what if... avenger!bucky and avenger!reader are tasked with training new shield agents as a consequence for *idk, you choose*. So why not have fun? And by fun i mean scare the absolute shit out of these soon-to-be agents. Like full on death glares, popping out of nowhere, unsettling silence. These kids are gonna have fucking nightmares now, man.
The official reason you and Bucky are stuck training the new S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits is “conduct unbecoming of senior Avengers.”
The unofficial reason?
You may or may not have replaced Sam’s protein powder with powdered sugar.
In your defense, he’d replaced your shampoo with blue hair dye the week before. Escalation was inevitable.
So now, instead of field missions in foreign countries, you and Bucky are standing in a pristine S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility at six in the morning, staring down thirty fresh-faced recruits who look like they’ve never seen a real fight in their lives.
Bucky folds his arms over his chest. His metal hand catches the fluorescent light in a cold flash. He says nothing.
You say nothing.
The silence stretches.
One of the recruits swallows audibly.
Another shifts on their feet.
Bucky tilts his head just slightly, blue eyes narrowing with the kind of detached curiosity that makes grown mercenaries rethink their life choices. He doesn’t blink.
You lean in toward him just enough to murmur, loud enough for the front row to hear, “How long do you think before one of them cries?”
A girl in the second row visibly stiffens.
Bucky’s lips twitch. “Three minutes,” he replies evenly. “Four, if they’re stubborn.”
It takes two.
The first exercise is simple: situational awareness. The recruits are told to stand in formation and identify potential threats in the room.
There are none.
That’s the point.
You pace slowly in front of them, boots echoing against the polished floor. “Threat assessment isn’t just about what you see,” you say mildly. “It’s about what you don’t.”
They scan the corners. The ceiling vents. The mirrored wall.
You stop.
Bucky disappears.
One second he’s beside you. The next—gone.
No door opens. No sound.
A recruit in the back blinks. “Uh—Sir?”
Too late.
The lights cut out.
Complete darkness.
Someone gasps.
A metallic thud echoes from somewhere near the ceiling.
Then, in the pitch black, Bucky’s voice drifts from directly behind them.
“You’re all dead.”
The lights snap back on.
Half the group has dropped into defensive stances. One kid has fallen flat on his ass. Another looks genuinely pale.
Bucky stands calmly behind them, arms crossed again, as if he’s been there the whole time.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “Congratulations,” you say sweetly. “You’ve all just failed.”
The next exercise involves blindfolds.
You tell them it’s to sharpen their other senses.
It is not.
They’re instructed to stand still and identify when someone enters their personal space.
You lean close to one recruit’s ear and whisper, “Your zipper’s down.”
He shrieks and rips off the blindfold. It isn’t.
Across the room, Bucky has one recruit by the collar, lifting him an inch off the ground without a sound. The recruit makes a strangled noise.
“Dead,” Bucky says calmly, setting him back down.
You circle the group like a shark. “You think villains are going to announce themselves? Send a calendar invite? You’re prey until you prove otherwise.”
By lunch, the recruits look haunted.
By mid-afternoon, you decide to escalate.
The obstacle course is standard—walls, ropes, low crawl under barbed wire. Nothing unusual.
Until they realize you’re not just supervising.
You’re hunting.
They start the course in pairs.
You give them a thirty-second head start.
Then Bucky glances at you, one brow lifting slightly.
“Ready?” he asks.
You grin. “Always.”
You vault over the first wall like it’s nothing.
The recruits don’t know where to look. One minute you’re behind them, the next you’re ahead, perched casually on top of a cargo container.
“Too slow,” you call lazily as they scramble.
Bucky doesn’t run.
He stalks.
He appears at the end of a tunnel just as two recruits crawl out, and they nearly collide with him.
“Tag,” he says flatly, tapping one on the shoulder.
Eliminated.
A girl makes it over the rope climb and lands hard, breathing fast. She looks relieved.
Until she turns around.
You’re standing directly behind her.
She screams.
You clap once, sharply. “Better. That’s the appropriate reaction.”
By the final round, only five recruits remain untagged.
They huddle together instinctively.
You exchange a look with Bucky.
He nods once.
The lights flicker.
A prerecorded gunshot echoes through the room.
Smoke floods the floor from hidden vents—courtesy of some help from Natasha earlier that morning.
The recruits scatter.
You move through the haze like you were born in it. Silent. Precise.
One by one, you pick them off.
Bucky drops from the ceiling—literally drops—from a catwalk they hadn’t even noticed. He lands without a sound, taps the last recruit on the shoulder, and says, almost conversationally, “You grouped up. Makes you an easier target.”
The kid nods shakily.
When the smoke clears, the room is quiet again.
The recruits stand in a line, sweaty and shaken and very, very awake.
You pace in front of them, hands clasped behind your back.
“You’re scared,” you say plainly. “Good.”
Bucky steps forward beside you. His voice is lower now. Not taunting. Not amused.
Serious.
“You should be,” he adds. “Because out there?” He gestures vaguely, meaning the world. “It’s worse.”
You study their faces. The fear is still there—but underneath it, something else.
Focus.
Determination.
No one’s crying anymore.
You nod once. “You survived today,” you tell them. “Most don’t get that luxury.”
A pause.
Then Bucky’s mouth curves just slightly. “You’ll sleep with the lights on for a week,” he says. “That’s fine. Means you learned something.”
One brave recruit raises a hand. “Was this… punishment for you guys?”
You and Bucky glance at each other.
“Yeah,” you say.
“Absolutely,” he agrees.
The recruit hesitates. “Did you have to go that hard?”
You tilt your head thoughtfully. “We went easy.”
A collective look of horror spreads across the group.
Bucky claps his metal hand once, the sharp sound echoing. “Dismissed.”
They disperse quickly—some walking stiffly, some casting nervous glances over their shoulders.
When the room is empty, you finally let yourself laugh.
Bucky exhales through his nose, something dangerously close to fondness softening his features. “They’ll be good,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” you agree. “If they don’t quit first.”
He nudges your shoulder lightly with his flesh hand. “You enjoyed that.”
“Did not.”
He raises an eyebrow.
You grin. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Bucky smirks. “Nightmares build character.”
You loop your arm through his as you head for the exit. “Next time Sam pranks us,” you say thoughtfully, “we volunteer to train them again.”
Bucky hums. “We can add fake explosions.”
“Motion sensors in the dorms.”
“Whispering through the vents.”
You glance up at him. “You’re evil.”
His smile is slow and unapologetic.
“Yeah,” he says. “But they’ll never get snuck up on again.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Summary: When her cousin offers her a place to stay in Brooklyn, she doesn’t expect to share it with a handsome stranger who dresses like he belongs to the 1940s and speaks as though he’s learned the world secondhand—but at least he’s only there for a week.
Then she meets him again in the present day. Older. Changed. And wearing a familiar face, and a metal arm, she recognizes all too well.
Warnings: eventual romance; time travel; age difference; strangers to lovers; angst with a happy ending; 1940's bucky barnes
Author’s Note: Inspired by the novel "The Seven Year Slip" by Ashley Poston
READ PART I HERE!
God, how could she have been so stupid? James Buchanan Barnes—there was literally an exhibit for him in the Smithsonian. Captain America's oldest friend. A man frozen in time, brainwashed and manipulated by HYDRA to become the Winter Soldier.
She had been in middle school when the Triskelion in DC had fallen. She remembered her parents talking about it, just as she vaguely remembered news reports covering it and the Winter Soldier's involvement, but she hadn't even had a phone yet. She'd learned about Bucky Barnes in high school U.S. History, but she'd probably slept through half of those lessons. She'd never made the connection that the Bucky she knew was the famous villain-turned-reformed-hero.
That and no one really expected to see two versions of the same man about a decade apart in the same day, much less have a younger version of an Avenger living in their apartment.
She felt like she was going to be sick.
Bucky—this Bucky, the older one, whatever he was—took a step forward. His jaw was tight, his eyes searching her face like he was looking for something specific. "It's nice to meet you," he said quietly.
His voice was wrong. Deeper. Rougher around the edges. But still somehow, impossibly, his.
Sam glanced between them, his smile faltering. "Do you two know each other?"
"No," she said at the same time Bucky said, "Yes."
Her interviewer laughed, confused. "Which is it?"
Bucky's eyes never left hers. Something flickered in them.
"We've met before," he said carefully. "A long time ago."
Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.
"I don't—" Her voice cracked. "I don't understand."
"I know." And there was so much weight in those two words. Something that sounded like an apology. "I — I didn’t realize it would happen like this."
Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, maybe we should give them a minute—"
"No." She stepped back, shaking her head. "No, I need—I have to—"
She choked on her own words, stared at him for another beat, and walked out of the room.
She didn't run. Didn't let herself fall apart. Just walked with as much dignity as she could muster until she reached the elevator, jabbed the button, and prayed it would come before anyone followed her.
She jabbed the elevator button again. And again. Her hand was shaking.
James Barnes. Bucky Barnes.
The words looped in her head, nonsensical and terrifying. She pressed her palm against her chest, trying to slow her racing heart, trying to breathe through the nausea rising in her throat.
The elevator dinged. Finally.
The doors started to slide open, and she stepped forward.
A hand closed around her arm.
She yelped, spinning, ready to scream or fight or both—
And then she was being pulled sideways, into a dim storage closet that smelled like cleaning supplies and old paper. The door clicked shut behind her, plunging them into darkness.
"Let me go—" She shoved hard against a solid chest, panic flooding her system. "I swear to God, I will scream—"
The light flickered on.
And there he was.
The older Bucky. James Barnes. The one from the conference room.
He looked different under the harsh fluorescent light. Older, yes, but there was something else too. Something weathered and worn that went deeper than age. His blue eyes were the same, though. Impossibly, painfully the same.
"Hi," he said, hands raised in surrender. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just…I saw you leave and I couldn't—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "Without explaining."
"Explaining what?" Her voice came out strangled, too high. She pressed herself against the far wall of the tiny closet, as far from him as she could get. "Who are you? What are you? Because there's a man, a younger version of you, living in my apartment, and Violet doesn't know him, and you looked at me like you know me, and I don't—I can't—"
"Breathe," he said gently. "Please. Just breathe."
"Don't tell me to fucking breathe." She shook her head furiously, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "Don't tell me anything until you explain what the hell is happening because I feel like I'm losing my damn mind."
His face softened with something that looked like pain. "You're not losing your mind. I promise you're not."
"Then what is this? Who is the man in my apartment? Why does he look exactly like you?"
He was quiet for a moment, and she watched him weigh his words carefully. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured.
"The man in your apartment is me. A younger version of me. From 1943."
She stared at him. Waiting for the punchline. The ‘gotcha’. But his expression remained serious, almost grave.
"That's not funny," she said finally.
"I know. And I'm not joking." He leaned back against the door, arms crossed over his chest. A furrow had found its way between his brows. "The apartment, your cousin’s apartment, it's caught in some kind of time paradox. A loop. When he's inside, when I was inside all those years ago, it exists in 1943. Everything looks like it did back then. The furniture, the layout, even the view from the window."
"That's impossible."
"Yeah. That's what I said too." A bitter smile tugged at his mouth. "I've been to space. I've fought aliens. I died and came back. And somehow this is still the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me."
She was shaking her head, backing up until she hit the wall. "No. No, this is insane. You're insane. I need to—"
"The things you bring into the apartment," he continued, speaking over her rising panic. "Your clothes, your laptop, that coffee maker he couldn't figure out—those are the only things that are different. Everything else, to him, it's 1943. He sees it the way it was. The way it looked when he…when I stayed there the first time."
"Stop." She pressed her hands over her ears. "Stop talking."
But he didn't stop. His voice was quieter now, almost gentle. "When he leaves the apartment, he goes back to his time. 1943. And when you leave, you're still here. That's why he was so confused about your TV. About your appliances. To him, they don't exist."
She dropped her hands slowly, her mind racing through every strange moment of the past few days. The way he'd looked at her coffe maker like it was alien technology. His comments about the war. About his mother. The way he'd stared at the TV and insisted there was nothing there.
Oh God.
"This can't be real," she whispered. "How do you know Violet then? She's my age—"
"Was she named after her grandmother? That's the Violet I knew...back in my time."
Something bottomed out inside her. Violet had been named after her grandmother. Who had grown up in Brooklyn and lived in that apartment. It had stayed in the family for nearly a century now.
"I know it sounds impossible—"
"Because it is impossible. Time travel isn't—people don't just—" She was spiraling, she could feel it, but she couldn't stop. "How? How is any of this even possible?"
"I don't know the mechanics of it." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it made her chest ache. "But I've spoken with people who understand this stuff better than I do. After I left to go back home, I went looking for you, but it was like you never existed. Because you hadn't yet. It wasn't until this year, when I moved back here, that I found Doctor Strange and he confirmed it. Said the apartment exists in a temporal loop. Some kind of magical anomaly tied to the building's history."
"Doctor Strange," she repeated flatly. "The wizard."
"Sorcerer, technically. But yeah."
She laughed, but it came out wrong. Broken. Hysterical. "This is a nightmare. I'm having a nightmare."
"You're not." He took a small step closer, and she flinched. He stopped immediately, hands raised again. "I know this is a lot. Trust me, I know. But you're not dreaming. And you're not crazy."
"Then why?" Her voice cracked on her own words. "Why is this happening? Why me? Why you?"
Something flickered across his face, an emotion too complex to name. Grief, maybe. Or longing.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "Strange couldn't tell me that part. Just that the paradox exists. That it's always a constant." He paused, his eyes searching hers. "That it always leads here. To you."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.
"What do you mean, 'always leads to me'?"
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. "This isn't the first time we've met, right? The younger me, the one in your apartment right now, he doesn't know it yet. Won't know it until he's standing where I am. But I remember." He tapped his temple. "I remembered during the war. After I broke free of HYDRA. I always have. You turned my whole world upside down — the girl who I fell for who somehow didn’t exist. You think I could forget that?"
Her legs felt weak. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold linoleum floor. "I don't understand."
"Neither do I. Not completely." He crouched down in front of her, keeping his distance but close enough that she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the silver threaded through his dark hair. What was the age gap between them now? Fifteen years? "But I figured I’d find you again one day. Should have known you’d wind up here, for that interview you and I were prepping for all those years ago. I wanted to find you sooner but…kinda got busy with being brainwashed and all that.”
"That’s…comforting," she whispered.
He continued, voice dropping lower, "I still fell for you, sweetheart. Still care, even now. Even knowing how it ends. Even knowing it's impossible.”
"Why are you telling me this?" she breathed, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Why not just…I don't know, let it play out? He…I mean, you — are still staying in my place. And now that I know whatever fucked up magic this is —”
"Because I'm selfish." His laugh was bitter. "Because seeing you again…I couldn't just let you leave without you knowing. Without you understanding what this is. I’ve waited decades to see you again."
"I'm not anything to you. We just met."
"He just met you. I've known you since before the war." He shifted, settling to sit properly on the floor across from her. "In every way that matters, I've known you almost my whole life."
She pressed her hands against her face, trying to process. Trying to breathe. "This is too much. This is way too much."
"I know."
"I kissed him last night," she said through her fingers. "We…we almost—"
"I know that too." His voice was rough. Something flickred across his face. "I remember."
She dropped her hands and looked at him. Studied him. At the gray in his hair that the younger version didn't have. At the way his jaw was sharper, more defined. At the black glove now covering his left hand.
"What happened to you?" she asked quietly. Her eyes dropped down to his arm. "Between then and now?"
She wasn’t sure why she asked. Everyone knew what happened to James Barnes. It was in every American history book. Maybe she just needed to hear it from his lips.
"War. Mind control, torture. A lot of shit I wouldn't wish on anyone." He flexed his left hand, and she heard the whir of machinery. "Lost my arm in 1945. Got a fancy replacement courtesy of HYDRA and then later, Wakanda." He met her eyes. She could have sworn he looked nervous. Wary. "But that's not important right now."
"Can I—" She gestured at his arm. "Can I see it?"
His entire body went rigid. For a long moment, he just stared at her, something guarded and uncertain on his face.
"You don't have to," she added quickly. "I just…I want to understand."
"It's not pretty," he said quietly. "Nothing about what happened to me was pretty."
"I don't care about pretty."
He studied her face, searching for something. Revulsion, maybe. Pity. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to find it, because after a moment, he let out a slow breath and pulled off the glove.
The arm beneath was black metal. Vibranium. It caught the fluorescent light overhead, reflecting it in intricate patterns. Beautiful, in a lethal sort of way.
He held it out stiffly, like he was bracing for her to recoil.
Instead, she inched closer.
"Can I touch it?"
His eyes widened slightly. "I…yeah. If you want."
She reached out slowly, her fingers hovering just above the metal plating. When she finally made contact, the surface was cool and smooth, nothing like the skin she had felt last night. But somehow still him.
She traced the gold lines threading through the black, following them up toward his shoulder where metal met flesh. He shivered under her touch. She glanced up to find him watching her with an expression she couldn't quite name.
"Does it hurt?" she asked softly.
"Sometimes. At the connection point." His voice was rough. "But mostly it just feels...foreign. Like it belongs to someone else."
"It doesn't." She met his eyes. "It's yours. Part of you."
"That’s very romantic of you. Always knew your generation loved technology a bit too much.”
"Shut up." She ran her fingertips over the palm, marveling at the craftsmanship. "It's beautiful. Pretty terrifying, but beautiful.”
He let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "That's one way to describe it."
She continued her exploration, noting the way the plates shifted slightly with his movements, the subtle whir of machinery beneath the surface.
"Thank you," she said finally, letting go."For showing me."
He pulled the glove back on, shooting her a familiar smirk. "Thank you for not thinking it’s hideous."
She offered a small smile back. “I don’t think I could ever think you’re hideous.”
"Yeah?" His mouth quirked. "Could've fooled me with how fast you left that conference room."
"I panicked. Sue me."
"Wouldn't dream of it, doll."
She shook her head, but she was grinning now. "You're different from him. The younger you."
"Yeah, well." He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Eighty-something years and a shitload of trauma will do that to a person."
"It's not just that." She tilted her head, studying him. "You're more...settled. More sure of yourself. He's got all that swagger, but underneath it, he's trying so hard to impress me."
"And I'm not?"
"You're not. You already know how this goes." She paused. "Though for the record, you aged well. Really well. The whole silver fox thing works for you."
He blinked, then huffed out a surprised laugh. "Silver fox?"
"What? It's a compliment."
"It makes me sound old."
"You are old. You're like a hundred."
"Hundred and seven, actually. But who's counting?" He was grinning now, that crooked smile that was so familiar it made her chest ache. "And here I thought you had a thing for younger men."
"I have a thing for men who make me coffee and leave me flowers. Apparently, that spans multiple decades. Always figured dating older would be a good way to go. Never knew it would be an age difference of close to a century though."
His grin softened into something warmer. "Careful. Keep talking like that and I might get ideas."
"What kind of ideas?"
"The kind where I kiss you in this storage closet and really confuse the space-time continuum."
