The Winter Soldier

The sheets felt unusually cool to the touch, buried in Egyptian cotton, your hand reached to the other side of the bed— empty — is he not in bed anymore?!

You were up before you could even put on your glasses on first, "shoot shoot shoot!". The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, that meant he was one foot out the door if he hasn't left already.

The front door slammed shut, the echo of it like a held breath finally released.

With a reluctant sigh you sat on the bed, looking into your beautiful papered walls; mentally preparing yourself for the day that would come.

Since you didn't have to cook for John anymore, you opted for a simple breakfast, a piece of toast and a soft boiled egg, but of course not before making the bed, ironing his pajamas and robe, refilling his liquor cabinet and placing a new package of his favorite cigars — which you hated the smell of — sometimes you wondered if he noticed the small things you did for him.

With your hair securely in rollers, and a special little red dress you wore the first time you met John, you tweaked your eyebrows until you accidentally drew blood, maybe he'd like that shade of blush on you, no no no, too much red, you know what they say…

A fair amount of time later you walk up to the full length mirror, feeling like a hundred bucks! that is until you carefully examine yourself — the hair —horrified you pull the pins out of your hair without a second thought, today you had to be perfect.

With a fresh new look and determined to make the best of today, you decided some ice cream would hep with the summer heat, you bargained with yourself that the cleaning could wait just a little.

Wiping the dust off your grandmother's hand-cranked ice cream maker, you put yourself to work, on your counter you lined up sugar, eggs, heavy cream, strawberries from your garden and of course some milk.

Earlier in the morning the milkman dropped off fresh bottles, you wondered why Bucky hadn't dropped by to say hello, probably just busy with Mrs Scavo down the street, or according to Carol Danvers he's been making extra special deliveries to Wanda Maximoff, a real operator that one.

As you cranked, you wondered why those women had such an easy time cheating on their husbands, sure Bucky had eyes that made you want to swim in the ocean, a smile that could make you feel like you're in front of the sun… soft hair that you'd love to rake your fingers through while he sleeps next to you-

Your hands stopped moving — gosh, what a silly crush! — Not even that, curiosity, you decided to call it. Surely it was normal to wonder if so many women raved on and on about him, your marriage was safe and you loved your husband, — he gave you everything — you reminded yourself.

You churned until your shoulder ached and the handle grew stiffer with every turn, focusing on making the perfect consistency instead of the real reason you decided to make the sweet treat in the first place.

With the ice cream locked away in the freezer, you saw the time and you felt your stomach drop, if you wanted to get everything done on your list you'd need a miracle.

You would never tell this to another living soul but you found it aggravating to clean such a big house, you felt ungrateful for even thinking it, it was any woman's dream to take care of such a lovely home, you tried to make it your own, to imagine your children playing and laughing; you always wanted a big family, but you still haven't been able to get pregnant, maybe buying such a big house jinxed it, you told John as much and he laughed in your face, even after 5 years of marriage, you still weren't used to such nice things, you felt out of place in your own home.

A small part of you, the voice you rarely let speak its mind, felt relieved you haven't been able to carry a son for John, you loved him of course but-

Shaking your head you caught yourself standing at the sink with the water running, not sure how long you'd been there, with a sigh you took off your gloves, —the cleaning would get done so much faster if you lived in a smaller house.—

You pick up his shirt to smell the neck, powdery and sour of course, what kind of self respecting- wait no, you're not mad at her. You should focus all of your anger on your idiot of a husband.

Moving from room to room, dusting and sweeping, finally the last thing you had to do was laundry. As you picked up clothes to put on the basket, there's a particular smell in one of John's shirts that caught your attention. It was unfamiliar, powdery, sharp.

It wasn't yours.

You stood there for a long moment, the shirt still in your hands, the smell of it settling into something you couldn't understand. Powdery. Sharp. The kind of perfume a woman wears when she wants to be remembered. You knew it wasn't L'Air du Temps — too bold for that — and it certainly wasn't Chanel, whoever she was, had no taste. You almost pitied her.

You folded the shirt and put it in the basket with the rest.

The roast was resting on the counter when you heard his key in the door. You had set the table the way he liked it — napkins folded, glasses polished, the good place mats — and changed into something presentable, something that didn't look like you'd spent the afternoon unraveling.

"Something smells good," John said, the way he always did, dropping his briefcase by the door without looking at you.

