leave them behind entirely, but I didn't want to take the choice away from you."

Your eyes flicker from the clear orange bottle, then back to Steve. "Are you sure?" you ask.

"Absolutely." There's zero hesitation in his response.

You take the pill bottle and chuck it across the room, not caring as the cap pops off and the pills scatter across the shag carpet, because you're already devouring Steve's mouth. He kisses back fervently and pulls you even closer, like the space between your bodies personally offends him. Your hands are all over his face, holding his cheeks, running through his hair, cupping his jaw. His glide across your back, one pressing to the curve of your spine while the other dips down and grabs a handful of your ass.

You giggle breathlessly against his lips. "You're crazy, you know that."

You feel his smile spread against your own. "Why?"

You pull back enough to rub your nose teasingly against his and look deep into his eyes. "Because you want to start our family while we're literally in the middle of this mission and 50 years away from home."

His laugh blows across your skin like dandelion seeds on the wind. "Would you expect any less from me?"

You give him a wry smile. "From the former wanted fugitive who used to sneak into my hotel room after midnight? No, of course not."

He smirks crookedly. "Remember Copenhagen?"

You hum thoughtfully at the memory. "You didn't let me leave that bed for 56 hours."

His fingers tighten on your ass, pushing your core against the hard seam of his tactical pants. "Think we could beat that record?" he challenges.

You shake your head bemusedly. "You were relentless. I had to sneak off to the bathroom while you were sleeping."

His eyes shine with humor. "I wasn't really sleeping, I only pretended to so you could have a break."

"Steven Grant Rogers!" you admonish with a teasing smile.

He's completely without shame. "I didn't know when we were going to see each other again. Had to make sure you didn't forget about me."

You lean in and kiss one corner of his mouth, then the other side. "Well, from the sounds of it… Looks like we're going to be seeing a lot of each other from now on."

"Now I need to make up for lost time." He pulls you back in, fully sealing his mouth over yours.

You moan against him, lips parting to allow his tongue entrance to your mouth. He slips in with all the familiarity of someone entering their second home. His tongue greets yours in a lover’s caress, the two dancing to a rhythm all their own. They tango to the pace of your shared heartbeat, the tempo fast, but steady.

He pulls away with a parting flick of his tongue against yours, giving you a chance to catch your breath while his lips glide down your cheek. "Have I told you how great you look in this uniform?" He asks, lips now brushing the edge of your jaw.

You release a small laugh. "Your 2012 doppelganger did."

He halts for a second, then straightens and pins you with an unimpressed look. "You said he didn't flirt with you."

The love of your life is, without a doubt, the most absurd man on this planet. Hair disheveled, pupils blown wide, kiss-swollen lips, and still, he manages to be jealous of his younger self. "You can give a compliment to someone without it being flirting, you know."

"Not when it's me complimenting you."

He is utterly impossible.

"I'm literally sitting in your lap, about to have raw sex with you. Remind me what you're getting mad over?" You feel his dick twitch under you.

"Right. Shutting up now." He nods resolutely. "The uniform will look just as great on the floor, I'll bet."

You grin in amusement. "Nice save."

He maintains his serious façade. “We should test this theory.” He makes quick work of your uniform top and tosses it aside, soon followed by his own. Your skin is still separated by the tank top you wear and his tight Under Armor shirt, but the thinner materials allow your body heat to exchange much more easily. Steve’s lips glide down your neck, licking the hollow of your throat and nipping at your collarbone. You moan and grind against his growing erection, hands scrambling for purchase against his broad shoulders.

In a rush, Steve has you back on your feet moments before he’s unlatching your utility belt and shoving your tac pants down your legs. He kneels before you, helping you pull off your boots, then removes the pants entirely. He glances at the pile of discarded clothing before giving you a shit-eating grin. “I was right. It does look better on the floor.”

You shake your head and laugh, “You’re such a jerk.” Your voice is filled with affection as you look down at your soulmate.

His hand holds the back of your calf as he guides your foot onto his raised knee. He leans forward and kisses the top of your shin, then the inside of your knee, then he drags his lips up your inner thigh. Your breath stutters, pussy clenching eagerly as he draws closer, but then he jumps from the top of your thighs to your lower abdomen. You’re about to berate him for being a tease when he looks up at you through his thick, sultry lashes, with eyes so hot, you feel yourself melting. “I’m going to put a baby in here,” he vows, and you’re done for.

The next few seconds are a rush of frenzied movement as you both shuffle out of the rest of your clothes, and then you’re falling back against the mattress with a highly aroused, half-feral super soldier settling between your spread thighs. His hips press against yours, his cock caught between your bodies, heavy and hot and leaking against that spot on your abdomen that he was just kissing. He rocks against you, dragging the underside of his cock through your slick folds. Your body is ready for him. Has been from the moment you tossed the pill bottle across the room.

Your thighs are already shaking, hips grinding up in desperate search of even the tiniest amount of friction. You’re wet, and aching, and so goddamn eager for him. You needed him inside you five minutes ago. Need to feel the stretch of your body making room for his thickness. Feel the weight of him filling you to completion. Living a full decade with this man has done nothing to quell the insatiable need you have for him. If anything, it’s only made it worse. It’s only made you want him more.

“Please, Steve,” you beg against his open-mouthed kisses. “I need you.”

“I know,” he breathes directly into your lungs. His hand grips the back of your knee and hooks your leg around his hip. He shifts his own leg forward, bracketing his inner thigh against the side of yours. As soon as he’s in position, the head of his cock notched against your entrance, he pushes forward and sinks into you. He grunts deep and low in his chest at the way your body surrounds him in his entirety. Not just physically, but also emotionally, spiritually. He feels you everywhere. The brush of skin against skin, your scent in his lungs, your heart beating in his chest. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. “I love you,” he declares against your parted lips.

You try to respond, but all you can manage is a stuttered gasp while your nails rake down his back. He’s so big, both in you and above you. Battle-hardened muscles, sculpted to perfection, press down against your supple body, making the mattress springs squeak in protest. Every snap of his hips causes the bedframe to crack against the wall. Your cunt pulses and flutters around his thick, veiny cock, encouraging him to drive even deeper, push even harder.

He looks down at you, eyes wild, a few strands of his disheveled hair falling against his forehead. “You’re gonna look so pretty, Sweetheart.” He moans when a particular twinge of your walls hits him just right. “So full of me. So full of us.” You whimper under him, back arching in pleasure. “’M gonna kiss your growing belly every day. Give you foot rubs when your feet hurt. Get you whatever food you’re craving, no matter what time it is.”

“Steve!” His name is the only word in any known language that you can even remember right now.

“I’ll be so good to you. Won’t let you lift a finger. You focus on growing our baby, and I’ll handle everything else.”

You can’t take it. His words, combined with his unrelenting thrusts, send you into a tailspin. You cry out his name over and over, your body vibrating from the force of your orgasm crashing into you. Steve fucks you through it, hips losing their careful coordination as his control snaps. He pounds into your drooling cunt with all the feral instinct of a wild animal. This isn’t just sex for enjoyment and pleasure; this is sex with purpose. It’s a mating ritual. It’s for procreation. It’s the beginning of a new life. Not just the new life that might soon be growing inside of you, but also the new life he plans to share with you. One without Captain America. Because that chapter is reaching its final page, and he’s more than ready to start the next one.

With one final thrust, Steve’s hips still against yours while his cock empties into the deepest part of you. His whole body convulses with every spurt of thick, hot cum as he paints your walls white. You shudder underneath him, pussy eagerly pulsing around his cock and sucking his seed deeper into your womb. You don’t know if it’s even possible for his seed to take so soon after stopping your birth control, but your body seems overly eager for it all the same.

Steve is completely wrecked above you. Hair in disarray, kiss swollen lips, flushed cheeks, body still shuddering from oversensitivity. You imagine you’re probably not faring much better. You’re both panting for desperately needed air, hearts pounding erratically in tandem. He rolls you both onto your sides and collapses against the pillows, still buried between your legs. You flop unceremoniously against his chest, your muscles completely liquified.

“Wow…” The word falls from your mouth a little deliriously while you still try to catch your breath. “You haven’t been that feral in a long time. Whew…”

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, concern immediately bleeding into his features, despite the post-coital flush to his cheeks.

“No,” you assure him quickly, smiling in utter satisfaction. “You were amazing.”

He releases a long breath, half in relief, half still coming down from his high. His arms tighten around you, tucking your body more securely against his while he presses a kiss to your forehead. “You’re the amazing one.”