Her breath caught. For a moment, she forgot they were different people separated by eighty years. Forgot everything except the heat in his eyes and the way he was looking at her exactly the same way the younger him had looked at her yesterday.
She took a breath. Closed her eyes for a second.
Then reality crashed back in.
"We can't," she said, but her voice was unsteady.
"I know." He pushed off the wall, running a hand through his hair. The heat in his eyes had faded into something more nervous. "Sorry. That was…I shouldn't have said that."
"It's okay." And strangely, it was. "For what it’s worth, it just feels…I don’t know. I need to process this for a while. Knowing I’m going out with a guy born at the same time as my grandpa.”
"Yeah. I get it." His smile was sad now. "You should go. Before I really do something stupid."
She nodded, but she didn't move immediately. There was still so much she wanted to ask. So much she needed to understand.
"I could tell him," she said suddenly. "The younger you. I could warn him. About the war, about HYDRA, about…about all of it. Change your future. Stop all this from happening."
His expression shuttered immediately. "No."
"But if I could—"
"You can't." His voice was firm now, brooking no argument. "Some things are fixed in time. My past—my future, from his perspective—it's one of those things. It has to happen the way it happened."
"Even the bad parts?"
"Especially the bad parts." He stepped closer, his eyes intense. "Because all of it—the war, HYDRA, the decades of trying to find myself again—all of it led me back to Steve. Here to Sam, to the Avengers. Back to you." His hand came up, hovering near her face before dropping back to his side. "You tell him, you change things, maybe I never find you again. Maybe this magic shit breaks and I lose the only good thing I've had in a century."
Her eyes burned, but she swallowed down the emotional fallout fromt the gravity of his statement. "That's not fair. You shouldn't have to suffer just so we can meet. I…I’ve known you for a week."
"Maybe not. But I'd do it anyway." His smile was gentle, resigned. "Some things are worth the price. Trust me on that one."
She pressed her hands over her temple, overwhelmed. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to go back there and pretend everything's normal when I know…when I know how it ends."
"You don't have to pretend." He carefully pulled her hands away from her face, his metal hand surprisingly gentle despite the fact she knew it tear people in half. "You just have to be honest. With him. With yourself. About what you want from the time you have left."
"What I want," she repeated hollowly. "What I want is for this to make sense. This is all so insane. And you’re telling me it’s going to end tomorrow?"
"I can't give you that." His thumbs brushed over her knuckles. "But I can tell you that what you build with him, even if it's temporary, it'll be real. And it carried me through the war. So, at least give him that."
She looked down at their joined hands. His flesh hand felt familiar, though old scars — pale, white with time — lined his skin.
“Some things are worth it. Even when they hurt." He leaned forward slightly. "And because that kid back there? The one who made you coffee and left you a rose? He's falling for you so hard he can't see straight. And you're falling for him too. I can see it all over your face."
She felt blood rush to her cheeks. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she hoped he didn’t notice. "You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do. Because I lived it." His smile was gentle now. His eyes flickered down to her lips. "I was him, remember? I know exactly what he's feeling. What you're feeling."
She hiccupped out something between a laugh and a sob. "You're not making this easier."
"I'm not trying to make it easier. I'm trying to be honest." He stood slowly, offering her both hands. Real flesh and black vibranium. "Come on. I should let you go before Sam comes looking for me."
She stared at his hand for a moment before taking it. The metal was surprisingly gentle as he pulled her to her feet.
She could see faint scars on his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. Could smell leather and something that might have been cigarette smoke. The same scent she had breathed in last night.
He was real. All of this was real.
"One more thing," he said quietly. "Before you go."
"What?"
"Tonight. He's going to want to take you on that date. The one he promised you." His thumb brushed over her knuckles, just once. "If you do it, if you decide to see this through, don't hold back. Don't protect yourself. Just...let yourself feel it. All of it. He deserves that. You both do."
Her throat felt tight. What could she even say to that? To any of this? "Okay."
He opened the door carefully, checking that the hallway was clear. She could hear voices from the conference room. Sam, her interviewer, someone else.
"For what it's worth," Bucky said quietly, not looking at her, "he's going to fall in love with you. If he hasn't already. Just thought you should know."
He was gone before she could respond. Striding down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, leaving her standing alone in the doorway of a storage closet with heart a wreck and her entire understanding of reality in pieces at her feet.
____
She sat pressed against the window of the subway, watching Brooklyn slide by in flashes of brick and graffiti and autumn light, her mind unable to settle on any single thought for more than a few seconds.
Time paradox. 1943. He's going to fall in love with you. Every single time.
Her phone buzzed. Fiona asking how the interview went. She stared at the text for a long moment before typing back a simple ‘Good. tell you later’ and shoving the phone back in her bag.
How was she supposed to explain this? How was she supposed to go back to that apartment and look him in the eye knowing what she knew?
But she'd made her choice.
She was going back.
Back to him.
By the time she climbed the stairs to the apartment, her heart was hammering against her ribs. She stood outside the door for a moment, key in hand, trying to steady her breathing.
Just be normal. Just be you.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Bucky was standing in the kitchen, and the sight of him—younger and whole, grinning at her like she'd just made his entire day—hit her like a physical blow.
"There she is!" He moved toward her immediately, practically bouncing on his heels. She could see he'd put effort into his appearance. His hair was freshly combed, his shirt pressed, suspenders perfectly aligned. "How'd it go? Did you knock 'em dead or what?"
"I—" Her voice caught. She forced a smile, blinking back the burning sensation behind her eyes. "Yeah. I think it went really well, actually."
"That's my girl." He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne. That same sandalwood and something crisp she'd come to associate with him. "I'm proud of you, doll. Really."
The sincerity in his voice made her chest ache. She wanted to throw her arms around him and never let go. Wanted to tell him everything about the older version of himself she'd just met, about the loop, about the future waiting for him.
But she couldn't.
"Thank you," she managed.
"Now come on, get changed into something nice. I've got reservations at this place in Manhattan. Real classy joint. They've got a band and everything." His excitement was palpable, boyish, so full of life it made her want to cry. "I want to take you out properly. Show you off."
And that's when it hit her.
If they left the apartment, he'd be back in 1943. And she'd be here.
They'd be in different times, different worlds, unable to see or touch each other even if they were standing side by side.
"Wait—" The word came out too sharp. She saw his expression shift from excitement to concern.
"What's wrong?"
"I just—" She set down her bag, mind racing. "Can we stay here instead?"
He blinked. "Here?"
"Yeah. We could cook something together. Like we did before." The words were tumbling out faster now, desperate. "And we could dance. You said you wanted to dance with me, right? We could put on more records and just—stay in. Together."
"Doll, I want to take you out. A real date. You deserve more than—"
"I don't want to go out." She stepped closer, reaching for his hands. Her voice came out fiercer than she'd intended, and she winced. "Bucky, I want to be here. Alone with you. Just us, no crowds, no distractions. I want—"
Her voice softened, became more honest than she'd intended. "I want to exist in this space with you. This apartment. Where it's just you and me and nothing else matters. Can we do that? Please?"
He searched her face for a moment, confusion giving way to something warmer. Something tender. "You really want to stay in?"
"I really do."
A slow smile spread across his face. "Well, when you put it like that, how can I say no?" He squeezed her hands. "Let me at least make it nice, though. A proper dinner. Candlelight and everything."
Relief flooded through her so intensely she felt dizzy. "That sounds perfect."
"Yeah?" He pulled her closer, and she let herself sink into him for just a moment, breathing him in. "You sure you're okay? You seem a little..."
"I'm fine." She pulled back, forcing brightness into her voice. "Just tired. It's been a long day. Let me change into something comfortable and I'll help you cook."
"Take your time. I'll get started."
She disappeared into her bedroom and closed the door, leaning against it with her eyes shut. Her hands were shaking.
Get it together. You have tonight. Just tonight. Make it count.
She changed out of her interview clothes into a simple dress. Soft, fitted, the kind of thing that felt effortless but still made her feel pretty. When she emerged, Bucky's eyes went wide.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You look—"
"Don't." She crossed to the kitchen, fighting a blush. "It's just a dress. No need to get excited."
"It's not just anything." But he let it drop, turning his attention to the ingredients spread across the counter. "I'm thinking we do it right this time. Maybe some steaks? I saw you had potatoes. We could do those herb ones you mentioned."
"Sounds prefect."
They fell into an easy rhythm while they cooked, their bodies moving around each other in the small kitchen like a choreographed dance. He kept making her laugh with stories about the garage, about his friend Steve who was "a scrawny pain in the ass but loyal as they come."
"He sounds like a good friend," she said, and her chest tightened at the mention of his friend. The first Captain America. And he had a crush on her cousin’s grandmother. If she had paid him any mind, would he have joined the Army? Became a superhero?
"The best." Bucky grinned. "Though don't tell him I said that. His head's big enough as it is. I'll introduce you to him soon. He’ll love you."
She smiled despite herself, letting the normalcy of it wash over her, even as guilt crept in at the edges.
When dinner was ready, he insisted on plating it properly, even going so far as to light the candles he'd dug out from somewhere. They ate at the small table, knees bumping underneath, and she tried to memorize everything. The way candlelight caught in his hair. The way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room. The way he laughed, open and unguarded.
His older self had seemed so different. So much more guarded, jaded. His eyes alone looked like they carried a century of weight. And this young man in front of her hadn't even enlisted yet. Hadn't lost a limb, been turned into a weapon and had his memories locked away with him.
And yet, she realized she felt the same way looking at his older self as she did the man in front of her. Joy. A sense of belonging. The beginnings of something much deeper.
She swallowed a bite of steak that suddenly felt too dry and took a far larger sip of wine than she needed.
"Can I ask you something?" he said as they were finishing up.
"Anything."
"What do you want? Like, really want. Five years from now, ten years from now. What's the dream?"
She set down her fork, considering. "I want to be good at what I do. I want to matter. I want—" She paused. "I want to build something that lasts. Something real."
"You will." There was no doubt in his voice. "I can see it. You're going places, doll. Big places."
"What about you?" She forced herself to ask even though she wasn't sure she could handle the answer. "What do you want?"
His expression grew more serious. "Honestly? I want to enlist."
Her heart stopped. "Enlist."
"Yeah. In the Army." He leaned back in his chair, and there was something determined in his eyes. Something noble and foolish and so achingly young. "The war's getting worse every day. We're gonna need all hands on deck soon. And I want…I need to do my part. Can't just sit here while other guys are over there fighting."
"Bucky—" She didn't know what to say. Couldn't tell him not to go, that if he did he would lose his arm, his mind, and decades of his life.
"I know it's dangerous," he continued, misreading her silence as worry. "I know there's a chance I won't come back. But it's the right thing to do. And besides—" His smile turned playful, but there was something underneath it. Something scared, despite his bravado. "I'm pretty tough. I'll be fine."
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't look at him without seeing the older version, the metal arm, the weight of all those years crushing down on him.
"Let's not talk about the war," she said abruptly, her voice coming out sharper than she'd intended. "Not tonight. Tonight, let's just…let's dance. You promised me a dance."
He studied her for a moment, something curious flickering across his face, but then he nodded slowly. The grin returned. "Okay. Yeah. Dancing. I can do that."
He stood and crossed to the record player, selecting something slow and jazzy. When he turned back, he held out his hand with a small bow. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
She took it without hesitation.
He pulled her close, closer than before, and they began to sway. His hand was warm on her lower back, solid and sure. She rested her head against his shoulder and let herself just feel.
"This okay?" he murmured against her hair.
"Perfect."
They moved together in the small space, the music washing over them, and she felt something in her chest crack open. This was it. This moment. This was what the older Bucky had remembered for eighty years.
Strange, to think that what he knew of his past was her future. Strange that any of this was happening at all. That she was dancing in her apartment with a man from the 1940s.
"I have to go back tomorrow," he said quietly. "Back home."
She went still against him. "What?"
"My time. I've been here almost a week. I need to get back before—" He paused, and she felt him tense slightly. "Before things get complicated at home."
He doesn't know. He doesn't understand what leaving means.
"Bucky—"
"But I'll come back," he said quickly, pulling back to look at her. "I’ll visit you before I go. I'll write to you. And when I'm on leave, I'll come straight here. I promise."
She felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "You promise?"
She didn't know why she asked that. Maybe she just wanted to know how he felt about her. About them.
"Cross my heart." His thumb brushed her cheek, and his brow furrowed when he felt the wetness there. "Hey, what's wrong? Talk to me."
"I just—" Her voice broke. "I don't want this to end."
"It doesn't have to end. It's just—it's a pause. That's all." His smile was gentle, reassuring, so full of hope it made her want to scream. "And when I enlist, when I go overseas, you'll wait for me, right? Write to me? Be here when I get back?"
The lie tasted like ash on her tongue. "Yes. I'll wait."
"Good." He leaned his forehead against hers. "Because you're—Christ, you're everything. You know that? In just a few days, you've become so much to me."
And then he was kissing her.
Not gentle like before. Not tentative. This was urgent and desperate and full of all the things he couldn't say.
She kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. She hoped her kiss, her energy, was full of all the things she couldn’t say as well.
He walked her backward until her back hit the wall, his mouth never leaving hers. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her hair, sliding up her sides—and she couldn't get enough.
"Bucky—" She gasped against his lips. "Wait."
He pulled back immediately, breathing hard. "Too much?"
"No. Not enough." She met his eyes, her decision made. Because, fuck it. She might as well commit to the end, if this was the final day. "Come to bed with me. Stay with me tonight."
His eyes went wide. "Doll, I…are you sure?"
"I'm sure." She took his hand, pressing it against her racing heart. "I want this. I want you. All of you. Tonight."
He searched her face, and she saw the exact moment he stopped questioning it. Stopped holding back.
"Okay," he said roughly. "Yeah. Okay."
She led him to her bedroom, her heart pounding so hard she could barely breathe. When they crossed the threshold, he stopped, looking around at her space with something like wonder.
"This is where you sleep," he said softly.
"Good observation.."
"It's—" He turned back to her, and the look in his eyes made her knees weak. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
She reached for him, pulling him down into another kiss. He came willingly, eagerly, his hands finding the zipper of her dress.
"Can I?" he murmured against her mouth.
"Please."
What followed was slow and sweet and achingly intimate. He took his time learning her—every sound she made, every place that made her gasp, every way he could make her come undone. And when they finally came together, when he buried his face in her neck and groaned her name like a prayer, she felt something fundamental shift inside her.
This was it.
This was what the older Bucky had been talking about. This connection. This rightness.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her shoulder.
"Stay," she whispered. "All night. Don't leave."
"Wasn't planning on it." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "I'm right where I want to be."
She closed her eyes, committing every detail to memory. The warmth of his skin. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The weight of his arm around her.
Because tomorrow, he'd be gone.
And she'd be left with nothing but memories and the ghost of a man who'd loved her across time itself.
But tonight he was here. And that would have to be enough.
—-
She woke to the sound of movement in the kitchen.
For a blissful, sleep-fogged moment, she didn't remember anything. Just registered lingering warmth beside her, dawn streaming through the curtains, and the smell of coffee drifting through the apartment.
Then it all came crashing back.
He's leaving today.
She sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around her waist, and looked at the empty space beside her where he'd been. The pillow still held the indent of his head. She pressed her hand against it, feeling the lingering warmth.
This whole thing is so fucked.
"Morning, beautiful."
She looked up to find him standing in the doorway, fully dressed, two mugs of coffee in his hands. His hair was perfectly slicked back again, his smile bright and easy, like last night had been the best night of his life.
It probably had been.
The contrast between his happiness and the weight crushing her chest was almost unbearable.
"Hi," she managed, accepting the coffee he handed her.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his free hand finding her knee through the sheet. "Sleep okay?"
"Yeah." The lie came easily. She'd barely slept at all, too busy memorizing the feel of him beside her, the sound of his breathing, the way he'd held her like she was something precious.
"Good." He leaned in and kissed her softly, and she tasted coffee and something sweet. "Because I wore you out pretty good last night."
Despite everything, she felt her face heat. "Confident, aren't we?"
"Just stating facts, doll." His grin was smug. "You made some very enthusiastic noises."
"Oh my God." She buried her face in her free hand. "You're the worst."
"And yet, here we are." He tugged her hand away, his expression softening. "Last night ws amazing, by the way. In case you were wondering."
Her throat felt tight. "I know. I was thinking the same."
They sat there for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on her knee, her trying desperately to memorize every detail of his face in the morning light.
"I have to go soon," he said finally, and she heard the reluctance in his voice. "Need to head home. See my Ma, my sister."
Her stomach dropped. "Right. Of course."
"But I'll come back. As soon as I get the enlistment paperwork handled." He squeezed her knee. "And I'll be back on leave before you know it. We can do this again. All of it."
"Bucky—"
"I know." He stood, pulling her up with him and into his arms. "I know it's hard. But this isn't goodbye, okay? It's just...temporary. I promise."
She pressed her face into his chest, breathing him in one last time. Sandalwood and coffee and something uniquely him. "Okay."
"Hey." He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You gonna be alright?"
"Yeah." Another lie. "I'll be fine."
"That's my girl." He kissed her again, slower this time, tender and sweet. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft. "Thank you. For everything. For letting me stay. For giving me this week. For—" His voice roughened. "For last night. For you."
"Bucky, I—" The words caught in her throat. I love you. Don't go. Stay with me. Please.
"I know," he said, like he could read her mind. "Me too."
He kissed her forehead, then stepped back. "I'll see you soon, doll. I promise."
And then he was grabbing his jacket from the chair, flashing her one last grin, and heading for the door.
She followed him on shaking legs, the sheet wrapped around her like armor.
He paused in the doorway, hand on the knob, and looked back at her one more time. "Wait for me?"
"I'll wait," she whispered.
His smile could have lit up the city. "Good."
And then he was gone.
She stood there, staring at the closed door, her heart hammering in her chest. Any second now, she'd hear his footsteps in the hallway. Hear him descending the stairs. Hear him leaving.
But there was only silence.
She made it three steps back toward the bedroom before her legs gave out.
She sank onto the couch, the sheet tangling around her, and finally let herself break.
The sob that escaped her was raw and ugly, torn from somewhere deep in her chest. She pressed her hands over her mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it was useless. Tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting, and she couldn't stop them.
He was gone.
Really, truly gone. Back to 1943, to a war that would destroy him, to a future full of pain and loss and horrors she couldn't prevent.
And she'd let him go.
You had to. You didn't have a choice.
But that didn't make it hurt any less.
She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and let herself cry. For him. For them. For the impossible, beautiful thing they'd had for less than a week.
She loved him.
The realization hit her like a freight train, stealing what little breath she had left.
She was in love with Bucky Barnes. A man from 1943. A man she'd never see again.
No.
The thought came suddenly, fiercely.
No. I'm not letting him walk into that alone. I'm not letting him go without telling him. Without trying.
She scrambled off the couch, nearly tripping over the sheet. She didn't bother getting dressed, just ran for the door in nothing but her underwear and the sheet clutched around her.
