shu

Loki finally turned his head to look at you, face stoic. “Are you telling me you’d willingly let yourself be reincarnated into a creature with no limbs, no fashion sense, and who lives underground in dirt?”

“I don’t want to be a worm,” you muttered, already losing steam. “I just want to know if you’d still love me if I was.”

“Darling,” Loki drawled, “If you were a worm, I would love you…from a distance. Preferably through a microscope. In a jar. With air holes.”

You let out a soft, wounded noise and flopped back into the grass. “You're cruel.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

Silence settled again. A bird chirped. Somewhere far off, a breeze carried the faint scent of roses.

“…What if I was a mushroom?” you tried again, voice quieter.

“Oh for—”

“A pretty mushroom.”

Loki groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “This is punishment. This is divine punishment for something. Probably the time I turned Thor into a frog.”

You pouted, arms crossed, glaring at the clouds. Loki glanced at you from the corner of his eye and sighed—a long, theatrical sigh that you knew meant he was softening.

“…Fine,” he muttered.

You perked up.

“If you were a worm,” he said, voice dry as a desert, “I would…scoop you up with a leaf—because I’m not touching you with my hands, obviously—and carry you somewhere safe. Somewhere with…ideal worm conditions. I’d protect you from birds and curious children. I’d probably enchant the soil to be luxurious. The five-star spa of worm habitats.”

You blinked. “You’d enchant the soil?”

“I’m a prince, not a peasant,” he sniffed. “If I’m going to date a worm, I expect them to live in style.”

Your face split into a wide grin, and you practically melted into him. “I knew you’d still love me,” you whispered smugly.

“Realistically, I would step on you,” he added quickly, “but I’d feel guilty about it afterward.”

You snorted. “That’s enough for me.”

Loki rolled his eyes but slid his arm around you anyway, tugging you close. “You’re insufferable,” he said into your hair.

“And you’re mine,” you mumbled, smiling.

***

Working at the TVA … sucked. No, really sucked. The coffee was always cold, the lighting made your eyes twitch, and your desk chair was really uncomfortable. And your supervisor kept refusing to put through the order for a new one, citing "budget cuts", even though it was definitely because he just didn’t like you.

You were trained for combat and field ops, you were a hunter once upon a time, but apparently you're “unstable” and “a universal liability”, or whatever that means. One time anomaly, and suddenly you’re radioactive. Now you’re an analyst for their most stale department.

You’re practising the ancient and noble art of flipping pens into a cup when your colleague, Marnie, peeks around the side of your cubicle. “Boss wants to see you. What did you do this time?”

“I didn't do anything…maybe I’m getting promoted,” you say with a shrug as you pull yourself from your chair.

She starts laughing, and keeps laughing for a little too long, even as you walk away. “Promoted?” she wheezes, nearly choking on a breath. Okay, you may not be amazing at your job, but you weren't that bad.

You arrive at your boss’s office. The door creaks open slowly, and you step inside to see him sitting there, looking all sorts of menacing, tie perfectly straight, cuffs buttoned, face blank except for that twitch of a smile that never meant anything good.

“Sir,” you say, halfway through pulling out a chair, but he stops you with a sharp flourish of his hand.

“You don't need to sit,” he says, sliding a manila file across the desk toward you with the same care one might use to slide over a loaded weapon.

“What's this?” you ask, taking the file cautiously, like it might bite.

“Your new assignment,” he says with a smug little tilt to his mouth. “Congratulations. You’re back on the field.”

Your eyes widen. “Really? I…”

But you stop yourself. You’ve been around long enough to know if they were sending you out again, it wasn’t because they believed in you. It was because no one else would do it, or because they didn’t plan on seeing you come back.

You take a steadying breath and clear your throat. “What’s the mission?”

“I’m sending you to 1944,” he says, steepling his fingers. “On Earth-616.”

“For?”

“Bucky Barnes.”

You squint. “Barnes? What could you possibly need me to do with a pre-Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes?”

Your boss leans forward slightly, “You need to make sure he survives.”

You blink. “Survives? But…he does. That’s the whole—”

“Not in this timeline,” he cuts in, cold and certain. “In this branch, someone outside the TVA has interfered so that he dies before he falls from the train. No HYDRA recovery. No Winter Soldier. And the consequences ripple farther than you can imagine.”

You glance down at the file. A photo of a young Barnes is clipped to the inside cover. Smiling. Alive.

“You want me to alter history to save the Winter Soldier?”

“More like…,” your boss says. “To save the man before he becomes him. We’re gambling that Barnes's survival in this branch prevents something worse. Much worse.”

You don’t ask what that is. You already know you won’t like the answer.

You shut the file. “When do I leave?”

***

“So… Bucky Barnes…” Marnie starts, casually leaning against the doorframe as you're getting your equipment together and triple-checking your mission packet.

“Yes. Him,” you reply, already preemptively tired of this conversation.

“He's quite hot.”

“I know,” you mutter, slipping into a 1940s-era dress and adjusting the seams. It itches. 