You laugh tiredly and settle more comfortably against him. With your head on his chest, you can hear his heart settling back into a normal rhythm while yours does the same. You close your eyes and relax even further while listening to the beat you know is a perfect match to yours. The silence that follows is soft and devoted, filled with understanding and love. The kind of silence that speaks its own language and can only be heard in moments of stillness. Moments like this one. You bask in it, like a cat lying in a patch of sun. Then you feel the brush of Steve’s fingers against the base of your spine.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You know he has something on his mind when his fingers draw patterns against your lower back. Like he’s using the movement to piece out the answer to a difficult puzzle or some strategic endeavor.

His fingers stop their aimless tracing as he presses his full palm against your skin. “What if we stayed here?” He finally asks after a contemplative pause.

Your brow lifts in amused curiosity. “What, like in bed? I thought that was already the plan.”

“No,” he counters, a weight to his tone. “Here. As in this place. This time.”

It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in. When it does, you lift your head off his chest and shift onto your side, propped up on your elbow. “Here?” you repeat. “Like 1970?”

He looks back at you, eyes serious. There’s no sign of humor or teasing. “Yes.”

You stare back, your brow now furrowing. “For how long?” You already knew that you needed to kill some time while waiting for an opening to return the Tesseract, but this doesn’t sound like Steve is referring to the mission. It’s something beyond the mission.

“However long we want,” he tells you. “Like an extended vacation. Or a second honeymoon. We can stay off the grid a lot easier. There are no cell phones, no satellites, no facial recognition. We can just be us.”

“You’re serious…” It’s not really phrased as a question, but you are still seeking confirmation.

His thumb swipes back on forth across your skin where his hand is still planted on your back. “We could find a house. Somewhere out of the city, but still close enough that we could visit for the day if we wanted to.”

“And do what?” you enquire with a hint of incredulity. You can hardly believe that your husband, Mr. Always-Has-A-Plan, wants to vacation in 1970 and just wing it.

His grin is relaxed, almost lazy, in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever seen on him. “Whatever we want. We can go on dates like we used to back when we first moved into the tower. Try new restaurants, see some shows on Broadway, shop on 5th Avenue. We can go hiking upstate, and I’ll carry you on my back when you get tired. Or we can just stay home and have an obscene amount of sex. On the kitchen floor, next to the fireplace, inside the linen closet…”

You tilt your head and pinch your lips together in an attempt to hold back your amused smile. “Why would we sneak off to the linen closet in our own home?”

“Small spaces makes it more intimate,” he states like it’s a well-known fact.

“Does it now?” You don’t sound entirely convinced.

“It does,” he confirms with a nod. He then goes quiet, eyes turning soft as he gives you a look that reminds you of the way he looked at you inside that small chapel in Brooklyn, 8 years ago. “What do you say? Wanna stay here with me?”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, pondering over the options. You can hardly believe that he’s actually proposing this. He’s supposed to be the responsible one. The mission is supposed to take priority. What if something happens and the watches don’t work because you’ve been here too long? Do Pym particles have an expiration date? What if something happens to the remaining stones before you get the chance to return them? While your mind is spinning over all the what-if scenarios, you realize that Steve looks completely relaxed and unbothered. He’s not worried about the stones. He’s not gearing up for the next fight. He’s completely at ease to be in this present moment with you. No worries, no alien attacks, no battle plans. For the first time in a long time, he can finally be Steve Rogers. Just Steve Rogers.

“Okay,” you agree, voice soft but sure. “We can stay here for a little bit, but if I end up pregnant, I’m not having our child here. If I have to give birth to a tiny super soldier, I want modern medicine, and at the very least, the option of an epidural.”

Steve chuckles softly. “That’s fair.” He cups the back of your neck and pulls your face close enough to kiss your forehead.

You close your eyes at the contact of his lips against your skin. “Can we go to a Loft party?” you ask tentatively.

Steve pauses for a moment, then shifts his face back to look at you curiously. “Didn’t realize you were that into disco…”

You giggle at the look on his face. “I’m not, I’m just not sure what other things there are to do in 1970.”

His smile is full of mischief and affection. “I’m sure we’ll find enough to do, so we won’t be bored.”

By the next morning, Steve has somehow managed to secure a vehicle, and within a few hours, you’re crossing the state border out of New Jersey and back into New York. You stop for food at a roadside diner in a small town just outside of the city. Steve uses the yellow pages and a payphone to contact a nearby real estate agency. Before you know it, you’re both walking up the steps to your new home, contracts signed and keys in hand. It’s a two bedroom—two bath, Victorian-style cottage on an acre of forested land. It has a wraparound porch and wooden shutters. There’s an octagonal-shaped reading nook in one corner of the house that faces the morning sun. There are hiking trails running through the backyard that can either take you down to a small lake or up the mountain to a waterfall. It’s beautiful and perfect, and you can hardly believe it’s yours. At least, for however long you’ll be there.

The first night, you sleep on a nest of pillows and blankets near the fireplace and make plans to buy furniture and a bed the next day. Steve makes love to you right there on the floor, just like he promised. The semi-dubious apprehension that fills you at the prospect of staying in 1970 begins to melt away the more you both start building your home together. There’s a blurred line that you don’t even realize you’ve crossed, where the feeling of playing pretend becomes reality. The house is filled with laughter and kisses and warmth and life. It doesn’t feel temporary. It feels like the beginning of forever.

Steve gets into woodworking after cutting down some of the trees that were growing a little too close to the house. He makes a sturdy, gorgeously carved frame for the bed in the master bedroom. Then he makes a coffee table for the living room and a brand-new kitchen table after that. Everything that he builds with his own two hands, he promptly tests the structural integrity of by fucking you ruthlessly against the freshly polished wood. Everything has held up, so far, but sometimes you tell him you might need to test something again, just to be extra sure. He’s always more than happy to oblige.

Two months pass before you start to notice the changes in your body. It starts with fatigue. No matter how much sleep you get, it never feels like enough. This is then followed by breast tenderness, and you also feel like your bladder must have shrunk because you need to pee, like all the time. And then the smell of scrambled eggs, which used to help get you out of bed in the morning, instead has you rushing to the bathroom and dropping to your knees in front of the toilet.

Steve is in a near panic, thinking you’ve managed to contract some sort of 1970s disease that you’re not inoculated against until you stop dry heaving enough to ask him to pick up a pregnancy test from the pharmacy in town. That sends him spiraling into a new sense of panic for an entirely different reason. “So soon?” he questions, like you couldn’t possibly be pregnant already.

“I’m late, Steve.” You tell him like he should be well aware, considering how often he’s been between your legs recently. “I haven’t had it the entire time we’ve been here.”

“Oh…” his face falls at the realization. He’s then struck with a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t noticed. He’s your husband; he should be paying more attention to that sort of thing.

“…Are you having regrets?” you hesitate to ask, especially since this isn’t exactly a conversation you want to have while sitting on the bathroom floor, but you need to know his answer. Sooner rather than later.

“No, of course not.” He shakes his head adamantly. His hand rubs soothing circles against your back. “I just thought we’d have more time… as just us.”

You smile at your sweet, adorable husband. “We’ve had over a decade as just us.” Feeling a little more stable, you flush the toilet and move to the sink to rinse out your mouth. Steve hovers close behind with hands outstretched like you’re going to fall at any moment.

“Several of those years don’t really count,” he argues after he’s certain you’re not about to keel over in front of him.

You meet his gaze through the mirror and smile in amusement. “Sex doesn’t stop after the baby is born, Steve.” You dry your hands, then turn to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “If that were true, then no one would have any siblings.”

His hands cradle your hips, but his touch is tentative and more careful than usual. His gaze flickers all over your face like the truth he’s seeking might be hidden in the curve of your cheek or the tilt of your brow. “Are you sure?” he finally asks, his voice raw and emotional.

Your smile is soft and sweet, like the cotton candy at Coney Island. “I’m pretty sure, but I think it would still be beneficial to take a few tests.”

He nods his head, but does it too long, like he’s still trying to wrap his head around the situation. “Right. Okay. Tests. Yeah.” He sounds dazed, but then he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. When they reopen, they’re clearer, focused. “Pharmacy. Pregnancy tests. Got it. Anything else?”

You think about it for a second. “Oh, can you get me a jelly-filled donut from Red’s? The strawberry jam one, not the custard. Actually, make it two.”

He smiles fondly and places a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Sure thing, Sweetheart.”

You follow him to the front door, where he shrugs on his signature leather jacket and grabs his car keys. He turns to you one last time and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “Be back in a jiffy. Love you.”

You hum against his mouth and grip the lapels of his jacket. “Love you, too.”