She threw the door open and burst into the hallway—
And stopped.
The hallway was empty. Completely empty.
"No. No, no, no—" She ran down the hallway anyway, desperate, irrational. "Bucky!”
Her voice echoed off the walls, but there was no answer. No one emerged from their apartments to see what the commotion was. The building felt eerily still, like she was the only person in it. In New York, no one would bother to come out to hear any sort of commotion.
She made it to the stairwell and looked down, but she already knew. Already understood.
He was gone. Not just down the stairs but back to 1943, to a world she couldn't follow him to.
"Fuck!" She slammed her hand against the wall, pain radiating up her arm. "FUCK!"
She'd been so stupid. So cowardly. She should have told him. Should have said the words while she still had the chance.
I'm falling in love with you. Don't go.
But she hadn't. And now it was too late.
She turned back toward her apartment, furious with herself, embarrassed by her own desperation. Running after him half-naked like some lovesick idiot. What had she been thinking? What kind of stupid plan did she think she had? Stay in the apartment with me for the rest of your life and don’t leave? Don’t enlist and come find me when you’re a hundred years old instead?
She was almost to her door when a voice called out behind her.
"That’s a good look on you, but maybe we can just keep that one for behind closed doors."
She whirled around.
Bucky stood at the end of the hallway, hands in his pockets, expression carefully neutral. The older Bucky. He was wearing the same leather jacket from yesterday, the same dark jeans. His short hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it.
For a moment, she just stared at him.
Then something inside her snapped.
"You!" She marched toward him, sheet trailing behind her like a cape, fury and grief and love all tangled up inside her. "This is your fault!"
Bucky raised an eyebrow, looking far too amused for someone about to get yelled at. His eyes trailed down her figure appreciatively. "Tell me how it's my fault. Can't say I won't agree with whatever you say based on that current attire though."
"Cut the shit." Her voice rose into something between a snarl and a sob. "You—you told me not to tell him, you told me to let him go, and I did, and now he's gone and I didn't—I couldn't—"
Her voice broke, and she hated herself for it. Hated that she was standing here in a hallway in her underwear, crying over a man who'd left eighty years ago.
Bucky's amusement faded, replaced by something gentler. He didn't move toward her, just stood there letting her spiral.
"I let him walk away," she continued, her voice raw. "I let him walk straight into that future. Into the war and HYDRA and all of it. And I didn't say…I didn't tell him—"
"That you love him?" Bucky's voice was quiet.
She stopped, the words hitting her like a slap. "I—"
"It's okay." He took a step closer. "I know. I remember."
"You remember?" She laughed bitterly, swiping at her face. "Of course you do. You remember everything. This is your past. You should have told me about this yesterday. Before I capitalized on the 'biggest idiot of the year' award."
"You're not an idiot." His voice was firm. "You did exactly what you were supposed to do."
"I should have stopped him." Fresh tears spilled over. "I should have told him not to enlist. Should have locked the door and never let him leave."
"You couldn't have." He stepped closer, his expression serious now. "Even if you'd tried, he would have found a way. Some things are fixed, remember? My path was always going to lead where it led."
"That's not fair."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
They stood there in the hallway, and she felt the fight drain out of her, leaving only exhaustion and grief in its wake.
"Why are you here?" she asked finally, her voice small.
"Because I knew what was going to happen," he said, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. Something almost sheepish. "And I couldn't help myself. Told you it was just temporary, didn't I?"
Her breath caught. "What?"
"I knew." He pulled his hands from his pockets. "The second I saw you in that conference room yesterday, I knew. I remembered. This day. This moment." His smile turned sad. "I've lived this before. Just from the other side."
He looked almost guilty. "I just didn’t know that when I came back here to see you again, a few days later, it was like you never existed at all. And now, you do. And I kept on waiting, hoping I’d run into you one day again when you’d remember me."
"Why?" The word came out broken, loose. "Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you—"
"Because eighty years is a long time to miss someone," he said quietly. "And I'm tired of missing you."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to breathe through the ache.
"I'm not him," Bucky continued, taking another careful step closer. "I know that. I'm older. I've got more baggage than anyone should have to carry. I've done things I'm not proud of, seen things I can't unsee." He gestured at himself almost helplessly. "I'm not the kid who charmed you with old-fashioned manners. I'm—"
"You're still him," she interrupted, her voice shaking. "You're just...further down the line."
"Yeah." His expression softened. "I am. Same terrible jokes. Same inability to work modern technology." His mouth quirked. "Same guy who falls for you every single time, no matter what decade it is."
She let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "This is insane."
"I know."
"You're a hundred years old."
"Hundred and seven, actually, remember?"
"And you're telling me you've been carrying this, carrying me, for eighty years?"
"Give or take." He took another step closer, close enough now that she could feel his warmth, see the years in his eyes. "Look, I know this is a lot. I know I'm asking for something that doesn't make any sense. But I came back because—"
He stopped, jaw working. "Because I love you. Still. Always. And if there's any part of you that could see past the years and the scars and all the ways I'm different—"
"Stop." She held up a hand, and he went silent immediately. "Just—give me a second."
He waited, patient and tense all at once, while she tried to organize her thoughts.
She looked at him quietly. The older face, the harder edges, the weight he carried in his shoulders. He wasn't the boy who'd left this morning. Wasn't the one who'd held her last night with such earnest sweetness.
But when she looked in his eyes, she saw him. The same blue. The same warmth. The same person underneath all those years.
"So let me get this straight," she said finally, wiping her face with the edge of the sheet. "You're a hundred and seven years old?"
He blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. "Uh. Yeah."
"And you want to date me? A twenty-two-year-old?"
"I—when you put it like that—"
"Because I have to tell you, Barnes." She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips despite everything. "That age gap is kind of concerning. What are we going to talk about? Your war stories? How much better music was in the forties?"
Understanding dawned on his face, followed by a slow, cautious smile. "Are you seriously giving me shit right now?"
"I'm just saying. You're practically ancient. Do you even know how to work a smartphone? Can you stay up past nine o'clock?" She pretended to study him critically. "Should I be worried about your hips?"
"My hips are fine, thank you very much. I’d love to show you."
"What about your back? All that heavy lifting as an Avenger probably did a number—"
"My back is also fine. Super soldier serum does wonders." He was fully grinning now, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Anything else you want to mock me for?"
"Give me time. I'm sure I'll think of something." She paused, her smile softening. "Though I suppose I could be persuaded to overlook the age thing. If you ask nicely."
The hope that bloomed on his face was almost painful to witness. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She took a step toward him, then another. "You're still you. Different, but the same. And I—" Her voice caught. "God, this whole thing is crazy, but I think I love you too. Both versions. All versions. I don't know how that's possible, but—"
She didn't get to finish.
He closed the distance between them and kissed her.
It was different from how the younger Bucky had kissed her. Less exploratory, more certain. Like a man who'd been waiting a lifetime for this moment and wasn't going to waste a second of it.
But underneath the differences, it was still him. The same warmth, the same tenderness, the same feeling of rightness that made her chest ache.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she found herself laughing despite the tears still on her cheeks.
"What?" he asked, his forehead resting against hers.
"Nothing. Just—" She shook her head. "You're a little rustier than you were eighty years ago."
He pulled back, mock-offended. "Rustier?"
"I'm just saying. The younger version of you was pretty smooth. Very confident. This was a little—"
"A little what?" He was trying not to smile.
"Tentative?" She grinned up at him. "Like you forgot how to kiss somewhere between 1943 and now."
"Oh, that's how we're playing this?" His hands settled on her waist, pulling her closer. "You want to compare me to my younger self?"
"I mean, I have a pretty good reference point. Last night was very memorable."
"Christ." He dropped his head to her shoulder with a groan. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Probably. But you waited eighty years for me, so you must think I'm worth it."
"I do." His voice was muffled against her shoulder. "Even when you're being a pain in my ass."
"Especially when I'm being a pain in your ass."
He lifted his head, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch. "For the record? The rust is because I waited. There was never anyone else. Just you. Every version of you. So yeah, maybe I need some practice. But I'm a quick learner. Especially if you're willing to help me brush up."
Her throat felt tight. "You really waited?"
"Every day." His thumb brushed her cheek. "And I'd do it again."
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him again, softer this time. A promise.
"Come inside," she whispered against his lips. "Please."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." She pulled back and tugged the sheet more securely around herself. "Though I should probably put on actual clothes first."
"Don't do it on my account." The teasing was back in his voice, and it made something in her chest settle. "I'm enjoying the view."
She swatted his arm. "Behave. You're a hundred years old. Have some decorum."
"Never with you." But he followed her inside, and when she closed the door behind them, she felt something shift. Something settle.
This wasn't the ending she'd expected.
But maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning she needed.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Summary: When her cousin offers her a place to stay in Brooklyn, she doesn’t expect to share it with a handsome stranger who dresses like he belongs to the 1940s and speaks as though he’s learned the world secondhand—but at least he’s only there for a week.
Then she meets him again in the present day. Older. Changed. And wearing a familiar face, and a metal arm, she recognizes all too well.
Warnings: eventual romance; time travel; age difference; strangers to lovers; angst with a happy ending; 1940's bucky barnes
Author’s Note: Inspired by the novel "The Seven Year Slip" by Ashley Poston
It was definitely a bit difficult writing this bearing in mind that Bucky was thinking he was still in 1943, while the reader perspective was in present-day. But that being said, the more obvious 'abnormal' things are to people and the more exposure they have to them, the less obvious things are. Like his 1940's clothes and her wearing pants.
The last thing she expected to find in her cousin's apartment was a young man smoking at the kitchen table, one hand curled around a coffee cup like he owned the place.
She wasn't entirely sure what she had expected to find. It had been seven years since she'd last set foot in Brooklyn, after all. Old photographs yellowed at the edges, perhaps. Bizarre knickknacks from Violet's travels. Maybe even mice, or that particular musty sweetness that seemed to cling to every surface in elderly people's homes. But a living, breathing Adonis? That hadn't made the list.
Then again, maybe it should have.
Her cousin—second cousin, really—had always been eccentric. The black sheep gleefully paraded at family Christmas dinners, each year arriving with a boyfriend younger than the last. She'd made enough money with modeling to spend most of seemingly every year traveling the world, her Brooklyn apartment she inherited from her grandmother serving as little more than a glorified storage unit. A month here, a week there, never long enough to gather dust. Plus, the inheritance from her deceased stepfather meant Violet had never worked a real day in her life, and never planned to.
The number of times she'd actually seen her cousin outside of those obligatory holiday dinners? She could count them on one hand.
Which made the offer all the more bewildering. The keys to the apartment had come to her, not to her mother, not to her other cousins. Her. Violet was going to be gone for most of the year gallivanting around Asia, and had offered up the place free of charge when she'd heard her complaining about rising rent prices in the city. She wasn't complaining. Her last year at NYU was expensive enough without rent, and the commute to any job she could get in the city would be cut in half. It was a gift. An unexpected, generous gift.
She just hadn't expected it to come with one of Violet's flings still in residence.
When she'd burst through the door with a cardboard box of kitchen appliances wedged under one arm and an overstuffed suitcase threatening to explode in the other, she'd been too busy cursing the frayed doormat that nearly sent her sprawling to notice him at first.
Then she looked up.
The man at the table didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He simply sat there, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, and watched her with the kind of detached curiosity you might reserve for a stray cat that had wandered in off the street.
She stood frozen in the doorway, the box cutting into her ribs, her pulse hammering so hard from initial fear she could feel it in her throat. When she finally managed to speak, her voice came out strangled, pitching higher than she would've liked. "I—what the hell are you doing in my apartment?"
He didn't move. Just arched one dark brow, slow and deliberate, like she'd asked him something vaguely amusing.
And that's when she made the mistake of really looking at him.
God help her.
He was tall. She could tell even with him sitting down. Broad-shouldered, lean, the kind of build that didn't come from a gym but from actual physical labor. His hair was dark and slicked back in a style that should've looked outdated but somehow didn't, and he wore suspenders—actual suspenders, one strap sliding carelessly off his shoulder. His dress shirt was rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms that were unfairly well-defined, and his slacks were tailored, hemmed just above the ankle in an annoyingly intentional way.
He looked like he'd stepped out of a 1940s film noir. Or a very committed mafia cosplay.
His eyes, a vivid blue, dragged over her slowly. Head to toe. Taking inventory.
She knew that look. Four years of college had taught her the difference between a man glancing your way and a man cataloging you, piece by piece, like you were something he might want to acquire. This was the latter.
Heat crawled up her neck, equal parts indignation and attraction. Not that she would give this man the satisfaction of knowing that.
She tightened her grip on the suitcase handle and lifted her chin.
"Well?" she demanded, fighting to keep her voice steady and not show her internal panic. "Are you going to answer my question, or are you going to make me call the cops?"
The man's lips pulled up into a half-smirk, and something like a chuckle escaped him. The sound was low and entirely too confident. "Well, you got some fire in ya, don't you, doll?"
She gaped at him, stunned by his audacity. Or maybe it was obstinance. Either way, at least she knew he was definitely from Brooklyn with that accent of his. Easier for the police to track him down if she had to file a report. "Listen, buddy, this isn't funny. Breaking and entering isn't funny at all. You have five seconds to explain yourself before I call the cops and let them know that a goddamn stranger is squatting in my apartment—"
"See, it's funny you keep referring to it as your apartment," the man interrupted, grinning at her cheekily. He got up slowly, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray, "when it's actually neither of ours."
He moved toward her with easy, unhurried steps. "That box looks heavy. Lemme get that for you."
She wished she could say she stood her ground, barked back at him, or done anything remotely impressive in that moment. Instead, she stood there rooted to the spot, watching him close the distance like she'd witnessed something catastrophic and her body had forgotten how to respond.
When he lifted the box from her arms, she didn't resist. Didn't even twitch. Just let him take it, let him carry it to the kitchen counter like this was perfectly fine.
He could have done anything in that moment. Absolutely anything. And she would have just stood there, wide-eyed and useless.
God, her survival instincts were pathetic.
It wasn't until he'd returned and plucked the suitcase from her grip, moving past her into the hallway where the rest of her life sat stacked in cardboard, that her brain finally lurched back into gear. He was already hoisting the box labeled "FRAGILE - DISHES" when she found her voice again.
"What—what do you mean it's neither of ours?" She thrust the keys toward his face, metal jangling. "I literally just unlocked the door in front of you!"
He paused, glanced down at the keys, then back up at her. That infuriating smirk still hadn't budged.
She wanted to slap it off him.
"It's your cousin's place, isn't it?" He said it like it was obvious. "She left a note saying you'd be staying for a bit. I was crashing here for a bit, she said the overlap should be fine." His gaze flicked over her face, searching. "I'm guessing she didn't mention that to you?"
He leaned in slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. A small crease appeared between his brows. Perfect, naturally, because of course even his concern was attractive.
His breath carried the ghost of cigarette smoke, but beneath it was something warmer. Sandalwood, maybe. And something crisp and expensive she couldn't place.
"Though, you're younger than I expected," he added, voice dropping a note. "And far too pretty. Definitely related to Violet, with that face."
He flashed her another grin, complete with a wink that suggested he thought he'd just earned himself bonus points.
Then he turned and went back to hauling in her boxes like he hadn't just upended her entire understanding of the situation.
She stood there, bewildered. Violet hadn't mentioned anyone staying here with her. And she definitely didn't do roommates. So she was just okay with an ex crashing in her place while she jet-setted around Asia?
But she didn't have the bandwidth to process it all. Not when she still needed to figure out how to get him out.
"Okay, enough with the cheese," she snapped, stalking after him. "Are you one of Violet's boyfriends or something? How did you even get in here?"
He stopped mid-step, looking almost wounded. "Boyfriend? No." He set down the box and straightened, brushing dust from his hands. "She said she'd be leaving for a while, so she let me use the place while our families are out of town. Needed someone to keep an eye on things so she could sneak off out of the country with her new beau of the month." His grin returned, warm and easy. "Feisty gal, Violet. I see where you get it from."
She stared at him, turning his words over like puzzle pieces that refused to fit. So he did know Violet. About her travels. And she was almost positive Violet had mentioned taking a boyfriend with her, whatever flavor of the month she had at the moment. And despite the fact that he had the energy of a guy who'd definitely been in a fraternity, he didn't seem dangerous. If he were some kind of Ted Bundy wannabe, she'd probably already be dead.
Still. The details were inconsistent. Why would Violet not mention this to her? Did she just forget? But clearly, this man had keys and had to have gotten in somehow. The place had been locked up for at least half a week. And the whole vintage getup was trying way too hard. But none of that was illegal.
"So," she said slowly, forcing her pulse to settle. "Violet is letting you stay here… for a bit."
"Yes ma'am." He leaned back against the counter, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. His eyes gleamed at her over the rim, playful and entirely too confident. "Said I could crash here for a week, if I wanted. Hope that's all right with you. I can take the guest bedroom. Stay out of your hair."
She let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the counter. She cursed her cousin silently. "I mean… it's not my place, so it's not my call. If Violet says you can stay here, you're more than welcome to stay for a week. What's your name again?"
He grinned and extended a hand. "James. But you can call me Bucky. And you are?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Bucky?"
Why did that sound familiar?
"Nickname," he said easily. "And you are?"
She introduced herself, reaching out to grip his hand without budging from her spot against the old wood. His palm was warm, his grip firm and confident. The handshake of someone who'd never doubted himself a day in his life.
Typical.
"Well," he said, holding on just a fraction longer than necessary, his thumb brushing against the back of her hand before he let go. She fought the urge to squirm. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Really."
She felt a headache beginning to bloom behind her eyes. "Great. Yeah, a real pleasure. One week. Guest bedroom. And for the love of God, stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?" His grin widened, all faux innocence.
"Like you're trying to figure out whether I'm wearing matching underwear."
He had the audacity to laugh, a sound that probably had most women blushing. Her? She was just annoyed that she'd be spending the next week avoiding this guy at all costs in her own temporary apartment.
Younger her, with a few shots of liquid courage in her system, would have melted right into that laugh. Would have leaned into whatever pretty promises a man like this could spin. But she knew better now. Experience was a brutal teacher, and if there was one thing she'd learned about devastatingly attractive men who flirted like breathing, it was this: they delivered one mediocre night and a lifetime of awkward run-ins afterward.
Besides, there was no way Violet hadn't slept with him. Given her cousin's reputation, it was practically a guarantee.
She pulled her hand back and resisted the urge to wipe it on her jeans. "Right. Okay. I'm going to start unpacking now, so if you could just…I don't know, go smoke somewhere that isn't here, that would be great."
"I can help," he offered, already moving toward the boxes stacked by the door.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He flashed her another one of those grins, the kind that probably had a 90% success rate. "Besides, the sooner you're settled, the sooner you can relax. You look like you could use it."
She bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing bad." He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just that you seem a little… tense."