“Quite a ladies' man too,” Marnie adds, wagging her brows. “Before the whole brainwashing and murdery assassin phase.”

You shoot her a look. “Yes, Marnie. What do you want?”

She grins, completely unbothered. “Get an autograph for me?”

You freeze mid–lipstick application. “You want me to go back in time and risk screwing up a major branch just so I can—”

“Please? Just a napkin. Or his dog tags. Whatever’s easiest.”

You stare.

She shrugs. “I'm just saying if you're gonna flirt with the Winter Soldier, I should at least get a souvenir.”

“I’m not going to be flirting with him.” You roll your eyes and walk out the door, muttering, “If I don’t come back, tell the TVA I died rolling my eyes into another dimension.”

You head out and prepare to time jump to 1944, you were ready for this. This is the opportunity you have been waiting for to finally get off the desk. 

Unfortunately for you, something went wrong. The portal, instead of opening smoothly at ground level like it was supposed to, ripped open in the sky, spitting you out midair and sending you careening toward the ground.

Perfect.

Wind rushes past your ears, your limbs flailing as you fall, wondering if the TVA was really just trying to kill you off this time. You were supposed to land quietly near Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Clearly, your equipment misunderstood the assignment.

With a bone-jarring thud and a loud “oof!” from both of you, you collided with something, or rather, someone. You roll onto your side, dazed, ears ringing, only to find you'd taken down none other than Bucky Barnes himself.

Flat on his back in the dirt, he groans, blinking up at the face hovering above him.

And then, inexplicably, he smiles.

“Are you an angel?” he flirts, breathless, dazed but clearly delighted.

You blink in disbelief, ears still ringing from the crash.

“What?!” you shout, because everything sounds like it's underwater.

“You fell from the sky,” Bucky says, completely unbothered, even as you lie half on top of him. “So you ought to be an angel.”

You stare at him, coughing once, patting out a small flame on your sleeve. “That’s… not how that works.”

“Well, if you’re not an angel,” he says, eyebrows raised with that signature Brooklyn charm, “just who are you?”

You take his hand, the buzz of adrenaline still humming in your bones as he helps pull you upright.

You give him your real name, after all, it’s not like you exist in this timeline. “I’m a nurse,” you add, a half-truth that feels easier than trying to explain time travel mid-concussion.

Bucky dusts off his uniform, giving you a squint like he’s trying to place your face or make sense of your sudden entrance.

“Where are you from?” he asks, arms crossed, curiosity piqued.

“Just...around,” you say, trying not to sound too suspicious. “You know… a place. And a time.”

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re one strange broad.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

He studies you for another beat, something unreadable flickering behind those sharp blue eyes. “Well, Nurse from Around, how about you explain yourself over a walk before my commanding officer thinks I hit my head too hard.”

“Will do,” you answer quickly. 

***

Covering your tracks… wasn’t exactly going well.

It might’ve been a little easier if you hadn’t fallen out of the sky. Now you were stuck convincing a confused medic and an increasingly suspicious commanding officer that you’d fallen out of a tree. A tree. Because apparently that was more believable than time travel.

Just great.

Now, everyone thought you were insane.

Well… everyone except Bucky Barnes, who, rather than questioning your mental state, seemed mostly amused, and a little too entertained by the whole situation.

You finally duck out of the medical tent, brushing the canvas flap aside and stepping into the dusty camp. You glance around, scanning for any anomalies, temporal or otherwise, but all seems quiet. Soldiers go about their business. Trucks rumble in the distance. 

You barely take two steps before you hear boots behind you.

“You sure you’re alright?” Bucky asks, falling into step beside you like you’re already part of the unit.

You give him a side glance, managing a dry smile. “Yeah. I’ll just not climb trees from now on.”

He laughs under his breath, clearly not buying your excuse, but letting you have it anyway. “Smart plan. Trees can be vicious.”

***

You finished out the rest of the day, doing your best at being a nurse as you kept an eye on Bucky. He’d caught you staring and ducking behind trees, and you just hoped that he didn’t get the wrong idea.

Plus, if you were able to catch the assassin today, then you’d be out of his hair before he knew what hit him. 

From the reports and the intel the TVA gave you, you knew exactly when the HYDRA assassin sent to kill Bucky would strike.

The first one would be right in the middle of a planned raid on a HYDRA base tucked deep in the woods, under cover of darkness. The chaos of the assault would make it easy for the assassin to slip in, take the shot, and vanish without a trace. No one would notice until it was too late.

Unless you stopped it.

In the middle of the battle, you pop in out of nowhere, grabbing Bucky by the collar and yanking him out of the path of a HYDRA blast. You both hit the ground hard, your time tech flickering and sizzling from the strain. Hopefully, he didn’t notice. 

“What are you—? How did you—?”

“No time for questions,” you snap, already moving.

In the chaos of fire and smoke, you spot it: a mask, sleek and cold, standing out stark against the vintage uniforms and artillery. Too advanced. Too clean. The temporal scanner had pinged it before you even landed. This is it. 