"Pot roast." You smoothed your apron and carried his plate to the table. "Sit down."

He loosened his tie and settled into his chair with the comfortable authority of a man who had never once questioned his place in the world. You poured his drink without being asked.

You always did.

The conversation moved the way it always did over dinner — his day, Henderson's incompetence, the traffic on Millbrook Avenue. You listened with your chin resting lightly in your palm, nodding at the right moments, laughing softly at the right places. Picture perfect wife.

"Carol Danvers called today," you offered, when the silence stretched a little too long.

"Mm." He cut his meat without looking up.

It was somewhere between the second glass of bourbon and the end of dinner that he said it — the way he always eventually said it — casual as a change in weather.

"She is expecting again, isn't she?" He reached for his glass, ignoring anything you had to say. "Third one."

You kept your smile exactly where it was. "Yes, she is."

"Three years younger than you." He swirled his drink. Not looking at you. Never quite looking at you when he said things like this. "Funny how these things work out for some people."

Right on time.

"It is," you agreed pleasantly, and stood to clear his plate.

In the kitchen you ran the water hot — hotter than necessary — and stood over the sink scrubbing a dish that was already clean. Through the small window above the faucet the night had settled dark and still over Waiting Willow Lane. Across the street a light was on in the living room, blue and quiet behind their curtains, you wondered if they ever felt as miserable as you did now.

You knew what perfume it was, you just hadn't wanted to name it yet.

You set the dish in the rack and reached for the next one.

You asked about his secretary on the way to bed — her name, how she was managing with the new filing system — and watched his face for just a fraction of a second twitch before he answered. He was a decent liar. You had married a decent liar and spent five years becoming a better one.

Goodnight, you said.

Goodnight, he said.

The morning came the way mornings do after nights like that — indifferent and bright, the sun spilling through the curtains without permission.

Like muscle memory, despite your anguish you did your hair and makeup quickly, cooked him a delicious breakfast and packed his lunch, all with a graceful smile.

As he shut the door on his way out you just stood there for a moment, as the house settled into its particular morning quiet, and then you moved.

You made coffee you didn't drink, stood at the kitchen window in your robe and watched the sprinkler next door sweep back and forth across a lawn that looked exactly like yours, funny. As hard as you tried to locate something useful inside your chest — anger, resolution, a plan — you came up with nothing.

He gave you everything, you reminded yourself.

The thought felt different than it used to.

When he bell rang you hesitated to answer, despite having your hair and makeup done, you felt as if you were the living dead, so when it rang again you pulled your silk robe tighter and opened the door.

"Fresh milk, straight from the farm!"

Bucky Barnes stood on your doorstep with two glass bottles tucked under one arm and a smile that had no business being that easy this early in the morning. He was already in his whites — sleeves rolled to the elbow despite the hour — and his hair perfectly soft in the morning light.

"Morning," he said, adjusting his tone slightly, the way people do when they realize they've walked into something quieter than they expected.

"Good morning." You held the door open a little wider. An invitation, "You brought me that butter I wanted?"

He tilted his head, just slightly. Something shifted behind his eyes — curiosity, or recognition — and then he smiled again, softer this time, and crossed the threshold, "of course!".

The kitchen felt smaller with him in it, he set the bottles on the counter and stood there with his cap in his hands while you poured two cups of coffee without asking, because it gave you something to do with yours.

"Lovely home," he said, and he meant it — you could tell the difference, he wasn't performing the way some men did, eyes moving around a room cataloguing what things cost. He was just looking, genuinely, the way people look at things they find beautiful.

"Thank you." You set his cup in front of him. "I try to make it feel like one."

He looked at you over the rim of his cup and didn't say anything for a moment. That was unexpected, it wasn't uncomfortable, surprising actually, most men filled silences, Bucky seemed comfortable in it.

"I heard you've been making special deliveries," you said lightly, settling onto a chair. "All over Waiting Willow." You paused, smiling into your cup. "Mrs. Maximoff must go through an awful lot of milk."

Something crossed his face — not guilt exactly, amusement, maybe, edged with something more careful. "You been talking to Carol Danvers."

"Carol Danvers talks to everyone."

He laughed at that — a real one, low and easy — and set his cup down. "And what do you think about it?"

You turned your cup slowly in its saucer. "I think you're a real operator," you said pleasantly, "the kind that practices in mirrors."

He looked at you for a long moment. Then — "And yet here I am in your kitchen."

"And yet," you agreed.