You watch from the window as Steve pulls the car out of the dirt driveway and heads into town. You’re full of too much nervous energy, so you end up pacing behind the couch while waiting for his return. The tests are mainly a formality. You already know what they’re going to say, but a tiny part of you is still a little nervous. Your hand rubs circles over your abdomen as you picture the tiny being that is most definitely growing in there.

Steve returns within twenty minutes, holding a paper bag from the pharmacy with a small box of donuts tucked under his arm. “Which one do you want first?” he asks, offering both the bag and the box.

You have a small moment of crisis trying to decide which one you want more, but eventually settle on the bag first, so that you can enjoy the donuts while waiting for the test to run. “Don’t start eating without me,” you call to Steve as you head for the bathroom. You read the instructions on the box and follow them step by step, then leave the stick on the counter and wash your hands before joining Steve on the couch in the living room.

He dutifully has a donut already out on a plate for you, which you take with a gracious thank you. After the first bite, you promptly burst into tears.

“Oh God,” Steve panics. “Is it the wrong one? What’s happened?”

You shake your head and devour another bite despite your open sobbing. “It’s just so good!”

“Sweetheart…” Steve looks like he can’t decide if he wants to burst into laughter or cry with you.

“Steve, I’m pretty sure this is actually happening.” You’re still crying and shoving more of the donut into your mouth while you talk. It’s not graceful or elegant. At all. “Like, who actually cries over donuts other than pregnant people?”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a tilted smile. “It’s not just a donut. It’s a jelly donut.”

You sniff your nose and lick sticky glaze off of your fingers. “Thank you for validating my insanity.”

He looks at you with all the tenderness and longing of a flower reaching for the sun. “It’s not insanity, it’s hormones.”

The timer on your watch goes off, indicating that the test is ready. Neither of you moves; you just continue looking at each other. “Should we go check?” you eventually ask.

Steve’s eyes flicker between yours. “I don’t need to.”

You choke on another sob. “We’re having a baby.”

Steve tries to smile, but his lips are trembling. “Yeah, we are.” His voice cracks with emotion. He leans his forehead against yours and places a gentle hand against your abdomen. "Can I say hi?" he asks quietly, eyes glimmering with reverence.

You brace yourself for the next onslaught of tears and nod your head.

Steve slides off the couch and falls to his knees between your spread legs, his hands hold your waist so gently, there's barely any pressure from his fingertips. His eyes flicker up to you, and he smiles so serenely before leaning forward to kiss your stomach. "Hi, baby. It's your dad. Your mom and I are so excited you're here and we can't wait to meet you. We love you so much. You'll never want for anything, and all your crazy aunts and uncles will spoil you rotten. Focus on getting big and strong, and I'll focus on keeping you and your mommy safe. Oh, but not too strong, I don't want you hurting your mom with any super baby kicking."

You release a wet laugh at your ridiculous husband.

Later that evening, you're in bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows, reading through a maternity book while Steve has his ear pressed to your stomach. Every once in a while, he'll shift the placement of his head just a touch, then will settle in that spot for the next few minutes. You've stopped paying him any mind and just left him to whatever he was doing while you read your book.

He grabs your attention once more by releasing a soft, surprised gasp. “I can hear it. I hear our baby’s heartbeat!”

“What?” You drop the book to your chest and observe the excited look on his face.

“Yeah,” he confirms, grinning widely. “It’s so fast and tiny, but it’s there.”

You feel your throat clench moments before your vision turns hazy and your eyes sting. “I wanna hear,” you mumble quietly.

Steve’s look turns sympathetic. “Oh, they're probably not going to have an ultrasound machine at the doctor's office all the way out here. There might be one or two in the city, but checking in to any of those bigger hospitals will be a risk.”

You promptly burst into tears, startling Steve. “That’s not fair! Why do you get to hear them when I’m the one carrying them!”

Steve sits up and moves to cradle your face between his palms. “Oh, Sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” He wipes your tears away, but they’re unrelenting.

“I’m not upset!” You wail, which isn’t helping you prove your point. Steve reaches for the box of tissues that he’s already stashed all around the house for this exact scenario. You grab one and blow your nose loudly. You take a shaky breath and pin Steve with a harsh look. “What are you doing? Put your ear back on my stomach and tell me what our baby sounds like.”

He looks torn, considering that he just did that and it turned you into a sobbing mess. But he’s pretty sure the consequences will be worse if he doesn’t do what you say, so he releases your face and hesitantly leans back down over your abdomen. He's quiet for a moment, concentrating on finding the sound again. You know the moment he does, because his eyes go all soft and mushy as he practically melts against you. “It sounds like hummingbird wings,” he finally tells you.

Your lips tremble, and then you’re crying all over again. “Awww! We’re having a baby hummingbird!”

You and Steve decide to wait another two months before putting plans in motion to leave from 1970. By this point, you're out of the first trimester and a majority of your early pregnancy symptoms have eased up. Steve does most of the work to tie up any loose ends. He re-infiltrates the SHIELD office inside Camp Lehigh and puts the Tesseract back into the container Tony pulled it out of. He also makes arrangements for the house, though he doesn't go into too much detail regarding what exactly that entails, because he doesn't want you to feel any stress that might affect the baby.

You make some modifications to your tactical suit, due to the situation of your growing figure. Your abdomen has extended enough to start showing, and the thick, tactical material doesn't really allow for much give. You rip out the seams in a few strategic spots and add in some stretchy material. Doing this will technically compromise the integrity of the suit, but you're not planning to enter any open war zones any time soon. Especially not the last two stops on this journey.

As soon as everything is ready to go, you and Steve are, once again, suited up in your matching tac suits. You give the house one last look from where you stand in the living room. "I'm going to miss this place." Your smile is fond, if a little sad. The whole time, you knew that your stay here was only going to be temporary, but at some point in the last few months, this house truly felt like a home. It's not the first time you and Steve have moved out of a place that held special significance, but for some reason, it feels a little different this time. Like the roots of this house run a little deeper than any of the other places.

Steve reaches for your hand and places a soft kiss to your knuckles. "After we return the last two stones... I promise to take you home."

You smile at the love of your life. "I'm counting on it."

You both set your time watches and jump forward to 2014.

"He's not dead, is he?" you ask, staring down at the prone figure in front of you.

Steve nudges the body with the toe of his boot, and Peter Quill groans quietly. "Nope. Not yet, at least."

"Should we really just leave it here?" You eye the strange metal sphere that contains the power stone. Steve has already removed it from the case.

"I mean... technically, it doesn't matter where we leave it. It's more important that we brought it back the moment after it was taken." Steve tosses the orb into the dirt next to Quill's body. "This whole timeline is about to get a major shift anyway, since this Thanos is the one who crosses through the quantum realm and then loses to us."

"Good god. A timeline where Thanos no longer exists... Where he never gets to collect all the stones. It's difficult to even imagine."

Steve reaches for your hand and pulls you away from Peter Quill and the power stone. "It's not our job to worry about it. We've given this universe a new chance. One they'll never know they even have. All we have to worry about is returning the last stone, then we get to go home."

You squeeze his fingers and nod. "Right. Let's go."

Vormir gives you the creeps. The quiet is unsettling. The forever-solar-eclipse in the sky is beautiful at first glance, but very quickly starts to contribute to the wrongness of the entire planet. This is a place not meant for mortal beings.

Steve keeps a steady hand either against your back or entwined with your own fingers as you both climb the mountain. You've just about reached the summit when a ghostly figure descends from the shadows.

"Steven, son of Sara..."

"What the hell?" Steve's shoulders stiffen as he moves to take a defensive stance in front of you. He pulls the shield off his back and throws it at the figure. It passes right through them and ricochets off the rocks before coming back. "What are you doing here, you bastard?" Steve glares with hostility.

"It has been a long time, Captain Rogers."

A soft gasp escapes your lips when the face of the being is pulled out of the shadows. It's one you never thought you'd see with your own two eyes, and it's just as terrifying as you could have imagined. Red Skull.

"I am not going to hurt either of you. Nor could I, even if I wanted to. I am merely the guardian of this place. The keeper of the Soul Stone. I was wondering why I was still being held to this place after the stone had been taken possession by someone, but now I realize that you have come to bring the stone back to me."

He drifts further up the path, expecting you both to follow. Steve hesitates a moment and keeps a protective arm out against you before cautiously stepping forward. You clutch the back of his uniform and match his steps. The path has you walking between two massive stone obelisks before it opens up to the heavens just a short distance away from the edge of the cliff.