You pull out your collapsible baton, flicking it to full extension with a sharp crack. You're just about to take off into the fray when a hand clamps around your arm.

“Wait, where are you going? It's not safe!” Bucky shouts, his grip firm, eyes searching yours like he’s not sure what corner of reality you just stepped out of.

You glance back, heart racing, adrenaline already hitting full throttle. “I’ll be just fine,” you say, yanking free with a grin that’s half-cocky, half-suicidal.

And then you run.

You swing your baton hard, catching the masked assassin’s wrist as they strike. Sparks fly as metal clashes with energy. You dodge low, spin, sweep, barely avoiding a plasma blade that hums.

You exchange blows in rapid succession, breath coming fast, each strike calculated. You catch your opponent’s foot mid-kick, twist, and send them sprawling. But they recover fast, too fast.

The assassin disappears into the smoke as quickly as they came, one final glance exchanged. You stand frozen for a second, breath ragged, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your chest.

Then you remember Bucky.

You whirl around and sprint back through the debris.

The air is thick with smoke and blood, the sharp tang of ozone still clinging to your tongue. You see Bucky kneeling behind a flipped transport truck, dirt and soot smeared across his face, his rifle slack in his hands.

The gunfire has stopped.

The HYDRA soldiers have either fled or fallen, most of them dead. The Howling Commandos, though bloodied and bruised, are standing.

The Allies had won another battle.

You slow to a walk, your baton still humming faintly in your hand, and you lock eyes with Bucky. He looks at you like he’s seeing an alien.

You give him a short nod. “Told you I’d be fine.”

“I thought you were a nurse.”

“I'm slightly more than a nurse.”

He stares at you, wide-eyed, chest heaving. “I’ve met a lot of women, smart ones, tough ones, the kind that could knock your teeth in, but I ain’t ever met a dame like you.”

You blink, half-winded. “Oh, uh… thanks.”

You both just lie there for a second, dust settling around you.

“Do you…do that a lot?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Just fall out of the sky and save people?”

You brush dirt off your face and pat him on the shoulder, “Just you, Bucky. Just you.”

***

After patching him up and swearing him to secrecy, you managed to convince Bucky that you'd stolen a military car, got lost in the countryside, and just happened to stumble into the middle of a HYDRA ambush.

Miraculously, he bought it. Mostly. Though he was still eyeing you sideways at your sudden and impressive fighting skills. 

Now you're in the med tent, tending to a minor burn on your shoulder and trying not to look like someone who’d just sparred with a time-travelling assassin.

And then, a familiar voice cuts through the tent flap, “Well, well, if it isn’t my favourite nurse?”

You glance up to see him. He looks good, unfairly good, even with a cut on his cheek and half-dried blood on his sleeve.

“Don’t let anyone else hear that,” you tease. “They’ll have my head.”

Bucky chuckles and steps closer; you can feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze on your skin. You know he’s just being himself, probably not meaning anything by it.

But still, your heart skips, just once, just enough.

“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” he asks, now shoulder to shoulder with you, like the question is only for your ears.

You shrug casually. “My… parents,” you lie. “They were big on survival skills.”

He grins, turning his head just slightly to look at you, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Your folks, huh? I guess you have to warn a fella before you bring him home to meet the family.”

You smile faintly, but glance away, “Never had anyone to bring home before.”

He jumps on it almost like he can’t help himself, he says, “Really? Someone as beautiful as you? What is it, no one’s good enough?”

Your lips tug into something halfway between a smirk and a confession.

“No one interests me.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. But you feel the shift in the air between you, the stillness that comes when something unsaid suddenly gets loud.

“Guess I’ll have to work harder, then.”

Despite yourself, you find yourself smiling like an idiot.

“Incorrigible flirt,” you mutter, shaking your head.

Bucky leans just a little closer, clearly enjoying the effect he's having. “Takes one to know one.”

“I wasn’t flirting with you!” you exclaim, but by then, he was already walking away like he won. 

***

It’s been a week and a bit since your arrival, and you’re still on high alert for the assassin. You’ve thwarted two more attacks, but still haven’t managed to kill them; it was beyond frustrating. They’d disappear as soon as you thought they had the.

But something else was brewing in your life. Bucky Barnes was ruining it. With his perfect smile and charming words, something had shifted between you two. 

At first, it was subtle, shared glances, lingering looks across the mess hall, quiet moments after missions when no one else was watching. But lately, it's turned into more. Sitting side by side during downtime, playing cards by lantern light, sharing stories you probably shouldn’t.

When you’re roped into a game with the Howling Commandos, Bucky sits beside you, coaching you (badly) as you bluff your way through a hand.

“Terrible poker face,” he whispers, eyes flicking to your expression.

“Because you’re being distracting,” you tease, nudging him playfully. You glance at your cards, then smirk. “All in!”

“Doll, what are you—?”

“Trust me.”

You lean back, watching as one by one, they fold, all revealing their hands reluctantly. Then you lay your cards down, nothing special at all. The room groans in disbelief, and Bucky looks at you like you’re full of surprises.