The silence that followed was a different, the dangerous kind that you recognized at a distance, the way you recognize weather changing before you can see it.

"I made ice cream yesterday," you said, standing before it could settle any further. "Strawberry. From the garden." You moved to the freezer and retrieved the metal container, setting it on the counter between you, deliberate. "Have some."

Not even waiting to be asked a second time, Bucky took a spoon and scooped some pink delight. He went very still for a moment, "is it good? I haven't tried it yet".

He looked up at you with an expression that was almost accusatory. "You made it and didn't try it?"

"I got distracted."

"That's a crime." He said it so seriously that you almost laughed. He was already feeding you a spoonful before you could even react. The strawberry hit your tongue cold and sweet and perfectly balanced and you understood immediately why he'd looked at you like that.

"Oh," you said.

"Right? It's so much better than store bought", he took another spoonful but his eyes remained on you, attentive, you felt seen.

You hadn't noticed you'd gotten some on your chin until his thumb was already there — just below the corner of your mouth — catching it with the kind of ease that suggested he hadn't thought about it either. His hand didn't move away immediately, neither did you.

Suddenly the summer heat became suffocating and his eyes dropped, just briefly, to your lips.

The percolator chose that exact moment to let out a sharp hiss from the stove top and you both came back to the kitchen at the same time, the morning light, the two coffee cups, now unfrozen.

Bucky pulled his hand back slowly and cleared his throat, reaching for his cap.

"Best ice cream on Waiting Willow Lane," he said, and his voice was only slightly hoarse.

You smiled as your heart beat in your throat, walked him to the door and stood on the threshold watching him go back down the path to his truck, bottles clinking softly against each other. He didn't look back, but the air felt different, you knew he would be back.

You stood there long after he had turned the corner, your heart doing something unreasonable in your chest, your thumb pressed lightly to your own chin where his had been.

Curiosity, you reminded yourself.

You went back inside and washed both coffee cups, feeling really curious.

Days had passed and for days you couldn't stop thinking about the infamous milkman.

You felt despicable for even thinking how his lips would feel across your skin, if his arms would be strong enough to hold you; over and over you thought of the way you almost took his thumb in your tongue, your mouth watered imagining the saltiness.

Despite your husband's disregard for your marriage, you still hated the thought of betraying your vows, you didn't know if you'd be able to live with the guilt.

But that damn voice, it told you things in the dead of night, you'd find yourself rubbing your legs together imagining Bucky whispering terrible terrible things in your ear.

Would he be a gentle lover, or would he take your virtue like something that belonged to him?

Was it worth destroying your marriage?

Then again, John already had.

You had every intention of keeping your distance, set boundaries…

But this morning you woke up with a particular ache between your legs, too painful to ignore. Staring at the ceiling you tried not to wake your husband, almost praying over and over that you felt nothing.

It wasn't working.

At 4:37 in the morning you gave up entirely, pulled your robe around you, and went downstairs.

The street was the kind of dark that exists only in the hour before the world wakes up— completely still and strangely serene. You sat on the front steps of your porch with your knees pulled up and your glasses on watching the street all the way down the Lane where the road curved out of sight.

You heard his truck before you saw it. That familiar low rumble, unhurried, moving through the dark in peace.

He almost didn't see you.

The truck rolled to a stop in front of the house and Bucky climbed out with two bottles and made it halfway up the path before pulled up short.

He looked at you for a moment. Then at the window behind you. Then back at you.

"You're up early," he said carefully.

"Couldn't sleep."

He nodded slowly, the way people nod when they know that isn't the whole answer. He set the bottles down by the door and instead of going back to his truck like you thought he would he stayed where he was, cap in his hands again,raked his fingers through his hair and waited.

You looked at the end of the street where the sky was beginning — barely, there to consider the color blue. —

"Would it be so wrong?," you asked quietly, shame be damned.

The silence that followed had weight to it.

"No," he answered.

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

With a huff he walked to the other side of the porch, you followed shortly.

Bucky kept his distance, avoiding your eyes, you had to swallow the urge to grab him and make him look at you, as if he sensed your frustration after looking out the dark street he finally set his eyes on yours.

"Because I actually like you," he said simply. "And I don't want to be something that happens to you."

Your chest did something complicated.

"It wouldn't—"

"Don't tell me it wouldn't hurt you." He said it gently but without apology. "All these other housewives, they don't care about me— and I see the way you look at me."