You feel dread pooling in your gut as you stare at the edge. You can't bring yourself to step any closer. There's a part of you that feels like if you manage to look over the edge, you'll still see Natasha at the bottom. Just the thought alone is enough to turn your stomach.

Steve keeps a wary eye on Red Skull when he sets down the case and pulls out the final stone. "We've come to return this. But in exchange... we want you to return that which was lost."

Your heart skips a beat as you give Steve a startled look. This was definitely not something you had discussed previously. Clint had been perfectly clear that there would be no reversing what was already done. Apparently, your stubborn husband hadn't gotten the memo.

"I see your arrogance has not wavered, despite the passage of time." The Red Skull's face remains impassive, but there's an echo of amusement in his voice.

"A soul for a soul. That's the deal." Steve stands his ground, shoulders square. "If I give this back, I expect a soul in return. The right soul."

There's a ghost of a smile on the wraith's face as he observes Steve with unblinking eyes. "As I have already stated. I am a guardian. I guide those who seek the stone. I can not obtain it for them, nor can I interfere in their decision to commit the sacrifice. If you wish to make an exchange, you will need to test your fate," he waves his hand toward the edge of the cliff.

You reach out and grip Steve by the back of his shoulder, turning him to face you. "What are you doing?" you ask in a near panic. You know he can feel your elevated heart rate.

His eyes are calm, resolute; there's not even a hint of apprehension. "I'm getting her back, Sweetheart."

"No! Are you crazy?" Your eyes flicker to the edge of the cliff before looking back at him, fear lining your features. "Believe me, I miss Nat, too. She was my best friend! But she's gone, Steve. She did this so we could win, and now she's gone."

Steve's hand gently cups your cheek. His hand is warm, fingers steady. "I don't think that's true."

Your eyes sting, and your image of Steve blurs. "Please tell me you're not going to jump. Please."

His thumb swipes away a falling tear. "It'll work, Sweetheart."

Your bottom lip trembles. "How can you possibly know that?" You search for the answer to your question within his eyes.

Steve holds up the stone with his other hand. "It needs to be an even exchange. A soul for a soul. And I only carry half a soul in my body. If I jump, whatever rules that govern this place will have to accept the stone as tribute. I'll be okay."

You choke on a sob while shaking your head. "That's still a gigantic fucking risk, Steve! What if it doesn't work? What if, instead, it takes our bond? We're soulmates, and that's the soul stone! What if it separates us, and then I have to go on without you? I can't do that, Steve! I can't!"

He leans forward and presses his lips to yours. His kiss is everything you're not able to feel right now. It's dependable, constant, devoted, sure. It’s not a goodbye kiss. It’s not even an appeasing one. It’s just a man kissing his wife because she’s distressed and he wants her to be okay.

When he pulls back, he rubs his nose against yours. “There’s not a damn thing in this world or any other that has the ability to break this bond between us. You are mine forever. No matter what.”

You blink up at him through wet lashes. “I’m scared,” you whisper, voice shaking.

His thumb swipes over your cheek. “Do you trust me?”

You release an incredulous huff. “Of course I do.”

His smile is entirely too sweet for this situation. “Then close your eyes.”

You tighten your grip on his uniform, as if you can claw apart the fabric with your bare nails. Your breath falls in scattered gasps, and your heart pounds in your chest. “If you die, I swear I’ll kill you.”

His lip twitches into a half smile. “I won’t.” His hand shifts against your cheek and moves to block your vision. “Close your eyes, Sweetheart.”

You release a pitiful whimper but do as he says. You feel his lips against yours for one more fleeting moment, and then he’s gone. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to not hear the sound of his running steps before those disappear, too. There’s a terrible moment of utter silence before a blinding flash cuts through your shut eyelids.

When your eyes open again, you’re no longer standing at the top of the cliff. You’re lying in a pool of water and staring up at that strange solar eclipse. You sit up, blinking in confusion.

You hear Steve groan to your left. “Okay, I will admit that hurt more than I was expecting.”

“Steve, what the fuck?!” His hand is somehow already tucked against yours, and you squeeze your fingers around his palm in frustration. You know your husband; there's no way he came up with this hair-brained scheme on a whim. He'd definitely planned it from the beginning.

He sits up next to you with a grimace. “Told you I’d be okay,” he tries to smile through the pain.

Your glare could probably pierce through vibranium. “You are the biggest asshole I ever married.”

He has the decency to look chagrined. “Technically, I’m the only asshole you ever married.”

“Good god, when are you two going to couples therapy?”

Your head whips around to your other side, only now noticing the slender palm clutched in your other hand. “Natasha!” You let go of Steve’s hand and practically throw yourself at your best friend. "Oh my god! I could kiss you!" You do just that, cupping the side of her face and placing a messy kiss to her opposite cheek.

“Whoa, easy there,” she winces, like she’s also in pain. “Feels a little like I got hit with a semi-truck. Also, what are you two doing here? And where’s Clint?”

You ease back, but continue to stare at her, afraid to blink. Like if you do, she might disappear again. “Clint’s fine,” you assure her. “He’s back home with his family.”

Her mouth parts in shock as she searches your eyes for the truth in your words. “What?”

You feel Steve shift closer behind you. “We did it, Nat. We brought everyone back,” he tells her.

“We did?” The hope in her voice brings tears to your eyes.

“Yeah,” you laugh wetly. “I mean, we also had to fight Thanos again; he blew up the Avengers compound, Steve started swinging around Mjolnir, and Tony almost died. Honestly, there’s kind of a lot we need to catch you up on. But maybe not while we’re all sitting in this weird puddle.”

“Right,” Steve grunts while pushing up to standing. He reaches out to help you onto your feet next, then pulls Natasha up.

“Aww, look at you two in your matching onesies—Holy Shit! Are you pregnant?!”

You grin sheepishly and rub your stomach. “Yes, we are.”

She blinks slowly, “How long was I gone?”

You share a look with Steve, the blood rushing to your face while he grins smugly. “We took a slight detour while returning the stones.”

“Damn, Rogers,” she teases. “Does this mean you’re packing up the shield?”

His nod is resolute, eyes firm. “More like passing it along,” he admits. “You want it?”

Nat quickly raises her hands in a surrendering motion and shakes her head. “No thanks. I’m good.”

Steve chuckles, “Yeah, I figured.” He turns back to you, eyes going soft, “Ready to go home?”

“More than ready.”

“Nat, you’re coming with us. Since we exchanged you with the soul stone, you can’t go back to our original timestamp, or it’ll throw everything off.” Steve helps her set the new time coordinates.

“Hey, if I don’t have to fight Thanos twice, that’s an extra win in my book.”

The three of you activate your nano suits, visors snapping into place. You nod in sync, then activate your watches, and finally make the journey back home. The three of you land back on the time platform, exactly ten seconds after you and Steve originally left.

"What the hell?!" you hear someone exclaim. Maybe, Bucky.

"Two go in and three come out? What's happening, Banner?" Sam asks, shifting on his feet, uncertain if this is some new threat.

"I'm not sure! There's an extra signature, but it doesn't make any sense! It's impossible! It's—"

"Natasha..." Bucky's voice is full of shock as her time suit dissolves and reveals her face.

"Hey." She grins while waving casually. "Aren't you two a sight for sore eyes?"

Sam laughs incredulously while shaking his head. "Look who's talking."

"Steve, you crazy son of a bitch," Bucky pins his best friend with a look, half exasperated, half relieved.

You roll your eyes. "Of course, he fucking told you, Barnes."

Bucky grins. "He didn't want to worry you, and I couldn't talk him out of it." His eyes flicker down toward your stomach, and his grin turns knowing. "Congratulations, Mrs. Rogers."

"Wait!" Sam steps forward, also catching the change in your figure. "Are you—? No, I can't say it. But you—" He struggles with wanting to ask, but knowing how impolite it is to assume anything about a woman's body.

You laugh and unconsciously rub your stomach. Before you get the chance to tell Sam that he can ask, Natasha throws her arm over your shoulder and knocks the side of her hip against yours. "I got her pregnant," she announces with a teasing grin.

"As if..." Steve grumbles, prying her off of you and tucking you protectively under his arm.

You laugh at your best friend's and husband's antics while the two of them stick their tongues out at each other like children.

"So, I guess we're gonna have to put a daycare center into the designs for the new compound?" Sam asks, while grinning at the three of you.

"That's not going to be necessary," Steve tells him. He jumps down off the platform and helps you down as well. When he's certain that you're steady on your feet, he turns back to Sam. He reaches to pull the shield off his back and holds it out. "Consider this my official resignation."

Sam's grin slides right off his face. He looks at the shield, then back to Steve, confusion furrowing his brow. "Your what?"