“Play the man, not the cards or whatever they say,” you say with a wink at Bucky, pulling in your winnings, to which he just shakes his head in amusement.

On another night, you stay up talking about nothing and everything. He told you about Brooklyn, about meeting Steve, about hot dogs for a nickel and summer days spent on stoops. He softened when he talked about his family. Recalling how his ma used to sing while hanging laundry, her voice barely louder than the city noise.

You listened like every word was something sacred, like he was more than just a mission.

“I’ve never been to New York,” you admit when he finishes, your voice barely above the crackle of the fire nearby.

He glances at you, almost sheepish, like that surprises him. “Well… you ought to go sometime,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Pretty great people there.”

A small smile touches your lips.

“I bet.”

You shift a little closer to him, under the guise of being cold, but really, you just wanted to be near him. There was something about Bucky that made you feel... safe. 

He doesn’t question it. If anything, he leans slightly toward you too, like this is just as natural for him as it is for you. 

“What about you?” he asks after a beat. “I feel like I know nothing about where you’re from.”

You hesitate.

“I, uh…” You force a small smile, trying to play it off.

But it falters, just enough for the truth to slip in.

The truth is…you don’t know. Not really. Your past is a locked door in a building long since burned down. The TVA had made sure of that. You have no memories of your childhood, no hometown to long for. Just a vague ache where your life should have been.

He watches you carefully, and when your smile dims, he doesn’t let it go unnoticed.

“Are you alright?” he asks gently.

“Oh, yeah, I just…” You pause, then try again, weaker. “I don’t really have a home anymore, not sure I ever did.

You expect him to fall silent or maybe change the subject, the way most people do when they don’t know how to respond to that kind of sadness.

But Bucky doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts a little closer and gently tilts your chin toward him with two fingers, careful, like he's afraid to push too hard.

His eyes meet yours.

“Well,” he says softly, “you got a home here. With me.”

For a second, you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt like you belong anywhere, but he might just change that. 

***

As the days pass, the late-night conversations become a quiet kind of ritual. You tell yourself it's just so you can keep an eye on him, but that's a bold-faced lie.

When Bucky can’t sleep, which is often, you find yourself beside him. Sometimes in a tent, sometimes just outside, staring up at the stars together like there’s nothing else in the world. You talk about anything and everything: music, books, old memories, made-up futures.

And sometimes, you sit in silence, and it’s still enough.

One night, you’re lying by each other’s side, looking up at the stars, his jacket slung around your shoulders.

“You keep looking up like you’re trying to figure out what’s out there,” he says, half a smile on his lips.

You chuckle lightly.

If only he knew. Worlds upon worlds. Timelines stacked like cards. Variants of him. Of you. Entire universes spinning just out of reach.

“I guess I’m just curious,” you lie gently. “But they are quite beautiful, aren’t they?”

You turn your head, expecting him to still be gazing at the sky.

But he’s not.

He’s already looking at you, like you’re the one who hung the stars.

Like you’re the only thing in the universe that makes sense to him.

Your breath catches, just for a second. Neither of you says anything. The silence wraps around you, soft and warm and full of meaning that hasn’t found words yet. He wants to say that you're more beautiful than any star in the sky, but can't build up the courage to. Just what had you done to him?

“I—” he starts, then falters. A soft laugh under his breath. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the moment light even as your heart stutters.

“Something good, I hope?”

“The best thing I’ve seen in a long time,” he says without hesitation.

And this time, you don’t look away.

***

The next day, you’re still feeling the butterflies.

Bucky’s words from the night before play on an endless loop in your head—“The best thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

 It’s maddening. Wonderful. Distracting as hell.

You’re trying to keep your head down in the med tent, sorting bandages like your heartbeat isn’t tap-dancing in your chest.

And of course, he walks in. You don’t even need to look up; you can feel his presence before he speaks. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Sergeant Barnes?” you ask, not looking up as you sort through medical equipment.

“I was hoping,” he says, inching closer, “that I could steal you for a bit tonight. There’s a… dance.”

You glance at him, raising a brow.

“I don’t dance.”

“What do you mean you don't dance?”

“You heard me,” you huff.

“We’ll see about that,” he says before ruffling your hair and disappearing out of the tent before you could shout at him. 

The night came around faster than you expected.

You wouldn't even be here, at least, not voluntarily, but next thing you knew, you were being dragged by the arm, fussed over by two very determined nurses who apparently moonlighted as stylists. Makeup done, hair pinned just right, and someone even loaned you a dress that suspiciously fit a little too well. Time travel luck, probably.

Now you’re stuck to the wall, arms crossed, heels pinching, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow you. You’d welcome it. Nothing and no one could pull you off that wall.

But then you see him. Bucky’s on the dance floor. Laughing, twirling some sweet redhead in a wide circle, all confidence and swing. 

You stare a little too long, feeling the slightest bit jealous. Next to you, one of the nurses fans herself with a folded napkin. “Sergeant Barnes is a real dreamboat, ain’t he?”