"You look at me too!" you whispered defensively, feeling your cheeks heat up.

You took your glasses off and cleaned them on the hem of your robe for something to do with your hands.

Put them back on. The street came back into focus — the identical lawns, the sleeping houses, the tulips along your front path standing perfectly still in the windless dark.

"I'm not asking you for anything complicated" you said finally. "I just—" You stopped. "I'm so tired of being careful."

He turned and looked at you then, really looked, the way he had in the kitchen days ago, like he was trying to find uncertainty.

"I won't break," you said.

Something shifted in his expression — something that had been holding itself back — As he moved toward you, you walked back until you hit a wall, the distance between you on that porch became a different kind of distance entirely.

"Your husband is right upstairs," he said. His voice was very low, almost like a warning.

"I know."

As the smell of his cologne overwhelmed you in the most delicious way, he slowly raised his hand towards your face, his rough fingers a stark contrast against your soft cheeks, it made your knees weak.

The sky had gone from black to the deep bruised blue, almost morning. Somewhere down the street you could hear the faint chirp of the birds waking up.

His other hand found the doorframe beside your head and the world narrowed down to the small warm space between you and the thrill of it — the sleeping street, the dark windows, John right upstairs, the whole of Waiting Willow Lane not yet awake — you've never felt more alive.

His mouth found yours slowly, the kiss was sweet and gentle, the kind that you dream when you're a girl, but then there's a spark of guilt that unconsciously makes your head tilt back but he's quick enough to hold you by the back of your head and chin, his tongue asks for more and as easy as breathing, you let him in.

You'd only ever kissed John and this was nothing like it, with him it was proper, painfully slow. This felt like a rush, everything moved so quickly; you could feel your blood pumping and his heart felt like it was your own. Smashed between the wall and him, a small gasp escaped you when your hand grazed the outline of his hard cock.

Logic and all sense went out the window as you unbuckled his belt, the sight of your beautiful hands handling him with such hunger, that alone almost made him come. With the same fervor he worked open your robe to find you completely nude.

"Well, aren't you a firecracker" he grinned, while his fingers found your clit with ease. As you worked on him with quick tugs, his weight dropped on you, the grunts against your neck mixing with your quiet moans.

"We're gonna get caught if you keep singing for me" Bucky nipped your skin, proud of being the one making you like this; the thought of getting caught by John or your neighbors, the scandal, was enough to make you both finish at the same time, you had to bite your tongue to silence your scream while he groaned into your jaw, you could feel his cream between your fingers, you shivered in delight.

"You're dangerous" he whispered to himself.

It started with hushed moans and grunts in his truck.

Parked three streets over on a road that went nowhere in particular, engine off, the early morning sitting quiet around you like it was keeping your secret too. It felt reckless and nothing like the life you had ironed and folded and tucked into neat corners for five years. It felt like something that was entirely yours.

On Wednesdays you met him in the park when John had his lunch meeting with Henderson, coming home late and smelling like cheap perfume. You sat on a blanket under the elm tree, it wasn't just about using each other anymore, Bucky would bring you something from the bakery on Millbrook and you would talk for hours before you did anything else. That part surprised you, that he wanted to talk.

He told you about his route, the way he could see small moments in people's lives that most never saw. It was strange how easy you opened up to each other, you told him things John laughed at, and he marveled at. If you were honest with yourself, he's the first person you've ever been completely honest with, you told him about your life before John, about the affair…

He never judged, listened like it mattered, every word.

Over the next few months it was harder and harder to stay away from Bucky or for him to keep his hands to himself. You got reckless the way you always feared you would.

It started small — a moment too long on the doorstep when he made his deliveries, coffee that stretched past the reasonable hour, Wednesdays in the park that edged too close to afternoon when every mother took their children to play. You told yourselves each time that you would be more careful next time, and next time you were even less careful , you realized somewhere along the way you just stopped caring, the urge to be together was all consuming.

It was Carol Danvers who heard it first, which meant it was everywhere by the next 24 hours.

It's on the days you never expect when horrible things happen, John came home on a Friday. You knew he was angry before he was fully through the door — something about each step he took, the way he put his keys and briefcase down like it insulted him.

Taking a deep breath, your brain already expected the worse, you were at the stove and you kept your eyes there, kept on whisking batter, your face arranged into the pleasant neutral expression like nothing was wrong.

"Heard something interesting today," he said cold and calculating, from somewhere behind you. Looming.