"I wonder why," she muttered, but she didn't stop him when he picked up a box marked "KITCHEN" and carried it to the counter.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, or rather, she worked in silence while he hummed something under his breath. Some old tune she didn't recognize. He was annoyingly efficient, unpacking dishes and setting them in the cabinets without asking where anything went, like he'd already memorized the layout.
She pulled out her electric kettle and set it on the counter, muttering a few profanities under her breath. Here she had been looking forward to living entirely on her own for the first time. Some peace and quiet. Now she had to cozy up with some hipster wannabe for a whole week. At least they had separate bathrooms.
Then again, something about this felt strange. Why had Violet not mentioned this to her?
"What is that?"
She glanced over. "What's what?"
He nodded toward the kettle. "That… contraption."
She blinked at him. "It's a kettle."
"Doesn't look like any kettle I've ever seen."
"It's electric," she said slowly, wondering if he was messing with her. "You plug it in. Boils water."
He stared at it for a long moment, then shook his head with a soft laugh. "Huh. Fancy. They make those now? Overseas or something?"
She rolled her eyes and went back to unpacking. Definitely teasing her. Or maybe he was one of those off-the-grid types who only used cast iron and thought microwaves gave you cancer.
"Yes, Bucky. It’s a kettle from overseas." She shot him her best ‘please stop talking to me’ glare. "Are you always this annoying, or is today special?"
He grinned. "I'm just curious. You've got some…interesting things."
"They're normal things. You're just—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "Never mind."
She moved on to the next box, refusing to engage. He was clearly trying to get a rise out of her, and she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Either that, or he was Amish and she was being rude without even knowing it. With those clothes, she wouldn't put it past him.
"So," she said, desperate to put her mind a bit more at ease. "Where are you from?"
"Brooklyn," he said easily. "Born and raised."
"Really? Your accent isn't too strong."
He shrugged. "Guess I've been around. You?"
"Long Island. Grew up there, anyway. I'm finishing up my last year at NYU." She pulled out a stack of textbooks and set them aside. "Communications degree."
"Communications," he repeated, like he was testing the word. "What's that mean?"
She gave him a look. "You're kidding, right?"
"No, I—" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, I know what communication is. Just wondering what you do with a degree in it."
"Media, public relations, marketing. That kind of thing." She unpacked her favorite mug, the one she used every morning for her first cup of coffee. She'd gotten it on a family vacation to Hawaii years ago, and time and multiple washes had faded the bright flowers adorning the ceramic. "I'm hoping to get into publishing, maybe work for a magazine."
"A magazine," he said, nodding slowly. "That's swell."
"Swell?" She laughed despite herself. "What are you, ninety?"
His grin faltered for just a second, so brief she almost missed it. Like for a moment, he was doubting himself. Maybe he wasn't used to girls not falling for his charm. The thought made her gleeful, for some reason.
Then it was back, easy and unbothered. "You got something against how I talk, doll?"
"Nah, it's different. Refreshing, for sure. Better than the crap kids are saying these days." She set down the box and leaned against the counter, studying him. "How old are you, anyway? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?"
"Twenty-five," he confirmed.
"And what do you do? Besides crash in women's apartments and make weird comments about coffee makers."
His jaw tightened, just for a moment. Then he looked away, busying himself with folding up an empty box. "I'm… between things right now. Figuring stuff out."
"Ah." She nodded. "So you're unemployed."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
He shot her a look—half annoyed, half amused. "I pick up jobs when I can. You always this blunt?"
"You always this evasive?"
They stared at each other for a beat, something crackling in the space between them. Then he laughed, shaking his head.
"You really are Violet's family," he said. "Sharp as a tack."
She wanted to ask what he meant. How Violet, who'd barely scraped through high school and built her entire life on looks rather than intellect, could have possibly seen through to something deeper in her. But she bit her tongue. It was probably just flattery, the kind ex-lovers traded in. Empty and meaningless.
She let it go and continued unpacking.
—-
She called Violet early the next morning, slipping out onto the balcony with coffee cradled between her palms. The humidity of late summer in New York was already pressing in, thick and sticky even as the sun barely crested the tops of the high-rises. The city was waking up around her. She could hear the sound of distant horns and the rumble of the subway somewhere in the distance.
Violet, currently somewhere in Asia, was legendary for ignoring her phone. Texts went unanswered for days. Calls went straight to voicemail. Her mother liked to joke that Violet would probably find out about her own funeral from the invitation.
So when she answered on the last ring, it took everything in her not to choke on her coffee.
"Darling!" Violet's voice burst through the speaker, bright and breathless, nearly drowned out by what sounded like a wind tunnel. "Did you make it to the apartment? How do you like it? The couch is custom leather. I had it made in Italy. Please tell me you're not eating on it."
She closed her eyes and counted to three. "Yeah, Vi. Great couch. Lovely. Very… financially irresponsible of you." She opened her mouth to continue. "Listen, when I got here yesterday—"
"Aren't you going to ask me about my trip?" Violet cut in, as if she hadn't spoken at all. "I'm in Seoul!"
She stopped mid-sentence, her jaw tightening. The urge to hurl her phone off the balcony was nearly overwhelming. Typical Violet. Vain, self-absorbed, utterly incapable of listening for more than five consecutive seconds.
"That's great, Vi. I'm sure it's amazing. Now if you could just—"
"It is amazing! The food, oh my God, you wouldn't believe it. And the people are a little strange, but they seem to love Americans. Or maybe they just love me." She laughed, that breathy, airy sound that probably had men falling over themselves when they heard it. "Oh! Do me a favor, would you? Check my closet for my Prada Caban. The one with the fur trim. I might need you to ship it."
"It's the middle of summer. Why would you—"
"I'm out here until at least spring, remember?" Violet giggled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Asia first, then the Middle East. Do you think I could pull off one of those head things? What are they called for women? Turbans?"
"Hijab, Violet." She gripped the coffee cup so hard she was surprised it didn't crack. "Can you please just listen to me for one second? Did you tell one of your…’friends’ they could stay here? Because when I showed up yesterday, there was a guy—"
"What? Sorry, I'm in an Uber right now and the windows are open. It's so loud!"
She pulled the phone away from her ear and let out a strangled groan into the open air. When she brought it back, her voice was strained. "Could you maybe ask them to close the windows?"
"I don't speak Korean, silly! How would I even do that?"
"Okay." She exhaled sharply, her pitch climbing before she forced it back down. "Let's just—did you or did you not tell one of your friends they could crash at the apartment? Like, right now?"
A pause. Long enough that she could practically hear Violet's brain grinding through the gears.
"Oh! I think I did, actually." Violet sounded genuinely surprised, like she'd just remembered she owned a car. "I just can't remember if I told you. Did I tell you?"
"No. You did not."
"Whoops! Well, he should be stopping by soon then. Or maybe he's already there? What day is it for you?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, when he shows up, try not to sleep with him, okay? Wouldn't want you getting your cousin's leftovers."
Her blood pressure spiked. "Thanks, Violet. Super helpful. I have to go now."
"Wait, don't forget about my coat—"
She hung up before Violet could finish, tipping her head back and closing her eyes.
A long, slow exhale escaped her, the tension draining from her shoulders now that her cousin's voice was finally, mercifully gone. She shoved her phone in her pocket a bit too aggressively.
She slumped into one of the sad plastic chairs on the balcony, dragging a hand through her hair with a soft, disbelieving laugh. Sharp as a tack, Bucky had said. Sure. Eye of the beholder and all that.
"What's got you looking so glum, huh? Sun's barely up."
She glanced back over her shoulder at the true source of her morning irritation. Though, to be fair, it wasn't directly his fault her cousin had the attention span of a goldfish.
See, she was reasonable.
“Heard from Violet," she said flatly. "She sends her love."
Bucky grinned at her from the doorway, leaning against the frame like he'd been posed there by a photographer.
A cigarette dangled unlit between his teeth. His hair was slicked back again, though a few rebellious strands had escaped, curling slightly at his temples in the rising heat. He wore coveralls today—clean enough at first glance, but up close she could see that it was marked with old grease stains that had probably been there since the Truman administration. A logo for some mechanical shop she didn't recognize was stitched onto the breast pocket.
"Oh yeah?" He tilted his head, studying her. "Didn't realize your cousin got under your skin so much. What'd she do this time?"
She took a long sip of coffee, forcing herself to keep her eyes on his face and not let them wander. Annoyingly, he looked like a walking temptation in that getup. His coveralls were unzipped just enough to reveal a white undershirt clinging to a chest that had no business being that defined. But she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of noticing.
Keeping her gaze on his face was the safer option. Not that it helped much. His face belonged on a billboard.
What had Violet called him? Leftovers? With a face like that, who the hell would care?
She bit down on her tongue hard, snapping herself out of it. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Just her usual grating personality." She paused, narrowing her eyes at him. "I don't know what you see in her."
Bucky snorted, his blue eyes brightening with amusement as he crossed the balcony. She couldn’t hold back her surprise when he dropped into the chair right next to her.
Close. Too close. His knee almost brushed hers.
Bold move. But she doubted he even thought twice about it. Meanwhile, she knew for a fact the temperature outside didn’t just go up ten degrees in the span of three seconds.
"It's not so much me," he said, pulling a lighter from his pocket. "It's my buddy. He's got it bad for her. Wants me to put in a good word and all that."
He leaned forward to light the cigarette, and a few more strands of dark hair fell loose across his forehead. He glanced up at her through his lashes as he took the first drag, smoke curling around his face like something out of an old film.
"Want one?"
She bit the inside of her cheek and forced her gaze down to his boots. Scuffed, caked in dried mud, safe and utterly uninteresting. "No thanks. I don't smoke." She cleared her throat. "Your buddy's interested in Violet?"
Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he looked out over the railing. "Yeah, but what guy isn't? Your cousin's a knockout. I don't think Stevie's got a shot in hell, but what kind of friend would I be if I told him that?"
She raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the casual way he said it. No longing in his voice. No wistfulness. He sounded almost… indifferent.
Maybe he was just like Violet. The love-'em-and-leave-'em type. A collector of one-night stands and convenient arrangements.
"That's nice of you," she said, taking another sip of her coffee. The smell of his cigarette mingled with the city's particular brand of morning stench. Exhaust, garbage, something frying from a street cart below. "Giving up your ex for your buddy."
"Ex?" Bucky's head turned sharply, his grin widening slowly. "She's not an ex doll. Never did anything with her."
She blinked, her coffee cup pausing halfway to her lips.
Her attention snapped back to him fully now. He was still leaned back, one arm draped over the back of his chair, looking completely at ease. Like he hadn't just upended her entire working theory about him.
"What?" She set the cup down on the small table between them. "I thought—"
"Thought I was crashing here 'cause she gave me a good time?" Bucky chuckled, low and satisfied, like he could read every confused thought racing through her head. And honestly, she was sure it was written all over her face. "Damn, sweetheart. You really think that low of me?"
"I—" She faltered, heat creeping up her neck. "You can't blame me for assuming. You're staying in her apartment, you talk about her like you know her pretty well, and she literally told me not to sleep with you because—" She stopped herself, realizing too late where that sentence was headed.
His grin turned absolutely wolfish. "Because what?"
She groaned and covered her face with one hand. "Because she didn't want me having her leftovers."
Bucky laughed. Really laughed this time, his head tipping back, shoulders shaking. It was an easy, genuine sound, and it made something in her chest do an annoying little flip.
"Well," he said, still grinning as he took another drag. "Hate to break it to your cousin, but there's nothing to leave over. She's not my type. She kissed me once, at a dance, but that was it. Happened years ago too."
Now she was even more confused. She had never met a guy who wasn’t interested in Violet. The girl oozed sex appeal. And Bucky…well, so did he.
"And what is your type?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, and she immediately wanted to kick herself.
His eyes found hers, sharp and interested, the corner of his mouth tipping up. "You really wanna know?"
"Forget I asked." She grabbed her coffee again, using it as a shield to hide the rising heat in her cheeks.
He stared at her for a moment in silence, the lazy smirk still on his lips. Something flickered in his eyes.
"Smart," he said, ignoring her deflection entirely. "Confident. Doesn't take any shit. Especially not from me." His gaze dragged over her face, slow and deliberate. "Someone who keeps me on my toes. Pretty face doesn't hurt either."
Her pulse kicked up. She forced herself to roll her eyes. "Does that line usually work for you?"
"I don't know." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, close enough now that she could smell the sandalwood again beneath the smoke. "Is it working?"
"Not even a little bit."
"Liar."
She scoffed and stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the concrete. "You're insufferable."
"And you're dodging the question."
"There was no question."
"Sure there was." He stood too, slower, like a cat stretching. He was taller than her by a good few inches, and the way he looked down at her made her feel simultaneously annoyed and unsteady. "You wanna know if I'm interested."
She bristled immediately. "I absolutely do not."
"Then why'd you assume I slept with Violet?" His grin was infuriating, those blue eyes dancing over her face wildly. "Why'd that bother you?"
"It didn't—"
"You sure about that?"
She glared at him, jaw tight. "You're reading way too much into this."
"Maybe." He took one last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the railing, his eyes never leaving hers. "Or maybe you're just bad at hiding it."
Her face burned. She wanted to throw her coffee at him. She wanted to shove him off the balcony. She wanted—
"I have to get ready for class," she said stiffly, turning on her heel.
"What time you done?" he called after her.
"Why?"
"Thought I'd make dinner. You know, since I'm crashing here and all. Least I could do."
She paused in the doorway, not turning around. Out of all the things he could have said, she didn’t expect that. "You cook?"
"Sweetheart, you gotta start having some faith in me here," she could practically hear him smirking now. "I have a lot of talents. All you gotta do is ask, and I'll start showing you just how many."
She didn't answer. Just walked inside and shut the door behind her, muttering a curse under her breath as she threw her cup into the sink a bit too aggressively. "Jackass."
He tried again, still amused, his voice carrying through the glass. "What time you gonna be home, doll?"
"Six," she grumbled, grabbing her bag from her room and stalking toward the front door, fighting the urge to depart with a middle finger aimed his way. "Don't burn down the kitchen, Barnes."
His laugh followed her all the way down the stairs, and she hated how much she liked the sound of it.
____
"Let me get this straight," Fiona whispered, leaning so close her curls brushed against her shoulder. Her eyes were huge behind her glasses. "You have a hot guy—older, single, living in your apartment for a whole week—and you're telling me you want absolutely nothing to do with him?"
"Keep your voice down, Fi. People are going to hear you." She shot a pointed look toward the front of the lecture hall, where their professor was mid-drone about media theory or audience engagement or something equally mind-numbing. Even from the back row, sound carried, and the last thing she needed was the entire class hearing Fiona lose her mind over something this trivial.
Fiona rolled her eyes, twirling her pen through her dark ringlets. "Oh please. No one can hear us back here. Besides, Martin's about to put on some long, boring-ass video and pass out in his chair in three... two..."
She counted down on her fingers, snapping her hand into a fist on "one" just as the lights dimmed. Right on cue, a grainy documentary flickered to life on the projector screen. Professor Martin was already slumped in his chair, eyelids drooping.
She stared at Fiona, incredulous. "How did you—"
"Please." Fiona's grin was pure smugness. "We're lucky if we make it thirty minutes before he pulls this. Now can we get back to the actually important conversation?"
Fiona had been her best friend—her only real friend, if she was being honest—since they'd been randomly assigned as roommates freshman year. They were complete opposites. Fiona was the social one, effortlessly magnetic in any given situation. Tall and willowy with warm caramel skin, she'd joined every club, attended every party, and somehow still maintained a 3.8 GPA while dating one of the guys on the swim team. She was the kind of person people gravitated toward without even trying.
Most of their friendship had consisted of Fiona dragging her to parties or orchestrating blind dates with her boyfriend's teammates. She'd even dated one of the swimmers briefly during sophomore year until he'd started pressuring her to try coke at some off-campus rager and she'd noped out of that relationship so fast she'd left skid marks.
Ever since, Fiona had made it her personal mission to find her "future husband." So far, through no fault of Fiona's, she hadn't made it past a second date with any of them.
And honestly? She didn't see the problem with that.
Why would she want someone tying her down, holding her back? Her mother had a promising career in marketing before she met her father. One pregnancy, one frantic maternity leave, and she'd never gone back. Just like that, it was over. College guys could talk all they wanted about equality and supporting their girlfriend's ambitions, but she wasn't naive. The second kids entered the picture, most of them would expect their partner to be the one to sacrifice. To stay home. To give it all up.
She wasn't interested in being that person.
"There's nothing to discuss," she murmured, keeping her eyes trained on the screen in case Martin glanced their way. "He's some random friend of Violet's. He's staying at the apartment for a week. And since he didn't murder me in my sleep last night, I'm assuming I'm safe for now."
Fiona gaped at her like she'd just announced she was dropping out to join a cult. "How is this not worth discussing? He's single, right? And not even that much older—"
"Four years is a decent gap—"
"Shut up, it is not." Fiona's whisper climbed an octave, earning them a sharp look from a guy two rows ahead. She shot him a withering glare that could've stripped paint. "And you said he's absurdly attractive, right?"
She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of the memory burning at the edges of her mind—smoke curling around Bucky's face this morning, the way his lips had wrapped around the filter of his cigarette, the lazy confidence in the way he'd looked at her.
"I never said absurdly attractive," she muttered. "He's...pretty good-looking, I guess."
Fiona looked at her like she'd just committed a felony. "You literally said you thought he was a model when you walked in."
"I mean, models can be subjectively ugly depending on personal taste—"
"No. They cannot." Fiona's voice dropped to a growl. "That is literally the entire point of being a model. To be beautiful. Don't you dare downplay this, or I swear to God I will come over there myself and see what we're working with. What does he look like? And don't tell me you don't have pictures."
"I don't have social media, Fi. You know that."
"Yeah, and you're insane for it." Fiona snorted, loud enough to earn another glare from their classmate. She returned it with twice the venom. "You're a communications major, for Christ's sake. How are you supposed to get a job without an Instagram?"
She bit back a smile. "With a resume. Maybe some references. Ever heard of those?"
"Shut up." Fiona swatted her arm. "Stop deflecting. What does he look like?"
She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. Bucky was gorgeous. Undeniably, frustratingly so. And there was something familiar about him, too, though she couldn't place it. Maybe she'd seen him in some ad campaign once and her brain had filed it away without her realizing.
"He's... tall," she said finally. "Built. Dark hair, really intense blue eyes. Crazy jawline." She paused, searching for the right comparison. "Kind of looks like a young Mark Hamill, actually. But, like, more—"
Fiona inhaled so sharply she nearly choked. "Your temporary roommate looks like young Luke Skywalker and you're not trying to sleep with him?!"
Several heads turned in their direction. She grabbed Fiona's arm and yanked her down lower in her seat.
"Could you be any louder?" she hissed.
"Could you be any more in denial?" Fiona shot back, eyes glittering with barely contained glee. "Seriously. Young Mark Hamill. Living in your apartment. For a week. This is like a rom-com setup and you're acting like it's a hostage situation."
"It basically is a hostage situation. I didn't ask for this."