"I'm retiring, Sam." Steve tells him and gives an encouraging nudge to the shield. "And this now belongs to you."

You leave Steve to have his talk with Sam while you and Natasha head over to Bruce. He wraps her up in a hulking, green bear hug, to which she lets out a low "Oof" and a laugh.

"You're going to have your hands full," Bucky's voice pulls your attention when he steps up to you, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.

"With this one or with that one?" You ask, pointing to your stomach first and then over your shoulder at your husband.

"Both," Bucky grins.

"Oh, I'm aware," you smile back. "I'm expecting you guys to visit. Often. The door's always open."

He nods, "Will do. I just hope the baby-making fever isn't contagious. Pretty sure Mrs. Barnes will take one look at yours before turning her big doe eyes to me."

You place your hand on his shoulder and give him an affectionate squeeze. "You'll both know when you're ready. If that's even something either of you really wants. My advice? Honest communication is the best way to make the bond stronger. She might know your heart, but she can't read your mind. If you're not ready, tell her, and I promise she'll understand."

"What are you both whispering about over here?" You feel Steve's warmth against your back moments before his arms wrap around you and settle over your stomach.

"Your wife is already begging me to drag you out of the house so she can have some peace and quiet."

You snort in amusement, leaning back into Steve's chest.

"Nah, she loves having me around," Steve kisses the top of your head. "How are your feet, Sweetheart?"

You hesitate for half a second. "Fine." The word has barely left your mouth before Steve is lifting your body into his arms. You yelp in surprise, arms hooking around his neck. "I said they're fine!" you insist.

"You only said that because you think it's too dramatic if I carry you."

"It is too dramatic. I'm perfectly capable of walking. They don't hurt that much."

"Even a little pain is too much, in my humble opinion."

You scoff and shake your head. "Your opinion is noted and appreciated. Now put me down."

"Nope."

You groan and bury your face in his neck so you don't have to bear witness to all the amused smirks of your friends.

Steve takes you back home to the apartment you share in Brooklyn. Even though it's the place you've both lived for the past five years, the apartment feels strange. Like you're stepping into your childhood home after spending years abroad. Everything feels smaller, distant, replaced with memories of some place warmer and more vibrant. After those four months spent in 1970, this apartment no longer feels like home. Maybe it never did.

You spend the next few weeks working from your bed or the couch, on conference calls, or taking short trips to the office. There's a lot that needs to get done with your business, now that half the population has so suddenly returned. You need to scale up production, get the employees that returned back on payroll and insurance, and reroute the resources from your charities into helping the refugees that are cropping up in alarming amounts from people that are getting displaced by those that have returned. It's a lot of work, and more than what a woman at your stage should probably be handling, but Steve is overly supportive and is handling every other aspect of your life.

He's been on house hunting duty and is constantly on the phone with the realtor and running off on his motorcycle to go to viewings. If he's away for the whole day, he'll call at lunch time to make sure you're not skipping meals, and then he's always home in time to make dinner. In the evenings, he'll give you foot rubs, ask you about your day, and then spend some time talking to the baby with his head against your stomach while you run your fingers through his hair.

It's on a Friday afternoon that he leans casually against the side of your desk, waiting patiently for you to finish writing an email before asking if you want to take a drive with him. His eyes are practically glowing with excitement, like a puppy with perked ears and a wagging tail. You raise a curious brow and let him guide you out of the apartment and down to the car. He drives with one hand protectively held over your baby bump, while you nap in the passenger seat.

You wake up when the car pulls off the main road and onto a gravel driveway. You blink sleepily and look out the window, the evening sun filtering golden fingers of light through the trees. You shift your seat back up, your brows furrowing at the familiarity of the road. "Steve?" you question.

He's already grinning when he glances over at you. "We're almost there."

The road bends around a grouping of trees, but as soon as you've turned the corner, the road opens up to an extremely familiar house. The air expels from your lungs in a stuttered gasp, your heart skipping a beat. You feel Steve's heart return the skip in kind. "How?" you ask, looking from the house to your husband as the car comes to a rolling stop.

"Before we left 1970, I put the house in a trust and had a management company take care of it and handle any necessary repairs and restorations until now. It has always been ours. Every time I said I was going to an open house, I was actually coming here to get it ready."

"What? But..." you sputter, looking back at the house, then back to your husband. "But that was an entirely different timeline. We didn't even know this house existed until we went back."

Steve chuckles quietly and kisses your forehead. "Don't think about it too hard. It's a gift from the universe for returning all of the stones."

The longer you stare up at him, the more your eyes start to sting. You don't know what to say. You don't know how to feel.

"Do you want to go inside?" Steve asks cautiously.

"Mhm," you nod slowly, tentatively, like you're still not sure if this is real.

Steve steps out of the car first and comes around your side to help you out of the seat and walk up the front steps. He already has the house key attached to his key ring, which he pulls from his pocket to open the front door. He flicks on the light to the entryway and guides you inside. Everything is exactly how you left it. It doesn't feel like 50 years have passed. It feels like...

"Welcome home, Sweetheart," Steve whispers in your ear, and you immediately start sobbing.

Your hand reaches out, fingers brushing over the carved, wooden wall shelf with coat hooks underneath that Steve made. Then over the entry table with a bowl of dried lavender and rose petals, which must have been recently swapped with a fresher batch, because their gentle scent is filling the air, even now. Further in the house, you see Steve's coffee table. There's a scratch in the wood on one corner, where your wedding ring cut into it while Steve had you screaming his name as he fucked you within an inch of your life. The kitchen table, where one of the legs has a splint after Steve cracked it clean off because he was pounding into you so hard that the wood snapped.

Everything that you had in that little moment of bliss. Every memory you shared and believed you had to leave behind. All of it was here. Waiting for you. Not gone. Not left in a place you'd never get to see again. Right here. Under your fingertips. Filling your lungs. Surrounding your heart.

You sniff and try to wipe your eyes, but it's difficult to stop crying. "Steve..." your voice breaks as you look back at him. He's already looking at you like you're his entire world. Like everything he could ever need from now until the end of time is standing right in front of him. "You brought me home."

A single tear slides down his cheek, but his smile is so brilliant, it's blinding. "Yeah, Sweetheart. We're home." He pulls you into his arms, holding you tight while you both cry. He smells like fresh wood shavings, and safety, and golden sunrises. You bury your face into his chest, breathing in his strong, sturdy scent. After your tears have stopped, you feel his fingers brush your cheek, guiding your face back up to look at him again. "Can I show you something else?" he asks, voice soft and affectionate.

"Will it make me cry again?" you ask, still not quite emotionally stable.

He huffs out a short laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Maybe." He thinks about it a little more and amends his answer. "Probably."

You use the sleeve of your cardigan to wipe your eyes. "Okay," you agree, voice a little wobbly.

Steve takes your hand and pulls you down the hall toward the guest bedroom. It had mainly been used as storage for Steve's half-finished projects, back in 1970, since neither of you were able to invite over any guests. But when he pushes open the door and leads you inside, it looks nothing like what you were expecting.

"Oh..." your hands come up to cover your mouth, and your eyes are somehow still hydrated enough to well with tears, yet again.

There's a brand-new baby crib centered over a large, circular rug in the middle of the room. You recognize Steve's handiwork, and the tiny hummingbirds that have been hand-carved into the corner posts of the crib are a dead giveaway that this isn't some generic crib he bought online. There's a cushioned rocking chair in one corner of the room with a flannel blanket folded over one arm. He's also built a changing station with plenty of drawers and cubbies for all the supplies you're going to need once the baby arrives. He's even repainted the room to a calm, but vibrant, pale green.

You barely even feel the floor under your feet as you step further into the room. Your hands run over the top beam of the crib, then trace over the little hummingbirds. The whole time, you're openly sobbing and cooing over everything.

Steve comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding your baby bump. "I hope this means you like it?" he questions, interpreting your tears as tears of joy, but wanting to make sure.

You nod against him. "Yes. It's perfect. I love it. And I love you. And I love our house. And I love our baby." You're a rambling mess and barely even coherent, but Steve understands you just fine.

The two of you spend the whole weekend at the house and start making plans for moving your present-day belongings out here. You and Steve decide to offer the apartment in Brooklyn to Bucky and his soulmate, who are more than happy to take it. Your trips into the office become fewer and farther between, especially the closer you get to your due date.

You and Steve have fully reintegrated into the house by the time you're bringing little Sara Natalia Rogers home from the hospital. She's perfect, and adorable, with Steve's nose, mouth, and ridiculously long eyelashes. You love kissing her tiny feet, and Steve cries the first time she holds one of his fingers.