You blink out of the trance he had you in and nod in agreement.

She giggles. “Real handsome type and a great dancer too.”

You turn your head just in time to see Bucky looking directly at you now, one brow lifted, half-smile forming.

He starts making his way over.

“Oh no,” you whisper, you whisper, eyes wide as Bucky starts cutting through the crowd, gaze locked on yours.

“Oh yes,” she grins. She looks more excited than you do. 

“You’ll have to excuse me,” you mumble quickly, already sidestepping and shuffling away before Bucky can reach you.

You slip out and into the night.

Rain greets you immediately, soft at first, then heavier, soaking into the cobblestone streets until they shimmer under the weak light of the lamplights. The scent of wet stone and old earth fills your lungs. It’s not too cold, not too warm, just the way you like it.

The sun had long since disappeared behind the trees and haze, leaving only a pale wash of moonlight to guide you.

From the tent behind you, music still plays, faint and muffled, a distant echo of a world you don't belong in. Then again, you don’t really belong in any world.

You stand under the canopy of an overhang, raindrops brushing your shoes as you lean into the shelter. Your dress clings slightly to your arms, and for once, everything is still.

Then you hear footsteps, and you know just who they belong to. 

“You disappeared on me,” he says. 

“Didn’t mean to,” you reply, quietly without turning around. 

“Didn’t mean to, or didn’t want to be found?” he asks, his tone somewhere between teasing and careful.

You finally look over your shoulder.

Bucky stands there, rain dripping from his hair, no jacket, suspenders slightly askew. He looks like something out of a postcard, and very much like he knows it.

You meet his eyes.

“Maybe a bit of both,” you say.

He steps under the canopy beside you. Close, but not too close. “Can’t say I blame you. Not everyone likes the spotlight.”

You smirk. “Especially not when it keeps asking you to dance.”

“I wasn’t gonna make you,” he says softly. “But I was hoping you'd say yes.”

The words slip out, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“I don’t mind,” Bucky says, eyes twinkling. “I’m a pretty good teacher.”

Before you can object, he gently takes your hand, pulling you a little further down the rain-slicked street. The lights from the dance grow dim behind you, the night stretching quiet and still, except for the gentle patter of rain on rooftops.

He stops beside an old field radio, left humming on a crate under an awning. He fiddles with it, taps the side once, and suddenly, music crackles through, a slow jazz tune, scratchy with static, but perfect in its own nostalgic way.

Bucky steps back, the radio's glow lighting his face just enough to see the playful smile he offers you.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, hand outstretched like he’s in a ballroom and not a deserted cobblestone road soaked in wartime rain.

You hesitate only a second before taking his hand.

You’re both getting absolutely drenched, rain soaking through every layer, running in rivulets down your skin, but somehow neither of you seems to care. He holds you with surprising tenderness, one hand on your waist, the other cradling yours like you’re made of something fragile and valuable.

He guides you slowly, turning with the rhythm, humming along softly. You misstep suddenly and land squarely on his foot. “I’m so—”

“I’ve had worse,” he says with a soft chuckle, not even flinching. “Trust me.”

You meet his eyes, rain clinging to your lashes. He doesn’t let go. If anything, he pulls you a little closer.

Then, suddenly, he spins you.

You let out a startled laugh, boots slipping slightly. “You’ll drop me!”

“Me?” he says, grinning like the war around you doesn’t exist. “Never.”

“Oh right, I forgot—you’re a… dreamboat. Sweeping girls off their feet is your speciality,” you tease, barely able to keep a straight face.

His laugh is unfiltered, boyish, throwing his head back as rain slicks his dark hair away from his eyes. “And don't you forget it."

“Oh, whatever,” you say, rolling your eyes, but you’re smiling, more than you had in a long time.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you in the rain. No war. No TVA.

“If I kissed you right now…” Bucky says softly, the words barely cutting through the rain between you.

You step closer, slow and sure, until the tips of your shoes are brushing his. The space between you disappears, your breath mixing with his, your pulse loud in your ears.

“If you kissed me right now…” you repeat back to him coyly, gaze locked on his.

This isn’t the usual grin-and-wink Bucky Barnes. He’s scared that one wrong word would send you running for the hills.

“Would that be okay?” he asks, barely audible. The words tremble just slightly, not from the cold. From you.

You smile, eyes flicking down to his lips, then back to his eyes.

“I think I’d lose my mind if you didn’t.”

He pulls you to him, gently at first, like he’s giving you time to change your mind, but you don’t.

Your lips meet.

It’s soft at first. Sweet, so sweet, you think you could drown in it. The world seems to hush around you, the sound of distant music, rain hitting the floor, even your own heartbeat fading into nothing.

You melt into him as he deepens the kiss, your hands threading into his wet hair, slick and cool beneath your fingers. He tastes like rain and war and something you already know you’ll miss.

His hands rest on your waist, firm but tender, grounding you in the moment. Your soaked dress clings to your skin, but you barely feel the cold anymore, not with him holding you like this, not with the ache in your chest blooming into something warm and dangerous.