"But you're not kicking him out either."
"Because Violet said he could stay!" She threw her hands up, then quickly lowered them when Professor Martin stirred slightly in his chair. "What am I supposed to do, throw him on the street?"
"No, you're supposed to throw him on your bed."
"Fiona—"
"I'm just saying!" Fiona grinned, shameless. "You're twenty-one, single, and you have a literal model camped out in your living space. When is this opportunity ever going to present itself again?"
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're impossible."
"And you're stubborn." Fiona tapped her pen against her notebook, studying her with the kind of shrewd attention that made her squirm. "But you do think he's hot. I can tell."
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to. You got that look."
"What look?"
"That look." Fiona gestured vaguely at her face. "Like you're trying really hard not to think about something, which means you're definitely thinking about it."
She felt heat creep up her neck. Damn Fiona and her ability to read her like a children's book.
"Common sense? Self-preservation? The fact that I don't even know him?"
"You have a whole week to get to know him."
"A week, and then he's gone. What's the point?"
"The point," Fiona said slowly, like she was explaining basic math to a toddler, "is that you get to have fun for once in your sad, boring life."
She rolled her eyes. "My life isn't boring."
"You spent last night organizing your bookshelf by publication date."
She frowned, affronted. "It needed to be done. I was moving my stuff in."
"You're proving my point." Fiona leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "When was the last time you did something spontaneous? Something just for you?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Frowned again.
"Exactly." Fiona looked far too pleased with herself. "Look, I'm not saying marry the guy. I'm just saying... why not enjoy the week? See what happens?"
"Because I don't need the distraction right now." She pulled out her own notebook, flipping it open to a page covered in interview notes and company research. "I'm in the middle of job interviews. That's what I should be focused on. Not some random guy with nice cheekbones."
"You can do both, you know. Have a life and a career. It's called balance."
"I'll worry about balance after I have a career to balance."
Fiona sighed dramatically. "You're going to look back on this moment and regret it. I'm calling it now."
"I'll take my chances." She tapped her pen against the notebook. "Besides, I don't even know what he does for work. He's supposed to be staying there for a week, so clearly he's not in a rush to go anywhere."
"Did you ask?"
"Sort of. He was weirdly vague about it." She frowned, remembering their conversation that morning. "He was wearing coveralls earlier. With a mechanic shop logo on them. So maybe he works on cars or something?"
"A hot mechanic?" Fiona clutched her chest. "Be still my beating heart."
"Except he dresses like he walked out of a time capsule the rest of the time. Yesterday he was wearing suspenders. And slacks that were hemmed above the ankle. Who dresses like that?"
"Hipsters?"
"He doesn't seem like a hipster." She chewed on the end of her pen, thinking. "He talks strangely too. Uses words like 'swell' and 'doll' unironically. It's like he's doing a bit, but he's not."
"Maybe he's an actor," Fiona suggested. "You said Violet knew him, right? She's into all that artsy stuff."
"Maybe." But that didn't feel right either. Bucky didn't have that performative quality actors usually had, that underlying awareness of being watched. He just...was. "I have no idea how she even met him. Or why he's friends with her in the first place."
"Does it matter?"
"I guess not." She shook her head, trying to clear it. "Either way, it's irrelevant. He's there for a week and then he's gone. End of story."
Fiona was quiet for a moment, tapping her pen against her lips. Then she leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
"Okay. Give me one good reason, one genuinely good reason, why you shouldn't just have a fling with him. He's hot, he's temporary, you'll literally never have to see him again after this week. What's the harm?"
She stared at her friend, caught off guard by the directness of the question.
"I just told you," she said finally. "Job interviews. That's where my head needs to be right now. Not on some guy who'll be out of my life in seven days."
"Right. The interviews." Fiona tilted her head. "When's your next one?"
"Friday. Some PR firm in the city." She flipped to the right page in her notebook, scanning her notes. "They've worked with a bunch of high-profile clients. Celebrities, politicians...even some of the Avengers before the Blip."
"The Avengers?" Fiona's eyebrows shot up. "Damn. That's legit."
"I know. I'm trying not to get my hopes up, but..." She allowed herself a small smile. "It would be amazing if I got it."
"You will." Fiona's voice was firm, confident. "You're going to nail that interview, get the job, and then you'll be too busy hobnobbing with superheroes to even remember Hot Mechanic Vintage Guy."
She laughed despite herself. "That's the plan."
"Speaking of superheroes," Fiona said, grin returning full force, "if you do get the job, you better get me an autograph from the new Captain America. I don't care if you have to stalk him in the break room."
"I'm not stalking Captain America for you."
"You're a terrible friend."
"I'll get you a coffee mug from the gift shop. How's that?"
Fiona stuck out her tongue. "Fine. But only because I love you. And only if it has the old Captain America's face on it. Steve Rogers was something else."
The video droned on at the front of the room. Professor Martin's soft snores were barely audible over the narration.
She turned back to her notebook, trying to refocus on her interview prep. But Fiona's words kept circling in her head, persistent and annoying.
What's the harm?
She bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself to write another note about brand strategy.
There was plenty of harm. There always was.
She just had to keep reminding herself of that.
___
She was pleasantly surprised to arrive home that evening and find the building still standing.
No smoke pouring from the windows. No fire trucks idling at the curb. Just the usual hum of Brooklyn at dusk. Traffic, distant sirens, some kids shouting in the distance.
She climbed the stairs slowly, keys jangling in her hand, half-expecting to open the door and find the kitchen engulfed in flames.
Instead, she found Bucky. Inferno-less.
He was at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked up when she walked in, and his face split into a grin that probably knocked most women out of their feet.
"There she is!" He gestured with a wooden spoon, looking absurdly pleased with himself. "Right on time, too. I'm just about done here."
She set her bag down carefully on the counter, sneaking a glance at the stove. The smell hit her first—garlic, some basil. Actual food. She was not shy to admit that she was stunned.
On the burner sat a pot of fettuccine, steam curling lazily into the air, and beside it, a pan of bright red sauce bubbling gently.
Simple. And somehow, miraculously, not a disaster. She had been expecting grilled cheese, at best.
"Looks good, Barnes." She bent down to unlace her shoes, trying to hide her surprise. "I was half-expecting the fire department to be camped out front when I got back."
He scoffed, shooting her a look that was equal parts offended and amused. "Doll, ye of little faith. What kind of man doesn't know how to cook a decent plate of pasta?" He stirred the sauce with practiced ease, shaking his head. "My Ma would slap me upside the head if I screwed this up."
She shrugged off her jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. "Well, color me impressed."
"That's all I get? 'Impressed'?" He clicked his tongue, though his eyes were dancing in the light. "I was hoping for at least a standing ovation."
"Don't push your luck."
She moved closer to the stove, pretending to inspect the sauce when really, God help her, she was sneaking glances at him.
He'd changed out of the coveralls. Now he wore those same tailored trousers from before, hemmed just above the ankle, and paired with a simple white button-down left untucked. No suspenders this time. No gel in his hair either. Just loose, dark strands falling around his face in a way that was almost criminal. And when he reached for the pepper grinder, his forearms flexed beneath the rolled fabric of his sleeves, muscles shifting.
She forced herself to look away before he caught her staring.
Maybe Fiona was right.
The thought crept in unbidden, unwelcome. Maybe she was being ridiculous. Maybe she was denying herself something good, something fun, out of sheer stubbornness. One week. That's all it would be. What was the harm in—
No.
She shut the thought down hard, gripping the edge of the counter.
More harm than good. That's what it would be. A distraction. A complication. She didn't need either of those right now.
She needed to stay focused.
"You gonna stand there all night, or are you actually gonna help me out here?" Bucky's voice cut through her spiral, teasing and warm.
She blinked, realizing she'd been staring at the counter probably looking pained.
"Help with what?" she asked, straightening.
"Plates. Silverware. You know, the basics." He nodded toward the cabinet. "Unless you're planning on eating straight out of the pan like some kind of heathen."
"I wouldn't put it past you to do exactly that most nights."
"Touché." He grinned, turning off the burner. "But I've got some class around a lady. Come on, make yourself useful."
She rolled her eyes but moved to grab plates from the cabinet, acutely aware of how small the kitchen suddenly felt with both of them in it. She reached over him to grab the dishware, indirectly brushing her arm against his. He was warm, solid.
She hated how just a brush of her arm against his sent a shiver up her spine.
"So," he said casually, draining the pasta with an ease that suggested he wasn’t spiraling like she was. "How was your day? Do anything exciting?"
"Sat through a two-hour lecture on media ethics," she said dryly, setting two plates on the counter. "Riveting stuff."
"Sounds like a real thrill."
"It was about as fun as it sounds." She pulled open the silverware drawer, fishing out forks. "What about you? What does a mysterious mechanic do all day when he's not cooking pasta?"
"Mysterious mechanic?" He glanced at her, eyebrow arched. "That what you think I am?"
"You were wearing coveralls this morning. With a shop logo. I'm not a detective, but I can put two and two together."
"Fair enough." He scooped a generous portion of pasta onto each plate, topping it with sauce. "And yeah, I work on cars. Engines, mostly. Fixing things that are broken."
"Is that what you were doing today?"
"Something like that." His tone was light, but there was something guarded in it. Like he was editing his words as he spoke.
She didn't push. She barely knew him. It wasn't her business. But he seemed a bit…embarrased. Like he didn’t think his job was impressive enough.
He slid one of the plates toward her, and their fingers brushed for the briefest second. She pulled back too quickly, diverting her attention to studying the food instead of him. His mouth twitched like he'd noticed.
"Dig in," he said, leaning back against the counter with his own plate. "And try not to look so suspicious. I promise I didn't poison it."
She picked up her fork, twirling a bite of pasta. "Guess we'll find out."
The first bite was annoyingly delicious. Perfectly seasoned. The right balance of acid and sweetness in the sauce.
She hated that it was good because she knew she would have to admit that to him now. Him and his damn ego.
"Well?" He watched her, grin already forming.
She chewed slowly, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "It's edible."
"Edible?" He laughed, shaking his head. "You're really gonna make me work for a compliment, huh?"
"You'll survive."
"Brutal." But he was still smiling. There was something about it, something easy and genuine, that made her chest feel tight.
She looked down at her plate and took another bite, ignoring the way her pulse had picked up.
Stay focused, she reminded herself.
Seven days. That's all this was. Six now, really.
She could handle six days.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the scrape of forks against plates and the distant hum of the city filtering through the open window.
"So," Bucky said eventually, breaking the quiet. "Communications major. That mean you're good at talking, or good at making other people talk?"
She glanced up at him. "Depends on the day."
"And today?"
"Today I'm tired and hungry, so probably neither."
He chuckled, taking another bite. "Fair enough. What made you pick it? The major, I mean."
What was up with him and all the talking? He was always asking questions.
She shrugged, twirling more pasta onto her fork. "I like stories. How they're told, who tells them, why they matter. Communications felt like the best way to be part of that without having to, like, write the next great American novel or whatever."
"Not a writer, then?"
"God, no. I can barely get through an essay without wanting to scream." She paused. "What about you? You always want to be a mechanic?"
"More like that’s what I was told to do." He set his plate down on the counter, leaning back with his arms crossed. The position made his shoulders look even broader, if that was possible. "I've always been good with my hands. Fixing things, taking them apart, figuring out how they work. Seemed like a natural fit."
"Modest, too."
"Hey, I'm just being honest." His grin was unrepentant. "You want me to lie and say I'm terrible at my job?"
"I want you to not sound like you're auditioning for a cologne ad."
He laughed, giving her a good eye roll. "A cologne ad? That's a new one."
"I call it like I see it, Barnes."
"Clearly." He picked up his plate again, studying her over the rim as he took another bite. "So what's the plan after graduation? You gonna take over the world, or what?"
"Something like that." She echoed his words back at him, smirking. "Ideally, I'd like to work in PR. Maybe for a publishing house, or a bigger firm that handles entertainment clients. I want to help people tell their stories the right way."
"The right way," he repeated, like he was turning the phrase over in his mind. "That's pretty noble."
"Or naive, depending on who you ask."
"I'm asking you."
She met his gaze, caught off guard by the sincerity in it. There was no smirk this time. No playful glint. Just genuine curiosity.
"I think everyone deserves to have their story told well," she said slowly. "Even if it's messy or complicated or doesn't fit into a neat little box. That matters."
He was quiet for a moment, and something shifted in his expression.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I think so too."
She felt something loosen in her chest. Maybe he wasn't just all charm and easy grins. Maybe there was something real underneath all that swagger.
"What about you?" she asked, breaking the silence before it could get too heavy. "What do you want to do with your life? Besides fix cars and cook mediocre pasta."
"Mediocre—" He pressed a hand to his chest like she'd shot him. "You're killing me here, doll."
"Answer the question, Barnes."
He sighed dramatically, but his smile didn't fade. "Honestly? I don't know yet. I'm just... figuring things out as I go. Trying to make sense of where I fit in all this."
"All this?"
He gestured vaguely at the window, at the city beyond. "The world. It's a lot bigger than I thought it'd be."
There was something wistful in his voice, something that didn't quite match the confident, flirty persona he'd been wearing since she met him. She wanted to ask what he meant, but before she could, he straightened and nodded toward her plate.
"You gonna finish that, or are you just gonna keep picking at it?"
She looked down. She'd barely made a dent with all the talking they had been doing. "I'm savoring it."
"Uh-huh. Sure you are."
She rolled her eyes and took another bite, and the easy rhythm of their banter settled back into place.
"Can I ask you something?" Bucky said after a minute, his tone lighter now.
"You're going to anyway."
"True." He grinned. "What's with the outfit?"
She blinked. "What's wrong with my outfit?"
"Nothing's wrong with it, it's just..." He gestured at her vaguely. "Different. You always dress like that?"
She glanced down at herself. High-waisted jeans, cropped sweater, chunky sneakers. Perfectly normal. "Like what?"
"I don't know. Different?" He tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. "The pants are real high. And tight. And those shoes—" He nodded at her sneakers. "They look like something a kid would wear to play ball."
She stared at him. "Are you seriously critiquing my fashion choices right now?"
"I'm not critiquing, I'm just... observing."
"Well, observe quieter." She stabbed another bite of pasta. "And for the record, these jeans cost me seventy bucks. They're supposed to look like this."
"Seventy dollars?" His eyes widened. "For pants?"
She shot him a strange look. Maybe he was Amish. "Yes, Bucky. For pants.”
He shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded like "highway robbery."
She bit back a smile. "You're one to talk. You dress like you're about to drink matcha at a coffee shop."
"A what?"
"A matcha. You know, like—" She stopped, realizing he looked genuinely confused. "Never mind. My point is, you've got a whole vintage thing going on. The suspenders, the slacks, the hair gel. It's very... retro."
"Retro," he repeated, like he was swallowing a lemon.
"Yeah. Like old-fashioned. In a kind of cool way," she added reluctantly.
His grin returned, slow and smug. "You think I'm cool?"
"That’s what you took from that? I think your clothes are cool. There's a difference."
"Uh-huh." He leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. "So you've been looking at me then, huh?"
"Oh my God." She set down her fork. "You're insufferable."
"And yet, here you are. Eating my cooking. Complimenting my fashion sense because you’ve been looking at me."
"I'm starting to regret both of those things."
"No you're not."
She opened her mouth to argue, but the worst part was, he was right. She wasn't regretting it. Not really.
She stood abruptly, picking up her plate. "I'm doing the dishes."
"I'll help—"
"No." She shot him a look over her shoulder. "You cooked. I'll clean. That's the deal."
He raised his hands in surrender, but the grin didn't leave his face. "Whatever you say, doll."
She carried her plate to the sink, turning on the water and squirting soap into the basin. The sound of running water filled the kitchen, and for a moment, she thought he was going to stay where he was.
Then she felt him behind her.
Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her back. Close enough that if she leaned back even slightly, she'd be pressed against his chest.
"You missed a spot," he said, his voice low. Rough in a way that made her skin prickle.
Her breath caught. She turned around, confused. "What?"
"Right here."
His hand came up slowly. She froze as his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but it sent a jolt of heat straight through her that pooled low in her stomach.
He held up his thumb, showing her the smudge of red sauce. "Messy eater."
Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. She stared at him dumbly, frozen. His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there.
"Bucky—"
"Yeah?" His voice was rough now, almost a rasp. His thumb still hovered near her lips.
She should step back. Should say something sarcastic, something to break the tension coiling tighter and tighter between them like a spring ready to snap.
"You should—" Her voice came out breathless, trembling. "You should move."
"Probably." But he didn't. He shifted even closer, and she could smell him now. Sandalwood and cigarettes. His free hand came to rest on the counter beside her, resting next to her hip
His eyes searched hers. She didn’t remember the blue of his eyes being that dark before. "Should I?"
For a moment, she thought he was going to close the distance. Thought he was going to lean in and kiss her right there against the sink, dishes forgotten. And she was going to let him.
But she couldn’t muster up the courage to give him a response.
His eyes searched hers for another beat before he stepped back.
The air rushed back into her lungs all at once, cold and jarring. She turned quickly toward the sink, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her knuckles were white.
"Thanks," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "For dinner."
"Anytime, doll."
She didn't look at him. Couldn't. Not when her face was burning and her pulse was still racing and every nerve in her body was screaming at her to turn around. To close the distance he'd just created.
Behind her, she heard him move away, heard the soft scrape of a chair as he sat back down.
She focused on the dishes. On the water. On anything other than the fact that she'd just wanted him to kiss her.
Stay focused, she told herself again.
But it was getting harder to believe it.
—-
The next morning, she sat on the balcony before class, nursing coffee that was too hot and slightly too bitter when Bucky joined her again.
The door slid open behind her, and she didn't need to turn around to know it was him.
Bucky dropped into the chair beside her with that same easy grace, an unlit cigarette already dangling from his lips. He had his own cup of coffee in hand, which she'd brewed this morning without a single complaint from him.
"Morning," he said, striking a match and bringing it to the cigarette. Smoke curled between them, familiar now.
"Morning."
She kept her eyes on the street below, hyperaware of him in her peripheral vision. The way he sat, relaxed and unguarded. The way the morning light caught in his hair, still damp from a shower.
Neither of them mentioned last night.
The moment at the sink. His thumb at the corner of her mouth. The way the air had felt too thick, too charged, like the split second before lightning strikes. The way he'd looked at her like he was starving for her.
He hadn't brought it up yet, and she sure as hell wasn't going to. Maybe it hadn't meant anything to him. Maybe she'd imagined the heat in his gaze, the way his voice had dropped an octave when he'd said her name. The way his hand had trembled slightly when he'd touched her face.
Or maybe, and this felt more likely, he was just like this with everyone. Effortlessly charming. Casually devastating. The kind of guy who could make you feel like the only person in the world and then forget about you the second he turned away.
If anything, he seemed more talkative this morning. More jokes, more grins, more of those infuriating winks every time she rolled her eyes at him. Like he was doubling down on the persona, making sure she didn't see past it.