"Oh?" The spoon kept moving.

"About you." A pause. "And the milkman."

The silence was heavy, as you felt your blood run cold, the day you were most afraid of was here.

You turned from the stove with a careful smile. "You know how people talk on this street."

"I do." He loosened his tie with one slow pull. "I also know you could never do that to me" he stated with venom in his voice… "But why would Carol Danvers tell such lies about you?", if you didn't know any better you'd say he was actually confused.

Of course . "Carol Danvers once told Wanda Maximoff she saw a UFO over the Hendersons' roof." You set the spoon down and reached for two glasses. "Dinner is almost ready Hon-."

His hand smashed down against the kitchen counter, rattling the utensils.

"Don't do that." His voice dropped a register. Not loud — John was never loud, that wasn't what made it frightening. He was the kind of man who got quiet when he was angry, he's never laid a hand on you, but deep down you always feared one day he would.

Clearing your throat, you set the glasses on the table and smoothed out place mats that didn't need smoothing.

"I'm not doing anything," you said calmly

"Look at me."

Without hesitation, you did, kept your face open and calm and faintly puzzled, the face of a woman who has nothing whatsoever to hide, and you held his gaze without flinching. If John ever found out what you did, what you have been doing under his roof, you don't know what he would do to Bucky, and you would do anything to keep him safe.

Something moved behind his eyes — rage building up — his fists closed tightly, the silence making your heart beat incessantly, acting on instinct your hand came to rest against your stomach, protectively.

You moved it away before he noticed.

"I am married to you John" you carefully said, "no matter what, that's the only thing that matters", your own words slapped you like a brick to the face.

He looked at you for one more long moment, still not quite convinced, but refusing to push any further, tentatively you took off your apron, revealing your waist perfectly accentuated by your dress, your eyelashes fluttered as you walked up to him, arms slowly wrapping around his neck, his stare remained cold but he couldn't help but grab onto your hips, pulling you closer

"Miriam Patterson had her baby. A boy." He muttered with the particular cruelty of a man who knows exactly where to press, you felt the sting behind your eyes but in a blink you replaced the hurt with a small smile.

"How wonderful for them," you whispered, as you kissed his cheek, then the other, next his neck, "Maybe we'll be just as lucky soon" you purred into his ear, fingernails scraped lightly against the back of his neck.

As his hands wondered your body, you wondered if you'd ever stop feeling sick.

You were on the porch before four.

Sat on the top step in the dark with your robe pulled tight and your glasses on, hands folded in your lap while your fingers nervously nitpicked your skin, despite having made your decision, knowing it was the right thing to do, you felt like a wicked woman, cursed to ruin anyone who cared for you…

You didn't mind waiting for him, the tulips along the path were black in the dark, you enjoyed watching the sun slowly shine on them, slowly turning them red again.

You heard his truck at the end of the lane and felt your heart do the thing it always did — that stupid, inconvenient, involuntary thing — and then he was coming up the path and kneeling down in front of you, worry taking over his face, "Jesus Doll, what are you doing out here? it's freezing", his arms wrapped around yours, rubbing them to warm you up and kissing your cold face with his warm-soft lips —You almost smiled —

Because you didn't respond, Bucky pulled back , his face going soft the way it always did when you were upset. He smelled like the warm bread and something underneath that was just him. You had take a deep breath before you trusted your voice.

"I need to tell you something," you said.

He waited.

"I'm pregnant." You blurted.

Bucky didn't move. You couldn't read his face until you saw the biggest smile break out — still in disbelief a genuine laugh escaped him, the joy that radiated off of him almost made your resolve crack.

"Okay," he said quietly, cupping your face with pure adoration is his eyes. — "Okay."He repeated, like he was already making plans in his head. "Okay, so we—"

"Bucky."

He stopped.

You were going to be sick but you weren't so sure it was morning sickness, swallowing down any hesitation, you sighed.

You turned and looked at him. In the thin grey light just beginning to suggest itself at the edge of the sky his face was very open,

"I'm can't leave him Buck," you whispered.

He looked at you. Something shifted behind his eyes — understanding arriving before he was ready.

"You don't want to leave him… there's a difference."

"I'm sorry."

A long silence.

"You're sorry," he repeated. His voice had changed, not mad, at least you didn't think he was mad, he was good at keeping his feelings at bay.

"We can't see each other anymore" you said in defeat, your throat aching to let yourself cry.