Time, the one thing you’re always chasing, slows down for just a second.

The kiss ends slowly, reluctantly, like neither of you really wanted it to.

You pull back just enough to look at him. He’s beautiful in the rain, wet hair slicked back, eyes soft and shining like he’s seeing only you in the whole damn world.

“James?”

His eyes flicker, they twinkle actually. You’ve never called him that before. Not once.

“Yes?” he says, just as quietly, like you’re something breakable he’s afraid to shatter.

“I… thank you. For tonight.”

You hold onto him tighter, fingers curling in the damp fabric of his shirt like you could anchor yourself there. Like, if you just don’t let go, maybe you can stay in this moment. Maybe you won’t have to lose him.

Ever.

He wraps his arms around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed firmly against your spine. He holds you like he means it. Like you’re not just some mystery that crashed into his life, but something real. Something he wants.

And in that embrace, you feel warm. You feel safe. You feel loved.

If only you could deserve this.

***

The next day, Bucky is… different.

He’s lighter. Smiling like he doesn’t even realise it. Like he's been floating on something invisible since sunrise.

Steve notices.

They’re all huddled over maps in a makeshift strategy tent, going over the next move, a HYDRA base tucked near the border, heavily fortified, but vulnerable from the east. Radios crackle. Pencils tap. The usual buzz of planning hums around them.

Bucky nods along, absently tracing a route with his finger, but his head’s not really in it.

Steve eyes him amusedly. When the others file out, papers rustling and boots clomping away, Steve lingers.

“Bucky,” he says, that tone in his voice, like he knows everything going on in his head because he usually does. 

Bucky doesn’t even try to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yes?”

Steve folds his arms. “You wanna tell me why you’ve been looking like you just won the lottery?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I can see it all over your face,” Steve says, squinting at him, “You’re keen on her, Buck.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, trying to act casual, but fails. “Well… she is a dish.”

Steve smirks. “But beyond that, you look at her like… like she’s the first person who ever surprised you. Like you trust her.”

Bucky groans and rubs his eyes, a tired, helpless smile tugging at his lips, “I’m done for.”

Bucky doesn’t even deny it.

Steve nudges his shoulder playfully. “Go, but be back here in an hour.”

That’s all the permission Bucky needs; he bolts.

***

You’ve just stepped out of the medical tent, the cool air brushing against your skin, chasing away the fog of exhaustion. But your mind isn’t on the mission or the next wounded soldier.

It’s on him.

On that kiss.

It made you feel like the world had stopped spinning. How dangerous it is to want something that can’t last.

And that’s when strong arms suddenly wrap around you from behind, pulling you into warmth and laughter.

“Bucky!” you gasp, half-scolding as he lifts you a little off the ground.

“Screaming my name? I like the sound of that,” he murmurs, grinning as he nuzzles into your neck like he’s already memorised the shape of you.

You squirm in his arms, heart pounding. “Not here,” you hiss, though your hands are already curled around his forearms, not quite pushing him away.

“You say that,” he teases, his lips brushing just behind your ear, “but you’re not exactly trying to escape.”

“I’m trying not to faint,” you mutter, breathless, “and also trying not to get court-martialed for indecent conduct.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, finally letting you go, but his fingers stay laced with yours, like he can’t quite bring himself to lose contact.

You look up at him, something more serious stirring beneath the softness in your eyes.

“Can I ask you a question?” 

He sobers instantly. “Of course. Anything.”

You hesitate, then breathe out, “If you had to make a sacrifice… if you had to let someone you really, really care about be hurt, for the greater good… would you?”

His brows knit, and he doesn’t answer right away. For once, James Buchanan Barnes is quiet.

“Is this a hypothetical,” he asks carefully, “or is there something you’re not telling me?”

You don’t answer. That is your answer.

He exhales and rubs his thumb across your knuckles.

“I think… if you’d asked me that a year ago, I’d have said yes. No hesitation. That’s what soldiers do, right? We serve something bigger than ourselves. But now? I don’t know. Because if it were you… I think I'd have to sacrifice myself instead.”

You blink, your throat tightening.

“I don’t think I’d survive it,” he admits, “I could go to hell and back, I wouldn’t care if it meant losing you.”

Your breath catches.

“Bucky…”

“Whatever you're carrying,” he adds, stepping a little closer, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”

You look down at your connected hands, squeezing them a little tighter. 

You knew what was coming. You’d known since the day you met him, since the first file was handed to you.  Even if you saved him from that assassin… you'd still have to let him be taken by HYDRA.

He’d still have to suffer.

He had to fall.

Because if he didn’t, the timeline would unravel. The world would break in ways you couldn’t fix.

He holds your gaze. “You just have to fight for it, even when it looks hopeless. Especially then, and I’ll be right there with you fighting by your side.”

But is it so wrong to want to say all logic be damned and save him? Maybe there was another way, maybe he’d never have to become the Winter Soldier, maybe you just had to fight for it.