And maybe that's all it was. A persona. A carefully constructed act he put on because it was easier than being real. Safer.
But last night, for just a moment, she'd seen something else. Something quieter. When he'd talked about not knowing where he fit, about the world being bigger than he'd thought—there'd been a vulnerability there. A crack in the armor.
She wanted to see it again.
And that scared her more than anything.
"You okay?" Bucky's voice pulled her out of her thoughts.
She glanced over at him. He was watching her, brow slightly furrowed, cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
"Yeah. Fine. Just thinking."
"About?"
You. "My interview on Friday."
"Ah." He took a drag, exhaling slowly. "Nervous?"
"A little." She wrapped both hands around her mug, letting the warmth seep into her palms. "I really want this job."
"You'll get it."
She raised an eyebrow. "You sound pretty confident for someone who's known me for two days."
"Two days is enough." He flashed her that grin, the one that made her stomach flip annoyingly. "You're smart. Driven. You don't take shit from anyone. Especially not me. They'd be idiots not to hire you."
Her chest tightened. It was such a simple thing to say, but the sincerity behind it caught her off guard.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
"Anytime, doll."
They fell into a comfortable silence, sipping their coffee as the city hummed to life around them. And despite everything, despite her better judgment, she felt something warm and dangerous settling in her chest again.
She liked him.
Not just his face or his body or the way he looked at her like she was something worth looking at. She liked him. The way he listened when she talked. The way he made her laugh even when she was determined not to. The way he seemed to see her in a way most people didn't bother to.
And that was a problem.
Because in half a week, he'd be gone. Back to wherever he came from, back to his life that she knew nothing about. And she'd be here, alone in Violet's apartment, wondering if any of it had been real.
She couldn't afford to get attached.
"I should get ready for class," she said abruptly, standing.
Bucky looked up at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. "Yeah. Sure."
She hesitated, then forced herself to move toward the door.
"Hey."
She stopped, glancing back.
He was still sitting there, cigarette smoke curling around him like something out of an old photograph. "Good luck today. With class and all."
"Thanks."
She slipped inside before he could say anything else.
—-
That evening, she had her notes spread across the coffee table in the living room and a half-empty mug of tea going cold beside her. She'd been at it for over an hour, reviewing talking points, researching the firm's recent campaigns, trying to anticipate every possible question they might throw at her.
She was so focused she didn't hear the front door open.
"Hey."
She jumped in her seat, nearly knocking over her tea. Bucky stood in the doorway, a tired grin on his face.
His coveralls were undone, hanging around his waist to leave him in just his pants and the wifebeater he wore underneath. Grease streaks and sweat had somehow managed to make their way onto the white material, as well as the underside of his jaw. His hair was disheveled, wet with sweat and sticking to the back of his neck.
She fought the urge to drool. Goddamn him and his stupidly attractive face.
"Jesus, you scared me."
"Sorry." He kicked off his boots by the door, leaving them in a haphazard pile. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you. What're you working on?"
"Interview prep." She gestured at the organized chaos spread across the table. "Friday's coming up fast."
"Ah." He nodded, running a hand through his hair and leaving a smudge of grease at his temple that was somehow endearing. "Mind if I hop in the shower real quick? I'm covered in motor oil."
"Go ahead."
He disappeared down the hall, and she heard the bathroom door close, the pipes groaning as the water started.
She tried to focus on her notes. Really, she did. But her brain kept drifting, distracted by the knowledge that he was right there, just down the hall taking his clothes off, and—
Stop it.
She forced her eyes back to her notes, reading the same sentence three times without absorbing a single word.
Ten minutes later, she heard the water shut off. The bathroom door opened and she couldn’t help but glance up reflexively.
She immediately regretted it.
Bucky stepped into the hallway wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
Her brain short-circuited.
He was — well, he was ridiculous. All lean muscle and broad shoulders, water still clinging to his chest, dripping down the defined lines of his stomach. There was a small scar on his left shoulder, faded and pale with time, and another along his ribs that looked a bit darker. His hair was wet and pushed back from his face, and he looked like—
Like every bad decision she'd ever been tempted to make.
She was so caught up in her own head that she didn’t realize until it was too late that he caught her staring.
His mouth curved into a slow, knowing grin, but he didn't say anything. Just raised an eyebrow and continued toward the guest room like this was perfectly normal. Like he walked around half-naked all the time.
Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
He was such a bastard.
Her face burned. She snapped her gaze back to her notes so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
"I'll make dinner!" she blurted, far too loud.
He paused, glancing back at her curiously. "You sure? I can—"
"Nope. My turn. You cooked last night. It's only fair." She was already on her feet, gathering her notes with shaking hands. "I'm making chicken. And potatoes. It'll be great. Totally."
He was still grinning, the bastard. "Okay. Thanks."
"Yep. No problem. Just…put on some clothes."
"Yes, ma'am."
She fled to the kitchen, cheeks still on fire, and busied herself pulling ingredients from the fridge. Chicken breasts. Potatoes. Garlic. Olive oil. Simple. Easy. She could do this.
She absolutely could not think about the way water had beaded on his collarbone. Or the V of muscle that disappeared beneath that towel. Or where it leads to.
Focus, damn it.
By the time Bucky emerged from the guest room—fully dressed, thankfully, in a plain white t-shirt and those stupid, goddamn trousers—she had the chicken sizzling in a pan and potatoes chopped and ready to roast.
"Smells good," he said, wandering over to the coffee table where she'd left her notes scattered.
"Thanks." She didn't look at him. She was sure her cheeks were still the color of a fire engine.
"You mind if I take a look at these?"
She glanced over her shoulder. He was holding up one of her note pages, brow scrunched in concentration.
"Uh, sure. Go ahead."
He settled onto the couch, scanning through her prep. She turned back to the stove, flipping the chicken, trying to ignore the way her heart was still racing now that he was in such close proximity to her again.
"You've got good answers here," he called after a minute. "Real thorough."
"Thanks."
"You nervous about it?"
"A little," she admitted. "It's a big opportunity."
"Want to practice?"
She paused, spatula in hand. "Practice?"
"Yeah. I'll ask you questions. You answer. Like a mock interview." He grinned at her over the back of the couch. "Come on, it'll help. And I promise I won't be too hard on you."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. Yeah. That'd actually be really helpful."
"Great." He leaned back, studying her notes. "Let's start easy. Tell me about yourself."
She took a breath, steadying herself. Why was he so interested in this? She couldn’t get a good read on him.
She wiped her hands on a dish towel, gathering her thoughts. "Well, I'm a senior at NYU studying Communications. I'm passionate about storytelling and brand strategy, and I believe that everyone deserves to have their narrative shaped with intention and care—"
"Okay, hold it right there."
She blinked. "What?"
Bucky was shaking his head, a bemused smile on his face. "You sound like you're reading from a script."
"I'm supposed to sound professional—"
"You're supposed to sound like a person." He set down the notes and turned to face her fully. "Nobody wants to hire a robot. They want to hire you. So try again, but this time, talk to me like I'm not some stuffed shirt behind a desk."
She crossed her arms over her chest with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. What made you pick communications in the first place? What actually gets you excited about it?"
She hesitated, the practiced answer dying on her tongue. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "I guess... I've always been fascinated by how stories shape the way we see the world. How the right words, told the right way, can change everything. Make someone care about something they never thought about before. Give a voice to people who've been ignored." She paused. "I don't know. That probably sounds naive."
"It doesn't." His voice was sincere. He nodded at her encouragingly. "It sounds real. That's what you lead with."
Something warm unfurled in her chest. "Okay. Yeah. I can do that."
"Good." His grin returned, playful again. "Next question. What's your biggest weakness?"
She groaned. "God, I hate that question."
"Everyone does. That's why they ask it. It’s fun for ‘em. Come on, what've you got?"
She turned back to the stove, checking on the chicken to buy herself time. "I'm a perfectionist. I have trouble delegating because I want things done a certain way—"
"Boring. Next."
"Bucky—"
"I'm serious. That's the answer everyone gives. It's not even a real weakness, it's just you humble-bragging." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Give me something true."
She was quiet for a moment, seasoning the potatoes more aggressively than necessary. "Fine. I have a hard time asking for help. I always feel like I need to prove I can handle everything on my own, and sometimes that means I take on too much and burn myself out."
"There you go. See? That's honest."
She glanced back at him. "You're surprisingly good at this."
"I'm full of surprises, doll. Thought you'd have figured that out by now."
"Oh, I'm learning." She slid the potatoes into the oven and set the timer. "What about you? What would your biggest weakness be?"
He tilted his head, considering. "Probably the same, if I'm being honest. I'm not great at letting people in. Easier to keep things surface-level, you know? Less complicated that way."
The admission caught her off guard. It was the first time he'd said something that felt truly unguarded, without the veneer of charm or the safety of a joke.
"Yeah," she said softly. "I get that."
Their eyes met across the room, and something shifted. The air in the room felt heavier suddenly.
Bucky cleared his throat and looked back down at her notes. "Alright, here's a good one. Where do you see yourself in five years?"
"Wow, pulling out all the classics."
He gave her a dry look. "Answer the question."
She leaned against the counter, thinking for a moment. "Honestly? I want to be good at what I do. Really good. I want to work with clients I believe in, tell stories that matter. Maybe have my own team someday." She paused. "And I want to feel like I earned it. Not because someone gave me a break or felt sorry for me, but because I was the best person for the job."
"You will be."
The certainty in his voice made her chest tight. "You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." He put the notes down and moved closer to her. Not crowding her this time, but close enough that she could smell the lingering scent of cigarettes and that damn sandalwood soap he kept using. "You've got something, doll. I can tell. You're gonna do exactly what you set out to do."
She swallowed hard, suddenly finding it difficult to maintain eye contact. "Thanks. That's... that means a lot."
"I mean it." He leaned against the counter beside her, shoulders almost touching. "Can I ask you something real?"
"As opposed to fake?"
His mouth quirked. "Smart-ass. I'm serious."
"Okay. Shoot."
He was quiet for a moment, like he was choosing his words carefully. "What are you so afraid of?"
Her breath caught. "What?"
"You work yourself to death over these interviews, you won't let yourself have any fun. You've built all these walls up so high nobody can get close." His voice was gentle, not accusatory. "What's got you so scared?"
She should've deflected. Should've made a joke, changed the subject. Done anything but answer honestly.
Instead, she found herself saying, "I'm afraid of ending up like my mother."
It was surprising how quickly she admitted it. How easily the words fell off her lips. She rarely spoke about that to anyone, much less a handsome stranger. But he wasn’t really a stranger anymore. And there was something about the earnest look in his eyes that made her want to let him in.
"She gave up everything when she had me," she continued, her voice quieter now. "She had this promising career, all these plans, and then life happened. Marriage, a baby, and suddenly all of that just... disappeared. And I watched her spend my entire childhood being this shadow of who she could've been. Resentful. Bitter." She swallowed hard. "I'm terrified that if I let myself want anything else, if I let myself get distracted, I'll end up the same way."
Bucky was silent for a long moment, his blue eyes searching her face. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "You're not her."
She swallowed, but masked her rising emotions with a scoff, looking down at her feet for a moment. "Oh yeah? You know every member of my family now?"
"I know you." He shifted closer, and she could feel the heat radiating off him. "Because you wouldn't be here if you were like her. You wouldn't be fighting this hard." He shifted slightly closer, his arm brushing against hers. "But you can't live your whole life running from something that hasn't even happened yet. That's not living, doll. That's just...existing."
Her heart was pounding. She couldn't look away from him. She couldn't think past the way he was looking at her. Like he could see straight through every defense she'd ever built. Like he was still holding back.
"Bucky—"
"Yeah?"
She didn't know what she was going to say — if she was going to tell him to back off or pull him closer. The space between them felt impossibly small, and she could see the exact moment his gaze dropped to her mouth.
His jaw clenched slightly.
He leaned in, close enough that she could count his eyelashes, could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes—
Then the oven timer shattered the moment like glass.
They both jumped back, and she spun toward the stove so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.
"Potatoes," she said, voice strangled. "The potatoes are done."
"Right. Yeah. Makes sense."
She grabbed the oven mitts with shaking hands, pulling the tray out and setting it on the counter with more force than necessary. Steam rose between them, a convenient barrier.
When she finally risked a glance back at him, Bucky was running a hand through his hair, his neck flushed pink.
For the first time since she'd met him, he looked genuinely flustered. Almost...bashful.
"I should—" He gestured vaguely toward the table. "Set the table or something. Make myself useful."
"Yeah. Good. That'd be good."
He moved past her quickly, not quite meeting her eyes. She pressed her palms flat against the cool counter, trying to catch her breath.
What the hell was happening to her?
—-
The next morning, she woke to silence.
No sounds from the kitchen. No smell of coffee brewing. No low hum of conversation waiting for her on the balcony.
She padded out to the living room in her pajamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and found the apartment empty. A note sat on the counter in unfamiliar, slightly cramped handwriting:
Had to leave early for work. Coffee's in the pot.
She stared at the note longer than necessary, something uncomfortable twisting in her stomach.
He'd left early. Without saying goodbye. Without their usual morning routine of coffee and easy banter on the balcony.
Was he avoiding her?
She poured herself a cup of coffee and stepped outside alone, the city waking up around her in shades of gray and gold. The chair where Bucky usually sat looked conspicuously empty.
Last night replayed in her mind on a loop. The way he'd leaned in. The way his eyes had darkened, his gaze dropping to her mouth. The infinitesimal space between them closing —
Until it hadn't.
Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe she'd read too much into a moment that was nothing more than friendly concern. Maybe she was the one who'd made it weird, and now he was uncomfortable around her.
God, what if she'd completely misread everything? What if all his flirting was just...who he was? The way some people were touchy or loud or overly friendly? What if it didn't mean anything at all?
She pressed her palms against the warm coffee mug and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest.
Unfortunately for her, that sinking feeling inside her remained throughout her first class of the day.
"You're doing that thing again," Fiona said, snapping her fingers in front of her face.
She blinked, pulled back to the present. They were sitting in the back of the lecture hall, Professor Martin droning on about something she'd stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago.
"What thing?"
"That thing where you disappear into your own head and overthink yourself into a panic." Fiona narrowed her eyes. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Liar. You've been weird all morning. Spill."
She sighed, slumping lower in her seat. "It's nothing. Really."
"Is it Bucky?"
Her silence was answer enough.
Fiona's eyes went wide. "Oh my God. What did he do? Did he try something? Because if he—"
"No, he didn't—" She lowered her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "He didn't do anything. That's the problem."
"I'm confused."
"Join the club." She rubbed her temples. "We had this...moment. Last night. While I was making dinner. He was asking me interview questions and then we started talking about real stuff, and he asked me what I was afraid of, and I actually told him, and then he—" She stopped, the memory making her chest tight. "He looked at me like...like he was going to kiss me."
Fiona leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "And?"
"And then the oven timer went off and I freaked out and now he's avoiding me."
"How do you know he's avoiding you?"
"He left early for work this morning. Didn't even say goodbye. Just left a note." She could hear how pathetic she sounded. "We've had coffee together every morning since he got here, and today he just... bailed."
Fiona was quiet for a moment, considering. "Okay, but have you considered that maybe he's the one freaking out? Not you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, maybe he wanted to kiss you and chickened out, and now he's the one overthinking everything." Fiona shrugged. "He doesn't sound like a guy who's weirded out by you. Sounds more like a guy who's into you and doesn't know what to do about it."
She sighed. Could that really be the case? She didn’t know Bucky all that well but Fiona was right, he wasn’t the type to be embarrassed easily. "I don't know, Fi. Maybe I just—"
"Hey guys."
They both looked up. Trevor Marks stood at the end of their row, backpack slung over one shoulder, and an easy smile on his face. Tall, conventionally attractive in that clean-cut, all-American way. She'd maybe spoken to him twice all semester, though she knew they had a few classes together.
"Hey, Trevor," Fiona said, shooting her a meaningful look.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, directing his attention to her. "I just wanted to ask…you're killing it in this class, right? Top of the grade curve?"
She shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, I don't know about—"
"Oh, c’mon now. You are. Everyone knows it." His smile widened. "I was wondering if maybe you'd want to study together sometime? For the next exam? I could really use the help, and I figured, you know, two heads are better than one."
"Oh. Um—"
"She'd love to," Fiona cut in, kicking her under the desk.
Trevor's face lit up. "Yeah? That's great. Maybe we could grab coffee this week?"
"Sure. Yeah. Coffee sounds good."
"Awesome." He lingered for a moment, like he wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it. "I'll catch you after class?"
She nodded, and he headed back to his seat.
The second he was out of earshot, Fiona turned to her with a wicked grin. "Well, well, well."
"Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything. I'm just saying, maybe a little competition is exactly what Bucky needs."
"There's no competition. Trevor just wants help studying—"
Fiona gave her a deadpan look. "Uh-huh. Sure. That's definitely all he wants. Watch what happens next. I bet you lunch he'll talk to you before we leave."
She huffed in annoyance and shook her head, staring down at her notes instead of at her friend. She didn't need another person in her life constantly looking smug around her on a daily basis.
But, true to Fiona's word, she had to quite literally hold back a sigh when Trevor approached her again as class ended.
"Hey," he said, falling into step beside her as she walked out. "You heading home?"
"Yeah."
"Mind if I walk with you? I'm going that direction anyway."
She glanced at Fiona, who was trailing behind them with the same maniacal grin she’d worn earlier and two very enthusiastic thumbs up.
She was going to kill her.
"Sure," she said. "That's fine."
They made small talk as they walked. Easy, surface-level stuff about classes and professors. Trevor was nice. Polite. Completely inoffensive in every possible way.
But she knew she wasn’t attracted to him.
No butterflies. No racing pulse. No awareness of every place his arm almost brushed against hers.
Nothing like what she felt around Bucky.
"So," Trevor said as they approached her apartment door. "I know I said coffee, but maybe we could have dinner instead? Make a real study session out of it?"
She stopped at the base of the steps, turning to face him. He was looking at her expectantly, eyes bright.
Damn it, she really hated when Fiona was right.
"Trevor—"
"I know it's kind of forward," he said quickly. "But I've been wanting to ask you out all semester and I figured, you know, now or never, right?"
Goddamn it.
"That's really sweet," she said carefully. "But I don't think—"
"Just think about it?" He nodded, taking a step backwards. Giving her space. " Just... think about it? You can let me know next class.”
She hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to say no, to make an excuse. To protect whatever fragile thing was building between her and Bucky.
But what if she was wrong? What if this morning's absence meant exactly what it looked like—that he'd had second thoughts? That she'd been a fool to think it meant anything at all?
And Trevor was right here. Safe. Uncomplicated. Exactly the kind of guy who wouldn't make her carefully constructed walls come crashing down.
Besides, Bucky was leaving in less than a week. Trevor was a guaranteed constant. That was a more reliable option.
"Okay," she heard herself say quietly.
His face lit up into a wide grin. "Great! We'll figure something out."
"Yeah. Sure thing."