There's basically a revolving door of superheroes who come by the house to meet the 'newest' Avenger. Tony complains about the lack of Wi-Fi and cell reception. Sam tries to convince you to let him use the baby to pick up chicks. Bucky looks horrified the first time you ask if he wants to hold her, but the moment she's actually in his arms, his features soften, and he can't help but smile. Thor tries to get her to hold Stormbreaker, and nearly sends a bolt of lightning through the kitchen window. Nat shows up so often, it’s almost like you have a live-in nanny. Sometimes you’ll hear soft Russian lullabies coming out of the baby’s room before you even know she’s there.

The constant stream of house guests has the additional effect of keeping your libido in check, because good God does watching Steve take care of the baby make you want to jump him and start working on Number 2. When you wake up in the mornings, still rubbing sleep out of your eyes, only to find Steve standing in the morning glow of sunrise, shirtless with pajama pants slung low on his hips, clutching your sleeping infant to his chest while he whispers into her hair, it makes you absolutely feral. Your OBGYN had mentioned once how beneficial skin-to-skin contact could be, and Steve took that advice to the next level. It’s like one of those parody sketches where the sexy fireman rips off his shirt before running into the building to save the victim, because as soon as Sara lets out even the slightest sound of distress, Steve is immediately stripping down before moving to pick her up. Some days, he doesn’t even bother with clothes at all. You’re in a constant state of "exhausted and horny", and it’s rapidly driving you insane.

But you wouldn’t trade it for the world. In fact, you earned all of this by saving the world. And now, you get to spend every day with the love of your life in a home filled with laughter and life and a future. A home full of happy, meaningful memories, and the optimistic excitement for the memories that have yet to be made. You and Steve survived war, survived the ice, survived an entirely new century fraught with challenges you couldn’t have even imagined, just to get to this point. Now that it was here, you were never going to let go. You saved the world. You saved your friends. You’d challenged the very face of death and came out the other side. And you were rewarded for all your efforts with a love forged in molten vibranium. A love so strong, it survived the test of time at every stage. A love that then culminated into the sweetest little girl with the most adorable laugh and bright, intelligent eyes. If this family is your reward for everything you’ve been through? Then it was all worth it.

Chapter summary:

Sherlock hadn't expected much of her; she didn't have the deducting capabilities he had, and it was obvious. He would solve the murder and win the chance to mock agent Donovan even more so, but things did not go as expected.

It had been a normal day for Dr. John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had dragged his roommate out of the house in the early hours. The sun had not even fully risen, before John was looking down at the cold, dead corpse of a young woman in Blackfen, Bexley. It should have been at least a level seven case. Sherlock was, however, only met with disappointment upon arriving.

“Allison Thomas, nineteen years old, found dead by Janet Wallace, her landlady, at three in the morning. Miss Wallace came by after the alarm in the apartment went off.” Lestrade listed off all the evidence the police had already gathered before their arrival. “There are no signs of forced entry. We haven’t figured out the cause of dead. No external wounds or bruising.”

Sherlock was leaning over the young woman, his eyes roaming over every detail. “Previous medical records?”

“She just moved from–”

“America as an exchange student, I know,” Sherlock rudely cut him off. “Medical records?”

“They haven’t been transferred yet.”

The consulting detective stood up, stretching his legs slightly. His eyes landed on John, standing off to the side by the kitchen counter. “Come here.”

“No, I’m not doing this again.” Watson shook his head. “No, no, no. I am not good at deducting, that’s your thing. Don’t drag me into it.”

Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, squeezing them while pushing him along. “Come on John, fresh perspective, remember? And this one is easy, quite a disappointment actually.”

“Then why do you need me to try, when you’ve already figured it out?!”

“Practice,” he answered. “I need to keep your mind sharp.”

John sat down on his knees, looking over the young woman. “Well, she hasn’t been here very long… No external wounds so the cause of death had to be internal. Poison?”

“Unimaginative.”

“I am not you. Not everyone can deduce someone’s life story from a strand of hair on their shirt.” When he realised Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything, he continued, “internal wound, spontaneous combustion of the brain?”

“You are not taking this serious,” he noted, not at all in the sarcastic manner he often did, but more so genuine shock. “Fine, I’ll spoil it for you. There are no signs of a struggle, at least that’s what you would think. The windowsill has small scratches, almost unnoticeable, but there are no scratches on the outside. This indicated that someone tried to break out not in. In fact, the culprit is still in this room.”

“What?” Lestrade would have jumped up if he had been sitting down.

“Do not worry, it can’t hurt us.”

“Sorry, it?” John’s brow furrowed.

“Yes, it. There are no external wounds but if you had looked in her mouth you would have seen her throat is swollen. Under her nails are traces of white paint, the same white paint from the windowsill. In her last moments of life, miss Thomas desperately clawed at the window trying to open it while her throat was swelling up from an allergic reaction. From what? The peanut crumbs the previous owner left behind in between the chair cushions. That, combined with the lost EpiPen under the kitchen counter, should have clued you in to this utterly boring truth.”

“Show off,” John coughed under his breath.

Sherlock ignored him. Instead, he made his way out of the apartment. “Come on, John. I need either breakfast or a cigarette.”

“Definitely not a cigarette.”

Not even three hour later, Sherlock had been called again by Lestrade. He had wondered if John had asked the agent to in the hopes to prevent him from shooting more holes in the roof. They had gotten bad leaks the last time he was bored, and the scolding from Mrs. Hudson had probably encouraged John even more.

He had taken the cap to Brixton, alone. John had another date with the dentist girl or was it the bloody teacher? He didn’t remember. Police tape had already marked off the area. Lestrange was waiting by one of the police cars blocking off civilians.

“I swear if this case is as boring as the last,” Sherlock complained. “I won’t show up next time. You promised an eight.”

“It is an eight,” he insisted.

“I’ll decide if it’s an eight.”

Sergeant Donovan made her way over. Her eyes glaring at Sherlock. He did not glare back just studied her. “Are you really going to let that freak onto every one of your crime scenes? You might as well just ask every civilian walking by if they want a look, they might be a super genius as well!”

“I see you’re back from your family vacation. Couldn’t relax because your sister pushed her kid onto you, and you had to babysit. The fact that you only got two hours of sleep last night must have not helped with your mood, but I must sa–” He felt a thud against his back. Sherlock turned around with one quick motion; his back kept perfectly straight. His eyes immediately looked over every detail of the woman who just bumped into him.

“Sorry, I didn’t watch where I was going.” The way she spoke was simple. Her hair was dirty and half-shoved into an old beany with frayed edges. She wasn’t anything special, not a threat and, concluding from he way she awkwardly held her hands, not someone who would mess with evidence.

“You have impeccable timing, miss. This nice police-officer over here has decided we should let civilians give a try at solving a murder.” He threw his arm around her shoulder, pushing her forward under the tape, into the crime scene.

“Sherlock, she didn’t mean it.” Lestrade tried, but it was no use: Sherlock just kept walking.

“Let’s make it a game, see which one can get the culprit first. Yes? Great.”

A middle-aged man laid dead on the London city pavement. Blood had flooded out of his chest, creating a small pool. Sherlock immediately got the work, taking out his magnifying glass, looking over every little detail. Quickly, he concluded the man was stabbed in the back with a kitchen knife, approximately 17 cm long and around 3 millimetres thick, but something was odd very odd. His head was also damaged, most likely from the fall, but the damage was not nearly severe enough. His head was only dropped from around fifty centimetres above the pavement. Something else was wrong.

What else… What else…

The blood. It was almost unnoticeable, but parts of the man’s blouse were soaked with blood where the blood pool did not reach. This was not the real crime scene; the man had been moved and planted on the street right in the middle of daylight without anyone noticing. How interesting. A smile crept on his face.

“Seems you’ve finally found me something interesting, Lestrade.” He stood up again, his eyes noticing the girl looking into the opposite direction. “Oh right, I forgot about you for a second. What do you think? Have you gotten any clues from the bushes on who the culprit is.”

The girl looked up at him. Her eyes were guarded. She didn’t know why he had dragged her to a murder scene, but she was obviously not happy about it. “Can I leave if I tell you who killed him?”

“Sure, tell me. Who do you guess?” Sherlock wasn’t looking at the girl, no, his eyes were locked on a very annoyed Donovan.

“I don’t have to guess,” she said. “I know it was his son; Henry Payne, twenty years old. He cornered his father in their kitchen and stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife. They just had an argument. Their family had money problems, a lot of money problems. The son had killed him so he could claim the insurance and pay off the debt they had build up. He had put his dad’s body in the back of his van and drove by with the doors open. The body fell out after hitting a bump and ended up on the street. Can I go now?”