***

Bucky steps into the little jewellery shop, the bell above the door jingling softly behind him. He pauses just inside, looking around, hands buried in his coat pockets. He’s not even sure why he’s here, what possessed him to come in off the street. The rain had stopped hours ago, but something tugged him this way.

Maybe it was you.

An older woman steps out from the back, adjusting her spectacles and wiping her hands on a velvet cloth. “Can I help you, young man?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, slowly approaching the counter. “I’m looking for something for a friend.”

“Just a friend?” she asks, with a knowing lift of her brow.

He looks down, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, one that tells the whole sorry truth before he even speaks.

“Maybe more than that,” he admits, glancing back up.

She smiles softly. “Rings?”

“That’d be a bridge too far,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “I like her a lot, and I could see myself… y’know, doing that someday. But not yet. Not till after the war. After I figure out how to be someone she deserves.”

She nods, moving slowly, respectfully. “Tell me about her. Does she like pearls… or maybe something dainty like this?” she says, pointing to a delicate necklace with tiny stones. “It’s quite popular amongst young women.”

Bucky glances at it, but it doesn’t feel right. Not for you.

“I’m looking for something more…” he pauses, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he searches for the word. “More her. Not just beautiful, but… rare.”

The woman nods, understanding in her eyes, and gestures toward a small case of pendants and lockets. One catches his eye immediately, simple, elegant, with a strange little etching that almost looks like a constellation, and he knows how much you love the stars. 

“Can I?” he asks.

“Of course.”

He picks it up in his hand, carefully looking at how it shines under the lights.

“It’s perfect,” he says quietly. Then, more to himself, “She sees things in ways I don’t… and can’t always understand, like she’s lived twice as long, in half the time.”

“Sounds like quite the girl…” the shopkeeper says, watching him with a soft smile.

“She sure is,” Bucky replies, like it’s the only thing in the world he’s completely sure of.

He doesn’t hesitate. Reaches for his wallet, pays in full, and tucks the little velvet box into the inner pocket of his jacket. He hopes—God, he hopes—you’ll like it.

***

You’re sitting out with him under the stars like usual, except you can sense Bucky’s nervous. But not as nervous as you when you see him pull out a box. Was he—?

“What’s that?” you ask, your heart in your throat. This was definitely not a part of the mission, you, a variant that isn’t supposed to exist on this Earth, getting engaged to Bucky Barnes would certainly fuck up the Sacred Timeline. You are so getting fired, and people don’t get fired at the TVA, they get erased!

He shifts, a little nervous, like this isn’t something he’s done before. “It’s not a ring or anything,” he says quickly, “I just…”

He opens the box slowly. Inside, nestled on a velvet cushion, is the most beautiful necklace you’ve ever seen. Not only would you live to see another day, but the fact that Bucky thought of you made you so unbelievably happy. 

Your breath catches. “You got this for me?”

He shrugs, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “I wanted you to have something. In case something ever happened to me,” he says, eyes soft, unsure. “Not that something is going to, but, hell, I don’t know. You make me feel like maybe the world’s not all falling apart. Like I’m not either.”

“I feel the same way,” you say softly, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “Can you help me put it on?”

He nods, almost shy now, and steps behind you, fingers careful as he lifts the chain and drapes it around your neck. The charm rests just at your collarbone, warm from his touch. You can feel his breath near your ear as he clasps it gently in place.

“I love it,” you whisper, turning to face him again.

You rise onto your toes and press a light kiss to his lips, his hands resting on your waist as he deepens it. 

You’d lose him a few days from now, but this moment would be one you cherish forever. 

***

The new year had passed a few weeks ago, and you knew your time here was up. You knew you had to say goodbye. Taking a shaky breath, you pull him aside, away from the others. He looks at you, and without a word, he leans in, kissing you softly as he pulls you into his arms.

It’s like he’s trying to devour you and make up for any lost time. 

“I missed you,” he says before lavishing your neck with kisses. He was insatiable.

“You just saw me this morning,” you tease.

“Still, I'll always miss my girl,” he whines, but then he notices the tension in your shoulders. “What is it?”

“I’m leaving,” you say quietly. “I’ve been reassigned, stationed with another unit.”

Bucky’s face drops, the weight of those words settling between you like a stone. “Are you…? When do you leave?”

“Uh…a few days, you lie.

“So it’s done,” he says resolutely, and you can hear the pain in his words. It almost breaks you entirely.

“We’ll see each other again. Maybe… in another place and another time,” you add softly, trying to hold onto hope that feels impossibly far away.

He nods, swallowing hard. “Maybe in that other place and other time, after the war…you could come find me in New York. We could go to Coney Island, get a hot dog, ride the Ferris wheel. I’ll even win you one of those ridiculous stuffed animals.”

"A big one?"

"Biggest one they got," he answers with confidence.

You let out a shaky breath, a laugh caught somewhere in your throat. Your eyes are already stinging, tears welling despite everything in you trying to hold it together. “Yeah. I’d like—I’d love that.”

Without another word, he pulls you into a tight hug, arms wrapping around you like he’s trying to memorise the moment. You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and real.