He gave her a small wave and headed off down the street.
She stood there for a moment in silence. Why did these unexpected things keep happening to her?
She shook her head, sighing. Whatever it was, she needed her life to go back to normal. All this guy drama was not good for her stress levels.
Fumbling in her pocket for her key, she pulled it out and unlocked the door, still mumbling under her breath about men.
She stepped inside and immediately froze.
Bucky was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His jaw was tight, blue eyes stormy.
For the first time since she'd met him, he looked genuinely angry.
The air in the apartment felt thick all over again.
"So," he said, voice calm. "Dinner and a study session. Sounds nice."
Her stomach dropped, but irritation flared hot on its heels. "Bucky—"
"No, it's fine. Really." But his tone was sharp, cutting. "You're single. He's interested. Makes perfect sense."
"It's not like that. He just—"
"Just asked you out. You said yes." His eyes flashed. "Seemed pretty straightforward to me."
She dropped her bag by the door, frustration bubbling up fast and fierce. "Why the hell do you care?"
"I don't."
"You clearly do."
"I don't," he repeated, pushing off the counter and moving toward her. Each step felt deliberate, almost predatory. "I just think it's interesting timing. Two days ago you were going on about not having time for distractions, and now you're handing out dates to the first guy who smiles at you—"
She bristled immediately. "He's in my program—"
"—who probably can't wait to get you alone. Have you looked in the mirror?"
"And what business is that of yours?" Her voice rose, sharp and defensive. "We're not dating. We're not even friends. You're some guy crashing on my couch for a week. That doesn't give you the right to—"
"To what?" He was in front of her now, too close, a scowl plastered on his face. "To care that you're making a mistake?"
"A mistake?" She laughed, bitter. "Oh, that's rich coming from you. The guy who runs hot and cold every five seconds. Who flirts with me constantly and then disappears without a word the second things get real."
His jaw clenched. She noticed that his eyes widened fractionally. "That's not—"
"That's exactly what happened." She stepped forward, refusing to back down even though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "You don't get to act like you have some claim on me just because we had a moment. You don't get to be jealous when you won't even—" She broke off, breathing hard.
"Won't even what?" His voice was dangerously low. The expression on his face had gone cold again.
"Won't even be honest about what you want!" The words exploded out of her. "You've been playing games since the second I met you. The flirting, the looks, the touching—and then the moment it means something, you run. So forgive me if I'm a little confused about why you're standing here acting like I owe you something."
"I'm not asking you to owe me anything—"
"Then what are you asking?" She was shouting now, all the tension from the past few days boiling over. "Because from where I'm standing, you just want me to sit around waiting for you to figure out what you feel while my life passes me by. Well, guess what? I don't wait for anyone. Not even you."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "So that's it? Some prep school asshole asks you to dinner and you just fold?"
"Don't you dare—"
"What? Tell you the truth?" He stepped even closer. She could feel the heat radiating off him. Could smell the cigarettes, motor oil, and something uniquely him.
"You want to know what I think?" His voice dropped, turned cold in a way that made her stomach twist. "I think you said yes because it's safe. Because you know exactly how it's going to go. A few dates, maybe you'll sleep with him, and then it'll fizzle out and you can go right back to hiding behind your career and your plans and pretending that's enough."
His eyes bore into hers, brutal and unflinching. "At least with him, you don't have to risk actually feeling something."
The words hit her like a slap.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe. All she felt was the sharp, sudden pain blooming in her chest.
"Get out," she whispered.
His face changed instantly, all the anger draining away and replaced with something that looked like horror. "Wait, I didn't mean—"
"Get. Out." Her voice was stronger now, but it trembled at the edges.
"I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, I just—" He reached for her, and she jerked back like his touch would burn.
"Don't." The word came out broken. "Just... I need you to leave. Please."
"Let me explain—"
"I don't want to hear it." She wrapped her arms around herself, a flimsy shield against the hurt spreading through her chest. "I need space. I need you to give me space."
He stood there, hand still half-raised between them, looking utterly wrecked. His mouth opened and closed, like he was trying to find the right words and coming up empty.
"Please," she said again, softer this time. The pain in her chest had turned into a cold numbness.
His hand dropped.
She turned away from him, unable to look at his face anymore, and walked toward her bedroom. Each step felt mechanical, distant, like she was watching herself from somewhere far away.
She heard him standing there, silently. He hadn’t moved an inch.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice rough and quiet. "I'm so sorry."
She didn't answer. Didn't turn around. She reached her door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her firmly.
For a long moment, there was nothing. Just silence.
Then she heard movement. The jingle of keys being grabbed. The creak of the front door opening.
And then he was gone.
She stood there in the dark of her room, arms still wrapped around herself, and finally let out the breath she'd been holding.
It came out shaky and uneven, dangerously close to a sob.
She pressed her palms against her eyes and told herself she was fine. That he was just some guy. That in three days he'd be gone anyway and none of this would matter.
But her chest ached in a way that made a liar out of her.
And when she finally crawled into bed hours later, still dressed, the apartment remained empty and quiet.
He didn't come back that night.
—-
She woke up the next morning with her face pressed into her pillow and her phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand. Three missed calls from Fiona. A text asking if she was dead.
She typed back a quick ‘Alive, just staying home to prep for tomorrow’ and tossed the phone aside.
The apartment was still quiet. Still empty.
He hadn't come back.
She sat up slowly, running her hands through her tangled hair, and tried to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest. Told herself it didn't matter. That she didn't care where he'd spent the night or if he was coming back at all.
But the lies tasted bitter on her tongue.
She dragged herself out of bed and into the kitchen, making coffee on autopilot. The note he'd left yesterday morning was still on the counter. She crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.
Her backpack sat on the coffee table, surrounded by interview notes and research she should have been reviewing. Tomorrow was the interview. The one she'd been working toward for months. The one that was supposed to be the start of everything.
She needed to be focused. Should be running through her talking points, rehearsing answers, making sure she knew the subway route by heart.
Instead, all she could think about was him.
The way he'd looked at her last night. The venom in his voice when he'd said those words. The way his face had crumpled the second he realized what he'd done.
She pressed her palms against her eyes and let out a shaky breath.
The worst part? He'd been right.
Not about Trevor. She didn't give a damn about Trevor. But about her. About the way she kept everyone at arm's length, the way she'd built walls so high nobody could climb them. The way she used her ambition as a shield against anything that might hurt her.
And Bucky? Bucky had gotten under her skin in a way she hadn't thought possible. In three days, he'd managed to slip past every defense she'd carefully constructed, and now she was sitting here in an empty apartment, missing someone she barely knew.
Someone who'd be gone in two days anyway.
She couldn't deny it anymore. Couldn't pretend it was nothing.
She was attracted to him. More than attracted. She was developing feelings, inconvenient as they were, for a man who was temporary by definition.
God, she was an idiot.
She stood abruptly, abandoning her coffee. She needed to get out of here. Clear her head. Do something productive before she spiraled completely.
The interview. She'd go scope out the route, make sure she knew exactly where she was going tomorrow. No room for error, no chance of being late.
She could do that much, at least.
The subway was crowded even midday, bodies pressed together in that particular New York way. Close but careful to not touch, everyone existing in their own bubble. She clutched her bag and tried not to think about how Bucky would have insisted on coming with her. Probably would have made some joke about being her personal bodyguard.
The PR firm was in Midtown, tucked between a bank and a boutique hotel. She stood outside for a moment, staring up at the building, trying to imagine herself walking through those doors tomorrow as a potential employee rather than a nervous student.
You can do this, she told herself. You don't need romance. You don't need anyone.
But the words felt hollow.
There was a coffee shop across the street. One of those trendy places with exposed brick and overpriced lattes. She ducked inside, suddenly desperate for something to ground her. Something normal.
She ordered a cappuccino and a croissant she had no intention of eating, paid, and turned to leave—
—and walked straight into someone coming through the door.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry—" She stumbled back, and her hand connected with something solid. Really solid. Like hitting a brick wall.
"No, it's my—"
But she was already moving past the man she hit, mumbling another apology, not really looking. Just a blur of dark hair and broad shoulders. Was he wearing a baseball cap indoors?
She felt him freeze behind her, heard the sharp intake of breath, but she was already out the door, clutching her coffee and trying not to spill it all over herself.
By the time she made it back to Brooklyn, her nerves had settled slightly. She'd mapped the route. She knew where she was going. Tomorrow would be fine. Everything would be fine.
She just had to get through tonight.
She climbed the stairs to the apartment slowly, keys jingling in her hand, steeling herself for more emptiness.
But when she opened the door, she stopped.
Bucky was standing in the living room.
The first thing she noticed was how wrecked he looked. His hair was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were red-rimmed, shadowed with exhaustion. And in his hands—
Flowers. A slightly wilted bouquet of red roses and a bottle of wine.
They stared at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching thin and fragile between them.
"Hi," he said finally, his voice rough.
"Hi."
He shifted his weight, the flowers crinkling in his grip. "I, uh. I got these for you. And the wine. Thought maybe…I don't know what I thought. That maybe you'd—" He stopped, closing his eyes briefly. "Lisen. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. What I said last night was…it was cruel and it was wrong and I had no right to—"
His words were tumbling out now frantically. "You didn't deserve that. Any of it. I was angry and jealous and I took it out on you when you were just…you were just living your life and I had no business—"
"Bucky—"
"—and I wouldn't blame you if you wanted me gone. I can pack my stuff right now, I'll be out in ten minutes, you'll never have to see me again—"
"Bucky." She said it louder this time, cutting through his spiral.
He stopped, breathing hard, looking at her like he was bracing for a blow.
She set down her empty coffee and crossed the room slowly. His eyes tracked her movement, wary, but she noticed how he leaned a bit closer towards her.
When she reached him, she didn't say anything. Just wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug.
He went completely still. Like he'd forgotten how to move. How to breathe.
Then, slowly, carefully, his arms came around her. One hand still clutching the flowers, the other pressing against her back like he was afraid she'd disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough.
He smelled like cigarettes and that sandalwood soap and something else. Something warm and distinctly him. His chest was solid against hers, his heartbeat thundering beneath her ear.
"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice muffled against her hair. "I'm so sorry."
"I know." She pulled back just enough to look up at him. "I accept your apology. But if you ever talk to me like that again, I'm throwing you off the balcony. Clear?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. "Crystal."
"Good." She took the flowers from him, trying not to notice how his hands were slightly trembling. "These are...actually really nice. Thank you."
"They're not much. The guy at the flower stand said they were 'romantic' but I think he might've been messing with me."
"They're perfect." She carried them to the kitchen, hunting for something to use as a vase. "And the wine?"
"Thought maybe we could drink it. Help calm your nerves for tomorrow." He followed her, still hovering like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to stay. "If you want. If you don't want me here, I can—"
"Stay." The word came out quicker than she'd intended. "Please. Stay."
The relief on his face was palpable.
Two hours and most of the bottle later, they were sprawled on the couch, the tension from the night before replaced with something easier.
The wine had been the kind that went down too easy and left you buzzed before you realized what was happening. Her cheeks were warm, her limbs loose, and Bucky's laugh was coming more freely now, his eyes a bit more unfocused.
"Okay, okay," she said, gesturing with her glass and nearly sloshing wine over the rim. "Tell me about your family. You've mentioned your mom like three times but I don't actually know anything about her."
His smile turned fond, a little distant. "Ma's great. Tough as nails. Had to be, raising me and my sister on her own after my old man passed." He took a sip of wine. "She worked at a factory during the war. Made good money, actually. Better than a lot of folks."
She blinked, her wine-soaked brain struggling to catch up. "During the war?"
"Yeah. She was real proud of it. Said it was her way of doing her part."
"Your mom worked in a factory during what war?" She laughed, doing the math in her head. "Bucky, how old is she?"
He looked at her strangely, like she'd asked him something obvious. "She's in her forties. Why, she seem old or something?”
"Her forties....yeah, okay." She shook her head, dismissing it. Maybe he had meant Afghanistan or Iraq. "What about siblings? You said you had a sister?"
"Rebecca. Becca." His voice softened. "She was a pain in the ass growing up. Always getting into my stuff, always tagging along when I didn't want her to." He smiled. "But she’s a good kid. Smart. Way smarter than me."
There was something almost sad in his voice, something she wanted to prod at, but the wine made her thoughts slow and syrupy. Instead, she leaned her head back against the couch and sighed.
"My family's boring compared to yours. Just me, my parents, and Violet's whole chaotic mess orbiting around us like a comet."
"Violet isn’t boring," Bucky said. "She’s —" He stopped, shaking his head with a soft laugh. "Actually, yeah, she was kind of a mess. But in a good way."
"You talk about her like you really knew her."
"I did. I do." He frowned, like he was trying to work something out. "She's a good person." He groaned. "English is hard when you're drunk."
She laughed, the sound bubbling up unbidden. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're beautiful."
The words slipped out so easily, so casually, that it took her a moment to process them. When she did, her breath caught.
Bucky seemed to realize what he'd said at the same time. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't take it back. A small smile crossed his face instead.
"Bucky—"
"Dance with me."
She blinked. "What?"
He was already standing, slightly unsteady, and moving toward Violet's old record player in the corner. Something she had inherited from her grandmother, just like half of the things in this apartment. "Come on. When's the last time you danced?"
"I don't…Bucky, I don't dance."
"Everyone dances." He pulled out a record out of the old vintage collection Violet’s grandmother had and set the needle down. Brass and strings filled the apartment, warm and crackling. "Come on, doll. One dance."
She hesitated, unsure. Not willing to look like an idiot in front of the most attractive man she had ever seen.
But the wine had made her bold, and the way he was looking at her, hopeful and a little nervous, made it impossible to refuse.
"Fine," she said, standing with a mock grimace. "One dance. But if you step on my feet, I'm done."
"Deal."
He took her hand, and the touch sent electricity up her arm. Or maybe that was just the wine again.
Bucky pulled her close, one hand settling on her waist, the other holding hers gently.
She could feel how stiff she was, how awkward her movements were. Their rhythm was off but it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that she hadn’t taken her eyes off her own feet.
The room was suddenly a lot hotter than she remembered it being a minute ago. How embarrassing did she look right now?
"Hey," he said softly. "Look at me."
She did.
And something shifted.
The music swelled around them, and suddenly they were moving together, swaying in the small space between the couch and the coffee table. His hand was warm through the fabric of her shirt, his thumb brushing carefully against her ribs. She could feel his breath against her forehead as he leaned in closer.
"See?" he murmured. "Not so bad."
"You haven't stepped on my feet yet. Give it time."
He laughed and just pulled her closer.
Her heart was racing now, and it had nothing to do with the wine. She was acutely aware of every point of contact between them. His hand on her waist, her palm against his shoulder. The way their bodies moved in sync like they'd done this a thousand times before.
He spun her slightly, and she laughed despite herself, dizzy with warmth and dangerously close to doing something stupid.
Bucky took another step, then stumbled. Not badly, just a small misstep as he turned, but his shoulder knocked into something solid.
"Shit—" He jerked back, looking around. "What did I—"
"Watch out for the TV," she said, laughing.
He stared at the flat-screen mounted on the wall, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What TV?"
She followed his gaze. "That TV. The one right there. That you almost just walked into."
"There's nothing there."
She laughed again, assuming he was joking. "Okay, sure. You're drunker than I thought. Come on. Finish the dance before you actually break something."
His smile returned, that gooey look still in his eyes. The music swelled again, and he was pulling her back into his chest.
She could care less about how drunk either of them were. There was nowhere else she would rather be.
The song eventually faded into the crackle of the record's end, but neither of them moved. They just stood there, swaying slightly, caught in each other's orbit.
Bucky's hand was still on her waist, his thumb tracing absent patterns against her side. His eyes searched her face for something she wasn’t sure if she would see in the mirror.
"I need to tell you something," he said quietly.
Her heart stuttered. "Okay."
"What I said yesterday…about you and that guy, about you being safe—" He swallowed hard, his jaw working. "I didn't mean it. Or I did, but not the way it came out. I was—" He let out a frustrated breath. "I was jealous. So goddamn jealous I couldn't see straight."
She went still in his arms. "Jealous?"
"Yeah." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Standing there listening to him ask you out — it felt like someone was twisting a knife in my gut. And I know I have no right. We barely know each other. You don't owe me anything. But I wanted—" His voice cracked slightly. "I wanted to be the one asking you to dinner. Least that guy had the balls to beat me to it."
Her breath caught. "Bucky—"
"Let me finish, doll. Please." His hand tightened on her waist, like he was afraid she'd pull away. "I've liked you since the second you walked through that door with all those boxes, looking at me like I was some kind of criminal. You didn't swoon, didn't giggle. Didn't play coy. You gave me attitude and called me out on my bullshit and—" He shook his head, something like wonder in his eyes. "You're not like any dame I've ever met. You're smart and driven and you don't take shit from anyone, and…that’s exactly what I want."
The words hung in the air between them. She fought the urge to pinch herself. Was this actually happening?
"And I know it's crazy," he continued, words tumbling out faster now. "I'm leaving in two days. This was never supposed to be…I wasn't supposed to feel like this so fast. But hell, I do. And last night, when I said those things, it was because I was scared that you'd go out with him and realize he's exactly what you need. Someone who's not—" He gestured at himself helplessly. "Whatever the hell I am."
She stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Every carefully constructed defense she'd built around not falling for someone was crumbling — and she couldn't find it in herself to care.
"You really are an idiot," she said finally. She heard the tremble in her own voice.
His face fell immediately. "I know. I'm sorry—"
"No, I mean—" She reached up, framing his face with her hands. "You're an idiot because I like you too. I've been trying not to, trying to convince myself it was just because of proximity or temporary insanity, but—" She laughed, the sound watery. "I like you, Bucky. And I mean it. I don't want Trevor or anyone else. I want—"
She didn't get to finish before he kissed her.
It was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid she might pull back if he pushed too hard. His lips were warm and gentle against hers, tasting of wine and something sweeter. One hand cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek, while the other remained firmly attached to her waist.
She melted into him, her hands sliding from his face to his shoulders, anchoring herself as the world tilted sideways.
When she kissed him back, something in him broke loose.
The gentleness gave way to urgency. To hunger. The hand on her cheek threaded into her hair instead, angling her head as he deepened the kiss, and she felt the hand on her hip wrap firmly around her entire waist instead. She gasped softly, the sound disappearing into his mouth.
She felt herself moving—or maybe he was moving her—until her back hit the wall with a soft thud. He pressed against her, all solid muscle and heat, his touch growing more confident. She couldn't think past the feel of him, the way his mouth moved against hers like he was trying to say everything he couldn't put into words. All she could focus on was the invisible electricity racing through her body at the feel of his body against hers.
"God," he breathed against her lips, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "You're—"
She pulled him back down, swallowing whatever he was going to say. She didn't want words right now. She nipped at his bottom lip, wrapping her own hands around his neck, and the low groan that rumbled in his chest sent another wave of heat directly to her core.