Sherlock’s attention was on her after that. “How do you know for sure? What’s your evidence?” He walked up to her, towering over her.

“I don’t need to tell you how. The deal was: tell you who the culprit is, and I may take my leave.” She glared up at him.

“But how can I possibly know you are telling me the truth if you’ve not told me how you came to that conclusion?” Sherlock’s voice had become louder, and he had started talking faster. “So, tell me.”

“You’re a detective, aren’t you?” She pointed her finger at him, poking him in the chest at every syllable. “Figure it out.” She stormed off.

Sherlock was about to chase after the girl, but he halted in his steps as he heard a snort. “Anything you wish to say Donovan?”

“We should have random civilians on the crime scene more often.”

Sherlock stood frozen. The girl had completely disappeared in the mere seconds he had looked away from her. He tried thinking back on her. On everything he had noticed about her, but nothing was out of the ordinary. Dishevelled clothes, but that's because she slept on the streets last night. Homeless? Probably. He would have to ask around.

How could a normal girl with seemingly no brilliant mind solve a crime quicker than Sherlock Holmes himself?

It was a mystery, one he desperately wanted to solve. He didn't care about the man dead on the street; that wasn't interesting anymore, but she was, and Sherlock hadn't even asked for her name.

He tried stepping away from the crime scene, before being stopped by Lestrade. “Where are you going? You've not helped with the case yet!”

“You heard the woman. It was his son; Henry Payne.”

“But we don't know if that's true.”

Sherlock groaned. “He has damage on the back of his head from a fall of approximately fifty centimetres. He did fall from a car or van, and he was indeed stabbed with a generic kitchen knife. I have no doubt she told the truth. I'm sure if you searched through the son's van and kitchen quick enough, you'll find blood. He didn't have the time to clean both. Now if you'll excuse me.”

--

You pulled you beanie lower; it was best to hide yourself as much as you could. You had just been making your way through London with no actual idea of a location. You just wanted somewhere to sleep where the rain didn't reach at night.

There was a crime scene up ahead. For a split second, you wondered what happened, but as soon as your eyes landed on the man standing on the side, you knew. He was wearing a simple blouse and dirty pants, but they were soaked with blood, his blood. He looked at you. Eye contact. You held eye contact. Every time you had eye contact with one of these, it felt like your body was ice cold, but you had gotten used to it by now. Your face suddenly made contact with a dark, felt coat.

The owner quickly turned around. You looked up, and you couldn't lie to yourself; he was handsome. Dark curly hair and blue eyes. “Sorry,” you quickly apologised when you realised you were staring, “I didn't watch where I was going.” Had you still your normal life, your previous life maybe you would have asked him out, but you didn't, so you couldn't. It wouldn't be fair to him.

You were about to walk off, to never see him again, when he grabbed you by the shoulders. Your eyes widened slightly, fearing he would do something, and it would happen again, but it didn’t. “You have impeccable timing, miss. This nice police-officer over here has decided we should let civilians give a try at solving a murder.” Before you knew it, you were swept onto the crime scene. “Let’s make it a game, see which one can get the culprit first. Yes? Great.”

Your eye caught the corpse only for a split second, you felt bile rising in your throat. Handling with the death was nothing new to you, but seeing their dead bodies was something entirely different. You quickly turned away, focusing on his ghost, standing by the bushes.

“Y-you can see me.” His words came out with a slight tremble. His voice was high, and raspy, as if he had just been crying. Most ghost sounded like that, especially if they died not too long ago. You nodded your head in response. “You have to tell them what happened to me! My son, he, he…” He started to hyperventilate.

“Calm,” you whispered in the hopes no one would here her. He did. He slowed down his breath, until it was even again. “Name?” you whispered again.

“I’m Ollie Payne,” he answered.

“Ollie,” you kept your voice low and steady. “What happened?”

“I was just in the kitchen, drinking coffee. I-I was about to leave for work, when my son came in. He-Henry, Henry Payne… He… We started talking about money. His mother and I had raked up debt and he, he had to take out loans too. Before I knew it, he had grabbed the kitchen knife and… And… Well, that.” He gestured over to his dead body laying on the ground about two metres away. “Ever since, I have been this. I followed him, watched him put my body in his van and drive by here. My body dropped out after hitting that bump.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“Will I stay like this forever?”

“No.” You didn’t know if your answer was reassuring to him or not, but you did not have to change to ask.

“Oh right, I forgot about you for a second. What do you think? Have you gotten any clues from the bushes on who the culprit is?” The detective had turned to you. He spoke with a certain arrogance, as if he knew he was going to win no matter what. As if you were intellectually beneath him. You had only known him for a few minutes, but it was already irritating you.

“Can I leave if I tell you who killed him?” You wanted to get away from him as fast as possible.

“Sure, tell me. Who do you guess?” The detective was barely acknowledging you, instead his eyes were focused on one of his colleagues, with a cocky smirk. He was using you to embarrass her, but you weren’t going to let him.

You proceeded to relay everything Ollie had told you about his dead, and watched the detective’s smirk vanish from his face. The sight felt so rewarding. When you finished, he marched his way over to you. You hadn’t thought of him as dangerous, but his tall stature practically loomed over you, making you jump back.

“How do you know for sure? What’s your evidence?” He spoke with a fast paste almost running out of breath.

“I don’t need to tell you how. The deal was: tell you who the culprit is, and I may take my leave,” you felt great satisfaction seeing him becoming more and more dishevelled.

“But how can I possibly know you are telling me the truth if you’ve not told me how you came to that conclusion?” Irritation laid his voice. “So, tell me.”

You dared to copy his cocky smirk as you spoke. “You’re a detective, aren’t you?” Having become slightly more daring, you pointed your finger at him. It was a bit too far, but satisfying, nonetheless. “Figure it out.”

You walked away, head high, straight posture and a victory smirk on your face. You hadn’t had fun with your abilities since a long time. You had been running for so long, you’ve only had to use them to keep you hidden… You missed it. You missed it so much.

You looked back. They were all distracted; they wouldn’t notice. You disappeared.

--

It had been two days since the, as John called it, Son’s Desperation, the death of Ollie Payne. The apartment was in a dreadful state, more so than normally. It wasn’t strange for dust to be covering every corner, for books to be stacked upon each other and lithered all around the apartment, and for the kitchen to be filled with the consulting detective’s, strange experiments. However, walls being covered from head to toe in maps of London and research on one single woman was new, as well as the projector showing the repeating CCTV footage of a woman bumping into Sherlock. Her face wasn’t visible, because of course it wasn’t.

“Can you stand still for just two seconds?!” Dr. Watson yelled after putting down his news paper. Sherlock had been pacing around the apartment, rambling on and on about the colour of her shirt and the way she spoke and her hair and her eyes and he–

“No, I can not.” Sherlock just kept on pacing. “I need to know who she is, where she is, right now. I need to know how she figured out the murderer so fast. You should have seen her John; an ordinary woman, nothing special, so casually solving a murder with a single glance at the body.”

John sighed, finally deciding to indulge him. “Why are you sure she’s so ‘ordinary’?”

“I deducted it. There was nothing special about this woman. She frequently sleeps out on the street and doesn’t often have access to a washing machine. Moderately athletic, no Olympic athlete, but she is on her feet a lot. Her emotions are an open book, her face showing exactly what she’s feeling, whether it is confusion or smugness. She used to have the bad habit of biting her nails, mostly due to nervousness, but has recently stopped. When it comes to intelligence, she is about on your level, still smart but not even close to my level, and yet, she beat me.”

“The great Sherlock Holmes admitted he has been defeated,” he laughed. “Never though I’d see the day.”

“I have not been defeated. Beaten in round one, yes, but not defeated.” Sherlock stepped onto his couch and started re-arranging all his evidence. “I’ll win out in the end. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re very obsessed with her.”

“I’m obsessed with all my cases, the good ones at least.”

“Yes, but it’s worse this time, much worse,” John pointed out. “Do you have a crush?”

“A crush?” Sherlock repeated with disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.” He was still moving around evidence, only now he had started tearing certain papers, in half or sometimes just the corners and pinned them back on the board.

“Right…” John picked up his news paper again, ignoring the detective hands moving all around the wall. “What if she is a genius and just tricked you? Like the gay Jim Moriarty?”

He rolled his eyes. “She wouldn’t take on a whole new personality. It’s not her style.”

“You’re talking about her as if you know her already.”