***

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, eyes locked on the coordinates blinking on your wrist tech. You’ve calculated this down to the second. The assassin would be there; they always were. If you missed even by a moment, Bucky wouldn't survive. And failure... wasn’t an option.

You press the trigger.

The portal spits you out violently, sending you crashing into one of the carriages of the speeding train. You barely get your bearings before the familiar metallic click behind you makes your blood run cold.

You turn.

It’s the assassin.

The one who’s eluded you for months. The one you were sure you’d lost in another timeline. But they’re here, now, and their weapon is already raised.

You don’t hesitate.

You lunge at them, fists flying, striking hard and fast. The rain slicks your grip, but your focus is razor-sharp. You’ve been tracking them too long. Too many near misses. Too many close calls.

You are not letting them hurt him.

They fight back hard, trained, ruthless, but you’ve been preparing for this. In a blur of movement, you duck low, sweep their leg.

They sneer, about to speak, but you beat them to it.

You lock eyes, then you click the button on your wrist.

A jolt of electricity surges through them from the charges you managed to slap onto their side during the scuffle. Their body spasms, convulsing momentarily, stunned. You don’t waste time. You pull your sidearm and fire twice.

Direct hits.

They collapse, gasping, but it’s not over.

In their dying breath, the assassin raises their arm, a last effort. You launch yourself forward just as the muzzle flashes, a bullet screaming toward Bucky.

You jump between them, catching it on your side.

The impact knocks you back, stealing your breath, but you stay upright, barely. As the assassin goes still, now dead, you slide down the wall, knowing you’d done your job. Bucky turns at the sound, just in time to see you stumble, a bloom of red already spreading across your coat.

“No!” he shouts, catching you before you hit the floor. He doesn't understand how you got here, how any of this is possible.

But then again, nothing about you had ever made sense.

And right now? None of that matters.

His hands tremble as he presses them to your wound, trying to stop the bleeding. You were never supposed to get hurt; he was supposed to protect you always.

“Stay with me,” he pleads, voice cracking as he cradles your face in his hand. “Come on, doll… don’t do this.”

“Bucky,” you breathe, tight with pain, “you have to go.”

“No,” he says, eyes wild, refusing to let go. “I can’t—I can’t just leave you—”

“I’ll be okay,” you lie, already feeling your limbs go heavy.  “Go, Bucky. Please. Steve needs you.”

He hesitates, anguish in every line of his face.

You reach up with the last of your strength, your fingers brushing gently against his cheek, holding him there, just for a moment longer.

“I’ll be back for you, okay?” he whispers, “So don’t you die on me.”

“I’ll be right here,” you murmur with a weak smile. “We’ll be together after the war, remember?”

“After the war,” Bucky echoes, nodding, as if saying it aloud will make it true. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, full of everything he can’t say yet.

Then, reluctantly, he pulls away.

You watch him go, toward Steve, toward the fight, toward his destiny. You know now there's no stopping it, there is no other way out of this, no matter how hard you fight.

Alone now, you lift your trembling wrist, you take one last breath, and then…

You blip away.

Off this train.

Off this earth.

Out of this timeline.

***

You lived.

You weren’t expecting to. You weren’t supposed to. In fact, you'd made peace with dying on that train.

The fact that you did live…that you walked away when he didn’t.

That you could’ve saved him from what came next…it haunts you.

You spent weeks recovering, mostly in silence. The TVA didn’t ask questions. Maybe they already knew the answers, but they didn’t care.

Then came the new assignment.

A rogue temporal anomaly. Earth-[REDACTED]. Another mess to clean up. Another excuse to run.

But you didn’t take it.

Because somewhere between the orders and the silence and the ache in your chest, you slipped off the grid, something only a TVA hunter would know how to do.

You found your way to Earth-616, the year 2024.

And you found him.

Your Bucky.

He was different now.

You watched him from afar.

He didn’t smile as much, didn’t laugh as much either, and didn’t let people in as often. And you couldn't help but feel like you could have spared him that suffering. The only thing you can do now is watch over him and mourn what you once had.

Now, you sat in the corner of a bar in Brooklyn, hood pulled low, fingers around a drink you hadn’t touched. Just watching and stealing glances at him.

Apparently, not as subtly as you thought.

You slide off your stool quietly, slipping past the crowd and out into the rain. The neon lights from the bar bleed into the wet pavement as you pull your hood up, tucking your face deeper into the shadows.

You're almost in the clear, then an arm shoots out of nowhere and grabs your wrist.

You freeze.

Slowly, you look down at the vibranium hand curled around your forearm.

“Who are you,” he says, “and why have you been following me?”

His eyes flicker down, catching the faint glint of the necklace around your neck, an old, worn charm he thought he’d lost forever. It shouldn’t be possible, but there it is, shimmering in the dim light.

You look up at him, heart pounding, nerves tangled in your throat. His gaze is raw, haunted, like he’s staring at a ghost from a life that never should have crossed paths with his.

“Hi, Bucky.”