He stood up abruptly and took three steps down the path and stopped with his back to you, one hand pressed to the back of his neck, his shoulders tense in a way you had never seen on him before. Your Bucky who was easy about everything, Bucky who worshiped you and listened like it mattered, his eyes were red, and he could barely keep looking you in the eye.

"Did you sleep with him." It wasn't quite a question. The words came out low and tight. "Once you knew. So he wouldn't suspect," he spat.

You were too stunned to answer. He'd never raised his voice to you like this, you couldn't blame him.

He laughed — a short, broken sound that had nothing of his real laugh in it — and turned around and looked at you from the bottom of the path with something in his face that you would spend a long time trying to forget.

"Bucky—" You cried, quick on your feet, moving down the steps, your voice lower than a whisper. "You have to be quiet, please, he's right—"

"I know where he is." His voice cracked, "Maybe I should go up there, talk to the man who's going to raise my son!"

"Please." You reached him and put your hand against his chest and felt him breathing too fast, he tried to back away from you "our son!" the words caught in his throat, but you wouldn't let him, looking up at him with everything you had left you pleaded "Please."

You took his hand and brought it slowly, carefully, to your stomach.

Held it there.

He went very still.

 His jaw worked, eyes were bright red, you could see his internal fight, his body begged him to push you away and go inside your house to kill the bastard, but then his thumb rubbed your belly, reminding himself that you were carrying the best parts of himself.

You don't know for how long you stood there, the sleeping houses remained quiet, except for the faint sound of their sprinklers. You watched him trying to ground himself .

"Let me go," you whispered, tears falling down both your faces. "Do this for me. Let us go."

The sky from black to blue to the first pale suggestion of morning Waiting Willow Lane was beginning, to wake.

His hand was still on your stomach when he closed his eyes, committing to memory the sound of your laugh, the smell of your hair in the mornings, he imagined a perfect world where he would raise a family with you, a world where he could be enough.

When he opened them again the look on his face told you with a quiet and terrible certainty, he would do as you asked.

He pulled his hand away gently, stepped back. You knew it was selfish but you desperately wanted to kiss him one last time, but before you could even take a step forward his eyes told you it wasn't a good idea.

He might never let you go if he kissed you right now.

Straightening his cap with the careful deliberateness of a man reassembling himself from the outside in, he looked you in the eyes one last time.

"I loved you well", he didn't say it anger or disappointment, just a gentle statement.

You nodded in return.

"Take care of yourself," he said, his voice was even. It hurt more than when he yelled.

You stood on the path and watched him walk back to his truck, you did not call after him, you just held your stomach like your life depended on it.

The truck turned at the end of the lane and was gone.

You stood there until you couldn't hear it anymore.

The baby came on a Tuesday.

Wiping your tears with your sleeve, you went inside and washed your hands at the kitchen sink, started the percolator and began, with care and precision, to make your John's breakfast.

Small, perfect and furious about it, the way all new things are, the moment the nurse had placed him in your arms, you looked down at that small outraged face and felt something so large move through you that you forgot, for just a moment, every single thing that had brought him to this world.

He had his eyes.

Back at home, John held him the way most men held babies — carefully, at a slight distance, as though he were something that might make a sudden movement. He'd been slightly more helpful than you expected after the delivery, he said the right things, fed him when you couldn't, changed one diaper, still you couldn't help but wonder if you'd made the right decision.

"He has my eyes" he said, settling the baby into the crook of your arm.

"He does" you said softly, holding back a laugh.

Looking down on him again. His little face was simply looking now, experiencing the world, his cerulean blues wide and new and completely unimpressed, there was something in his expression that was so familiar and so devastating that you had to press your lips together for a moment and breathe very carefully through your nose.

"He's perfect," John said, and for once you believed he meant it.

You nodded and looked at your son, this way he would be taken care of , you reassured yourself.

Across the street the night was still.

Bucky sat in his truck with the engine off and the lights off , watching the warm yellow square of your bedroom window the way a man watches something he has no right to anymore and cannot look away from.

He had told himself he wouldn't come. He had told himself every night for 9 months he'd respect your wishes and leave you alone, despite his military training, you made him weak.

He could see your shadow behind the curtain. Just the outline of you, soft and warm against the light, and the smaller shape in your arms that you were rocking with the slow, unconscious rhythm of a woman who had been waiting her whole life to do exactly this.