“I do know her.”

“And yet, you can’t even tell me her name.”

Before Sherlock could answer, a loud ping echoed through the room. He fished his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. A smirk danced on his face. “Found her. Come on John.” He stepped away from the wall and picked up his coat before putting it on. “We are going to see her.”

With a sigh, John put his paper down again. He was about to grab his jacket, but something stopped him in his tracks. The wall, the papers, magazines and maps had been rearranged. He was staring at a mosaic displaying the face of a woman. Her brows were slightly furrowed, and her face held an irritated pout.

“Definitely a crush,” he whispered under his breath.

“Are you coming, Watson?!” Sherlock yelled from downstairs.

Sherlock Holmes practically jumped out the cab which had just driving them all the way to the other end of London. John dug through his jacket’s, inner pocket, and pulled out his wallet. It was always up to him to pay. His friend would already be out when it came to it. Did Sherlock even pay for his cabs if John Watson wasn’t there?

“Hurry up, John.” Sherlock was practically bouncing in his steps.

“Coming!” He groaned.

They had arrived at an abandoned building. The windows were bashed in and the stone walls tagged with graffiti. It used to be an office for a, now bankrupt, staple production company. A group of people were standing around a barrel holding a fire right in front of the entrance, lighting up the night.

“Sherlock.” John grabbed his arm. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“It will be fine.” He pulled his arm loose. “I have a widespread homeless network, remember? They work for me.”

A girl with short blond hair and a worn-out bodywarmer stepped away from the group and towards the duo.

Sherlock handed her a fifty. “Where is she?”

She stared at the banknote. “Follow me. She’s inside.” She held open the black door and held it open for them.

The inside was cold and dark. The electricity had been cut off from the building. Homeless people slept in almost every corner. Some had brought an old mattress in, others used a sleeping bag, but no one dared to sleep without their coats on. They walked through the halls, up a set of stairs and through even more halls, when the woman stopped in front of a door.

“She’s in this room.” She stepped away from them. “She’s alone; no one else wants to room with her.”

“Why?” John asked.

“She’s… weird.”

The duo watched the woman walk away and turn the corner before facing the door again. “I thought you said she was ordinary.”

“She is.”

“I am no super genius, but ordinary and weird are the exact opposite,” he muttered.

Sherlock observed the door. The handle was perfectly straight, no strange hidden cords, and it was recently used. Nothing odd. He looked through the little gap between the door and the frame and concluded it was unlocked. The detective took a deep breath in and out, with his eyes closed.

“How do I look?” He turned to John.

“You look fine.”

“Just fine?”

“No, handsome. Perfectly handsome. Can we go in now?”

Sherlock pushed the handle down with a clamping hand and opened the door. The inside looked the same as every other space in the building, only this one held the girl he was looking for. She was asleep on the ground in a sleeping back. Around her, was a ring of some white powder.

He leaned down to examen it; “salt.” Superstitious? Sherlock thought back to the last time; she was avoiding stepping on a crack in the pavement. “Definitely superstitious,” he muttered.

Her eyes shot open. Faster than Sherlock could comprehend, she grabbed something out of the bag, she had been laying her head on, and pointed a gun at him.

--

You had tried not to think about the detective again after that day. You would never see him again, but it was difficult. The victory still tasted sweet on your tongue and his almost emotionless voice secretly made you feel things you never wanted to think about. You would forget about him soon enough; you would have to leave England in a few days. Being constantly on the run wasn’t a fun life. Very rarely you got to sleep on a real mattress, and if you did, it was only for one night. You never slept in the same place twice. More often than not you would sleep in abandoned buildings, like this one.

You weren’t a deep sleeper, which is why you heard the door to your room open, but you didn’t think much of it; it was probably the wind. The windows were busted. Then, you heard soft footsteps, talking, and someone hunching over you. Without thinking, you snatched your gun out of your bag and pointed it straight at them. As the blur in your eyes dissipated, you saw is face; it was him, the cocky detective. “How did you find me?”

“Homeless network,” he answered as if you weren’t holding a deadly weapon to his head. “There is no need for your hostility, miss. I just want you to answer some questions.”

“And why would I do that?” You made a point of moving the gun even closer to his head.

“A deal then.” Sherlock offered. “I will get you an apartment for free with windows that can close, a real bed with a mattress and a private bathroom. I can’t imagine this is a comfortable place to stay. In exchange, you answer my questions.”

It was a persuasive offer. Your back and neck had been hurting for a while now, and even one night on a mattress would feel like heaven. You could really use a bath too. Just imagining the warm water on your skin made you want to whine. “How do I know you won’t do anything to me?”

“I have no intention of harming you.” He leaned in closer, purposely leaning against the gun.

You slid the gun over his face, from his forehead, down to is neck, where you pushed it against his throat. “You could be lying.”

“I could be.”

John coughed. “Can you just make the choice already.”

You looked up, suddenly feeling embarrassed after realising someone else was in the room. “You get five questions, and I will only stay one night.”

“Ten questions and five nights,” Sherlock offered.

You rolled your eyes. “Two questions and one night.”

“Five questions and two nights.”

“Deal, but if I don’t like the question you have to choose a different one.”

“Deal.” He leaned over to grab your bag and pulled you up with his other hand. “We need to leave fast. Mrs. Hudson has the key, and she will be in bed early.”

You hadn’t known where you were going when you sat in the cab next to the detective’s… Friend? Colleague? Whatever. But a normal flat in a normal street in London. The detective opened the door, and walked in. You awkwardly walked behind him. He made his way down the stairs to the basement. 221A was written on the door.

“Wait here.” The detective went upstairs, leaving his friend with you. “Mrs. Hudson!”

The friend held out his hand. “Dr. John Watson.” You shook it out of politeness. “What is your name?”

“Is that one of your five questions?”

“No.” An awkward silence fell on you, but you didn’t feel like talking. His friend, John, was a doctor. Did he know? No, he couldn’t know.

Two sets of footsteps made it down the stairs. You looked up; a woman walked behind the detective. “Oh, dearie, I have the keys right here.” She dangled a set of keys. “Let me open it for you.” She fiddled with the keys and the lock, before opening the door. “I can’t believe Sherlock found a new tenant. Especially for this space, no one wants to stay here. Probably because it is the basement. Oh, I hope you don’t mind.”

“I am not picky, Mrs?” You walked around the apartment. It was quite nice, especially compared to the spaces you were used to.

“Oh, it’s Hudson.” She handed you the keys. “Let me show you around.”

“Mrs. Hudson, why don’t you make her some tea.” The detective you now knew as Sherlock, at down on a chair; one of the few pieces of furniture that came with the apartment.

“I am your landlady, not your housekeeper, Sherlock.” Despite her protests, she walked out, probably to go set tea.

“I have only five questions, which means I have to be as efficient as possible to find out as much as I can,” Sherlock started muttering under his breath. “There are questions I know she won’t answer…”

You sat down in the only other chair in the room, leaving John standing by the door, scribbling in some sort of notebook. “Are you going to interrogate me or can I go to sleep.”

“First question; how did you solve the murder of Ollie Payne?” He decided to try, even though he knew you probably weren’t going to answer.

“Do you want the truth?”

He studied your reaction, but you let nothing of substance show. “Yes.”

“Then you should choose a different question.”

“I knew you wouldn’t answer.” His mind was racing, trying to think of all the different ways you could have figured it out. “Would you be able to solve a murder with your intellectual abilities?” He already knew the answer, but he had to be sure.

“No, I am not some upper genius if that’s what you’re asking.” You didn’t show any tells; you weren’t lying. Good.

“Question two: how many regular acquaintances, including family and friends, do you have?” You fell quiet at Sherlock’s question. You weren’t sure why you wanted to answer that, but why? His eyes studied your mannerisms. You were fiddling with you fingers again, you were fighting yourself not to bite your nails; You’re nervous. You were avoiding eye-contact; you didn’t want to be read. Were you protecting someone? Or did you live a solitary life?

“Two,” you answered.

Protection, he concluded. Sherlock stood up from his chair. “We will resume this interrogation tomorrow. Have a good night.”

Upstairs, Sherlock immediately started writing on his research wall. John walked in behind him, finishing his scribbles in the notebook. “Why didn’t you ask for her name?” The doctor wondered.

“She either would count it as one of my questions, which would be a waste. If she tells me her name as one of the five questions, she would tell me her name if I asked later, or she would refuse to answer and I would have wasted my energy.” Sherlock started moving around more papers and sticky notes, without disrupting the mosaic.

“Right, of course.” Watson rolled his eyes. “I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up the whole night.”