Bucky smiled, despite everything, he wouldn't want any other woman to be the mother of his child, you were happy and he would be happy too, that's all that mattered.

He watched you move. Back and forth, back and forth, the shadow of you against the warm light of that room, that house, that life that had no place for him in it.

The tulips along your front path had come back. Red and perfectly upright in the dark, standing in a row like they didn't know anything had happened, which of course they didn't. Things grew back. The world kept its own schedule, indifferent and bright, the same way mornings came after nights that felt unbearable.

He thought about a Wednesday in the park under the elm tree, a blanket on the grass, paper bag from the bakery on Millbrook. The way you had talked about wanting a family and to be able to care and protect them; the way you had looked at him when you thought he was distracted.

Your shadow stilled at the window. — Just briefly — you stopped rocking and stood there, and in the perfect quiet of the room, with every house dark and every curtain drawn he had the irrational, hopeful feeling that you knew he was there.

He stayed until he couldn't anymore, fingers gripping the wheel until white and then he stayed a little longer, when he finally reached for the ignition his hands started shaking.

The truck moved quietly down the empty street.

At the end of the lane it turned, and was gone, and the night closed back over Waiting Willow Lane like water over a stone, as though nothing had ever been disturbed at all.

In the warm window your shadow rocked on.

his hand tightened slightly around your throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp.

bucky always loved hearing you gasp.

every single nerve was on fire as his thick cock slid in and out of you, leaving behind a wet, vulgar squelching noise with each hard thrust. every time you and bucky fucked, he always managed to stretch you out impossibly more. the initial burn of getting split open by him was always intense, but the pleasure afterward was incredible—so great that you were left a mewling, crying mess in his arms. and he loved seeing you like this.

“fuuuck, baby,” he grunted, long strands of dark hair framing his face as he stared at you with blown out, hungry eyes. “so fuckin’ small—so small in my arms, but you can take it. you always do.”

your head was dizzy with desire. the way bucky was looking at you, the way he held you against his big, warm body, it could make you cum right there in his lap. you felt like you were high on drugs. the entire room reeked of sex, sweat, and a masculine scent that was purely him.

“oh my god—!”

bucky gritted his teeth, a snarl escaping him as he felt your walls clench around him. your bouncing was uneven and your legs were shaking. you were close. so fucking close, and bucky could feel every flutter and pulse your tight body had to give him.

“bucky, baby,” you gasped, eyes rolling back, “i’m getting close!”

sweat beaded down bucky’s forehead as his grip tightened on your hips, his face contorting at your admission.

“i know, sweets,” he groaned. “fuck. i know you are. shit—”

bucky started to grumble and groan, a telltale sign that he was nearing his own peak. his hands—already rough and demanding—squeezed and gripped you everywhere. his mechanical left arm whirred with the effort of holding back, trying to be gentle. his hips pounded up to meet yours, letting you feel the thick bulge of his lower stomach and the unkept hair at the base of his cock.

“fuuck, mph, ah—shit, baby.”

he cursed, mumbling incoherently under his breath. the sight of your ass bouncing against him as his thick cock slid in and out was enough to drive any man mad. bucky was glad pregnancy wasn’t a concern, because he couldn’t resist fucking you bare.

“shit, i’m gonna cum, sweets,” he groaned as you felt him twitch and throb inside you.

your moans rose in pitch, arching your back even more as you ground yourself onto his lap. your legs shook as your release finally consumed you. “fuck—i’m cumming, bucky…!”

“good girl,” he soothed approvingly, relishing the way you spasmed and clenched around him as you came undone. you let out a high squeal, crying out his name in a way that sounded like music to his ears.

“gooood fucking girl. squeezing all over me, baby. shit. gonna pump myself deep inside, and you’re gonna take every bit of it.”

his thrusts sped up, making you feel dizzy and overstimulated, and all you could do was mewl helplessly as he used you like a personal sex toy.

“fuck—take every last drop, baby.”

both his hands—one cool and one hot—slid down to your hips, holding you tight against his lap as his hard cock pulsed and throbbed until he finally began to spill out. it was thick and warm, making your lower stomach feel sensitive.

bucky always came so much, and it was his personal duty to make sure you were always full of it. the only time he would pull out was when he finally saw his seed seeping out of you, dampening the dark curls at his pelvis.

he leaned back, taking in the debauched sight of you with a deep exhale. perfect. this was always so perfect.