Her head fell back against the wall, giving him better access, and her fingers tangled in his hair. "Bucky—"
"The way you look at me," he continued, punctuating each phrase with a kiss. "The way you laugh. The way you give me shit." His teeth grazed her pulse point and she shuddered. "Wanted this. Wanted you so badly, I thought I was going crazy.."
Her hands found the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath, and the feel of his skin, warm and very real, made her dizzy. She explored the planes of his stomach, the ridges of muscle, the way he tensed and relaxed under her touch.
He groaned, a broken sound, and his own hands slid under her shirt in return. His palms were rough and calloused, the contrast against her skin sent sparks racing up her spine. He traced the curve of her waist, her ribs, thumbs brushing just below—
And then he stopped.
She made a sound of protest, trying to pull him closer, but he caught her hands gently.
"Wait," he said, his voice strained. He was breathing hard, his forehead pressed against hers. "Wait, we should—"
"Don't you dare stay stop," she said, her own breathing ragged.
"I don't want to." He pulled back slightly, and the look in his eyes made her chest ache with desire all over again. "Christ, you have no idea how much I don't want to stop. But—" He swallowed hard. "I want to do this right. I want to treat you the way you deserve. Not just…not like this, half-drunk against a wall."
"I don't care—"
"I do." His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing over her kiss-swollen lips. "You're not some girl I picked up in a bar. You're…you matter. This matters. And I want—" He took a shaky breath. "I want to take you on a proper date. I want to do this the right way. The way my Ma raised me to."
Her heart was still racing, her body still thrumming with unfulfilled want, but something in his earnestness made her soften.
"Your Ma would approve of you stopping?" she asked, trying for lightness even though she was sure she still looked desperate.
"Ma would kill me if I didn't." A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. "She raised a gentleman. Mostly."
She laughed despite herself, some of the tension easing. "A gentleman who kisses like that?"
"A gentleman who knows when to stop." But his hands were still under her shirt, his thumbs still drawing maddening circles against her skin. Like stopping was the last thing his body wanted to do.
She sighed, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes for a moment to catch her breath. "You're killing me here, Barnes."
"Yeah." He pressed his forehead to hers again, breathing her in. "Me too."
They stood there for a long moment catching their breath before he broke the silence.
"Tomorrow," he said finally. "After your interview. Let me take you out. A real date. Dinner, the whole nine yards."
"You sure you can afford it?" She opened her eyes, her mouth curling into a smile as she teased. "On a mechanic's salary?"
"Funny." He kissed her softly, sweetly, just a chaste gesture more than anything. "Just say yes."
"Yes," she whispered against his lips. "I would be honored."
And when he pulled back this time, putting literal space between their bodies with a sheepish grin and eyes still dark with want, she let him.
Because he was right.
This mattered. He mattered.
And she wanted to do it right too.
—-
She woke to sunlight streaming through her curtains and the lingering ghost of last night's wine pressing against her temples.
For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the memories wash over her.
Bucky’s mouth on hers. The wall at her back. The way his hands had felt under her shirt, rough and warm.
A smile tugged at her lips despite the headache. God, he was something else. Infuriating and charming but surprisingly sweet underneath all that swagger.
She rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom, catching sight of herself in the mirror. Her lips were still slightly swollen, her hair a mess. Evidence of what had almost happened.
What was definitely going to happen again after tonight.
The thought sent a pleasant shiver through her.
Focus. Interview first. Life-changing career opportunity. Then you can think about jumping your temporary roommate.
She showered quickly, the hot water helping to clear her head, and dressed carefully in her outfit for the interview — tailored black slacks, a crisp white blouse, her nicest blazer. Professional. Safe. Exactly the kind of impression she wanted to give off.
When she emerged into the kitchen, Bucky was already gone. But there, next to her usual mug, sat a fresh cup of coffee, steam still curling off the top, and a single rose from last night's bouquet.
A note was propped against the mug in that same cramped handwriting she had seen before.
Knock 'em dead. You've got this. See you tonight for that date.
Her chest felt warm and tight all at once. She picked up the rose, bringing it to her nose and breathing in the sweet, slightly wilted scent.
When did she become the kind of person who got butterflies over flowers?
She was still smiling when her phone rang, Violet's name flashing on the screen.
The smile immediately fell from her lips. She almost didn't answer. She had an interview to get to, and conversations with her cousin were never anything but irritating. But something made her pick up.
"Hey, Vi—"
"Oh my God, finally! I've been trying to reach you for days!" Violet's voice was bright and frantic in equal measure. "Listen, I need you to do me the biggest favor. I know I already mentioned my friend crashing there this week. My friend Kevin is supposed to get there sometime during the weekend now. Has he shown up yet? Tall guy, kind of boring, works in finance? He should have a key."
She froze instantly, coffee cup halfway to her lips.
"What did you say?"
"Kevin. My friend? Is the connection bad? I told him he could stay at the apartment while I was gone. Did he not show up? Because if he bailed on me again, I swear—"
"Vi." Her voice came out sharper than intended. "Who's Kevin?"
"Uh, my friend? The one I said could crash at the apartment?" Violet sounded confused now. "Didn't I tell you about him? I could've sworn I mentioned it when we talked the other day."
Her mind was racing, trying to piece together what wasn't adding up. "You said your friend was going to stay but he’s already here. His name is Bucky.”
A pause. Then: "Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky?"
The coffee cup slipped from her hand.
It hit the counter with a dull thud, liquid sloshing over the rim, but she barely noticed. Her ears were ringing, her pulse suddenly too loud in her head.
"What do you mean, who's Bucky?" Her voice sounded distant, tinny. "The guy staying here. Your friend."
"Babe, I have no idea what you're talking about." Violet's voice had shifted from confused to concerned. "I don't know anyone named Bucky. The only person I said could stay there was Kevin. Are you okay? You sound weird."
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the sudden, stark wrongness of everything.
"I have to go," she said, the words coming out robotic.
"Wait, are you—"
She hung up.
For a long moment, she just stood there, staring at the rose. At the note. At the coffee he'd made her before leaving for work.
What the fuck was going on?
Her mind spun through the past few days like cards being shuffled. The first day she had met Bucky, he had already been inside the apartment. He had a key, had been using it to get in and out. Where had he gotten that from? He had been here for days now and she had sensed nothing nefarious about him. Unless, this was some big ploy and he was duping her intentionally…
No. That's insane. You're being insane.
But Violet didn't know him. Had never mentioned him. The only person she'd given permission to stay was someone named Kevin.
So who was Bucky? And why was he here?
Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter, trying to ground herself.
He could be dangerous. He could be a con artist. He could be—
But even as the thoughts spiraled, she couldn't make them stick. Because Bucky was... kind. Genuine. The way he'd looked at her last night, the things he'd said—that hadn't been fake. She'd stake her life on it.
Could she?
She glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes until her interview.
Fuck.
She couldn't do this right now. Couldn't unravel whatever mystery Bucky Barnes was while she was supposed to be preparing for the most important interview of her life.
She'd deal with it later. When he came home. When she could look him in the eye and demand answers. And maybe called the cops before she even went back here.
For now, she had to pull herself together.
She cleaned up the spilled coffee with shaking hands, downed two Advil for her growing headache, and grabbed her bag. The rose stayed on the counter, the red stark against the white tile.
—-
The subway ride was a blur.
She kept her eyes on her notes, forcing herself to review talking points even though her mind kept drifting back to Bucky and Violet doesn't know him and what the hell is happening.
By the time she reached Midtown, she'd managed to shove it into a box in the back of her mind. Locked it tight. She could panic about possibly getting targeted by a serial killer later.
Right now, she had a job to get.
The interview started rough—her hands were still trembling slightly when she shook her interviewer's hand—but once they started talking, muscle memory took over. She fell into the rhythm of it, answering questions with the practiced ease of someone who'd been preparing for weeks.
She talked about storytelling. About brand strategy. About her passion for helping people shape their narratives in a world that wanted to define them first.
And somewhere in the middle of it, she forgot about Bucky entirely.
By the end, her interviewer was smiling. Nodding. Making notes that looked promising.
"We'll be in touch by the end of the week," she said, standing and extending her hand again. "But I have to say, you're exactly the kind of fresh perspective we're looking for."
Relief flooded through her, so intense it was almost dizzying. "Thank you. Really. This opportunity means everything to me."
"Well, you earned it." Her interviewer glanced at her watch. "Actually, if you have a few minutes, I'd love to introduce you to a couple of our clients. They're in the building today for a meeting."
"Oh…yes, of course."
They walked down a sleek hallway, all glass and modern art, and stopped outside a conference room. Through the window, she could see two men standing by the table, mid-conversation.
Her interviewer opened the door. "Gentlemen, sorry to interrupt. I wanted to introduce you to one of our top candidates." She gestured for her to enter. "This is—"
But she'd already stopped walking.
Because she knew one of those faces.
The man on the left was Sam Wilson. The Sam Wilson. Captain America. She'd seen him on the news, in magazines, everywhere since he'd taken up the shield.
But it was the man on the right who made her blood run cold.
He was older—mid-thirties, maybe, with short dark hair and sharp blue eyes. He wore dark jeans, a leather jacket, and a black glove on his left hand. There was a hardness to him, something battle-worn and weary, but his face—
His face was Bucky's.
Older. Different. But unmistakably, impossibly his.
Suddenly she remembered Bucky all over again.
They both turned when she entered, and she watched in real-time as recognition flickered across the older man's face.
Not shock. Not confusion.
Just... resignation. And something that looked heartbreakingly like relief.
Like he'd been expecting this.
"Hi," Sam said, extending a hand with an easy smile. "Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you."
She shook his hand mechanically, her gaze still locked on the other man.
He was staring at her with an expression she couldn't name. Something complicated and knowing.
"And this," her interviewer continued, oblivious to the fact that she probably looked like she was going to pass out, "is James Barnes. Though most people call him Bucky."
Summary: When an ambush leaves you bleeding in the snow, Bucky carries you to safety through gunfire, fever, and fear, and you finally say the words you’ve both been avoiding.
Word Count: 2.7k
Warnings: gunfire; graphic gunshot wound; mentions of blood, fever, shock, panic, pain; dissociation; mutual pining; angst (w happy ending)
Author’s Note: We’re on day two, and I’m happy to deliver ♡ I wasn’t all that satisfied with this for a while, and I guess it could’ve been better if I hadn’t boxed myself into keeping it short instead of just letting it be whatever length it wanted to be. But I guess it’s enough for y’all to enjoy a little bit of protective/desperate Bucky!! Thank you, my lovely, for this thrilling request! I hope you enjoy ♡
WWC Masterlist | Masterlist
White has a sound.
You don’t realize it at first, not until the forest thickens and the wind begins to speak louder than your thoughts. It whistles through pine needles, hushes the earth beneath your boots, presses its palms over your ears until the world is nothing but breath and crunch and the thud of your pulse.
Snow drifts in slow, celestial spirals around as you trek through the forest beside Bucky. It stays in your lashes and melts down the back of your neck. It looks peaceful, almost. Way too peaceful. Too quiet. That’s the problem. The world has been wiped clean and made to forget how to make noise. White on white on white. It’s the quiet that feels staged, that suppresses your senses until you’re sure you’re missing something important.
Your instincts itch. There is that crawling thing between your shoulder blades. That sense of being watched.
Prey always knows before the strike.
The forest is dense with pines bowed under the weight of snow, their branches not making a sound at all, and you don’t trust it.
You keep your rifle against your chest. Your fingers ache with cold. Your pulse ticks in your throat, fast and jumpy, as if it knows something you don’t.
Bucky is directly beside you. A little bit tilted in front of you.
He is moving wrong.
Not sloppy, he never moves sloppy, but tense in a way that sets your nerves on edge. His shoulders are drawn tight, head angled just slightly as if he’s listening to something beneath the wind. His metal arm hangs a little lower than usual, ready. Anticipating.
Every so often, he glances back at you. It’s not the quick tactical check you’re used to. This is different. Longer. More intense. As though he’s counting you. As though he’s afraid if he doesn’t keep looking, you’ll disappear between one step and the next.
He slows just enough for his arm to brush your shoulder. His spine tightens, his metal arm flexes.
“I don’t like this,” he mutters.
You huff out a breath that fogs instantly. “You never like this.”
He gives you an answering grunt, another sharply assessing look, and keeps moving.
Your comm crackles once. Then dies.
Bucky swears under his breath and it tells you his nerves are buzzing. He gestures forward, two fingers sharp. Move
You do.
Your boots hit the ground harder now. You sprint. Cold rips into your lungs, breath snagging in your throat, each inhale a blade of cold slicing your lungs.
Snow spirals around you, beautiful and blinding, and then suddenly all sound is back and the world is moving and gunfire cracks the silence wide open. Sound ricochets, multiplies.
You barely register the first shot. Your brain is still catching up, still telling your body run, run, run, stay with Bucky, keep him in your eyesight.
“Down!” Bucky shouts, but you don’t even get the chance.
The second shot finds you.
It’s not sharp pain. Not at first. It’s impact. A brutal shove low in your abdomen, as if someone swung a bat straight through you. The force takes your breath. Warmth spreads where there should only be cold.
“Y/N!”
Bucky’s voice isn’t a sound — it’s an instinct, a gravitational force pulling you toward him even as your body refuses.
Your legs buckle as the pain gets translated and arrives with a punishing jolt. The trees sway. The ground pitches sideways. You stumble, breath swallowed by pain, snow swirling upward as if the sky has flipped.
Bucky catches you before the snow does, metal arm bracing your weight as though it’s nothing — though his face is shredded with terror. He hauls you back as another shot tears through the space you occupied a second ago. Snow sprays. Bark explodes from a nearby tree.
“Fuck— fuck— stay with me,” he pants, dragging you sideways, shoving you behind a thick pine trunk. His body turns instinctively, broad and unyielding, shielding you without thinking. Bullets whine past. He fires back blindly.
You’re trying to breathe through the spiraling ache, through the cold threading beneath your suit. The forest spins. Bucky presses a hand hard against the wound, and the heat of your blood steams in the winter air.
Your legs tremble. Trees smear into streaks of green and white. Your ears ring. “Shit,” you breathe out.
Bucky presses his forehead briefly to yours, breath ragged. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Shit.” His jaw clenches so hard you hear it grind.
He moves again, too fast for you to catch up, his metal arm locking you to his side, iron-strong, unbreakable. His human hand fires behind him with the deadliness of a certain soldier. You feel each recoil vibrate through his chest where you’re pressed against him.
Another shot cracks. He twists mid-step, taking the brunt of it in his shoulder plate, grunting but not slowing.
“Stay with me,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it — just fear, raw and glinting. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Cabin’s close.” His voice trembles. “I’m getting you there. Just — just don’t close your eyes, okay?”
You want to say something clever, reassure him, joke, anything, but nothing reaches your tongue. You nod instead, or maybe your head just tips forward under its own weight. Hard to tell.
The cold is burrowing into you, rushing deep, threading through your veins. Your fingers go numb. Your thoughts scatter. Your stomach throbs.
Another shot whistles past. Bucky swears furiously and hoists you up fully, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. Your arm is linked over his shoulder, his grip fierce.
“You’re gonna hate me for this,” he grounds out, “but I need you conscious.”
He sprints.
He moves through the snow, boots crunching, jaw clenched, breath heaving. His warmth presses into you, fierce and panicked, as though he can shield you from the winter itself.
The cold is seeping deep, invasive, and your stomach doesn’t stop pulsing. You press a hand there, feel slick warmth, feel something bloom sourly in your throat.
Bucky swears again. “Hey. Hey. Don’t look at it.”
“Too late,” you croak out, trying for a smile.
He glances down anyway, jaw locking, eyes hardening. His grip tightens. “Cabin’s close,” he lies.
Or maybe it’s not a lie. Maybe hope just sounds like that in Bucky’s voice.
You don’t know how long you run. Or he does. Time is a fracture and sounds and sensations don’t matter anymore.
Your head lolls. Your lashes flutter.
“Hey!” He jerks you closer. “Nope. Eyes up. Come on, doll. Talk to me.”
“About what?” you whisper tiredly.
“I don’t care. Yell at me. Insult my aim.”
A breath puffs out of you, incredulously. “Please. Nobody’s got a better aim than you.”
He doesn’t answer. He just picks up his pace and squeezes you tighter.
You let your head rest against his collarbone. The steady percussion of his steps vibrates through you. The world around you is a hazy cloud — trees smearing into pale streaks, the sky blinking in and out as your eyes struggle to stay open.
Snow lashes your face, stinging your cheeks, collecting in your hair. Bucky curses at it, like he could intimidate the weather into behaving.
Your stomach crumples. Heat consumes your skin — fever rising fast, disorienting, ravenous. You shiver, you sweat, the cold and heat wage war inside you.
“Bucky,” you breathe, words slurring. “Feels weird.”
“I know,” he says, voice cracking. “I know, sweetheart. Hold on. Just— god, please hold on. Keep talking to me, yeah? C’mon.”
You hum weakly. “You’ve messed up your shoulder again. Tony will give you shit for it.”
“Smartass,” he huffs, relief briefly crossing his face. “Okay. Good. Stay snarky. That’s a good sign.”
Your stomach does an uncomfortable twisting motion, and you whimper into his chest. Heat keeps flooding your skin, overwhelming. You shiver violently even as sweat dampens your hairline.
Bucky picks up his pace again. His hand is shaking against you. Actually, his whole body is.
You murmur something. Maybe his name again, maybe nothing at all, and your vision wavers. You feel his panic flare.
Your consciousness snaps in and out — snow, Bucky’s hectic breath clouding the air, snow, the metallic tang of panic in his voice, snow—
You think you see lights ahead. Faint and glimmering and hopeful.
Maybe hallucination.
Bucky barrels through the last line of pines and kicks a door open, snow exploding off the hinges, and bursting around you, and he shoves the door shut behind him.
The warmth inside is barely that — lukewarm air trapped in old wooden walls — but compared to the forest, it feels like an exhale.
He lowers you onto a cot. He is careful, gentle, as if you’re something he needs to keep unbroken. His metal hand trembles. His human one shakes worse.
He fumbles with the lantern on the table until it casts everything in amber and shadow, painting his face in sharp and fearful lines.
“You’re burning up,” he croaks, brushing damp hair from your forehead. His touch is a benediction and a plea all at once.
You try to answer but the words scatter before they reach your tongue.
He tears at your suit — not harsh, but frantic — exposing the injury just enough to assess it. He sucks in a breath, face paling, but he doesn’t look away. His expression hardens into a vow.
“Stay with me, you hear me?” he orders, almost scolding, almost harsh, but so, so vulnerable.
Your vision swims, and the ceiling with it. The lantern blurs into a sun made of firelight. Your skin feels too tight. Too hot. Fever is creeping along your body, and you lose all coordination. You can’t track Bucky’s movements, only the sound of him.
“Bucky…” Your voice is paper-thin.
His hand finds yours instantly. “I’m right here.”
There’s something you’ve held in your chest for months — something important, bright, unpractical and essential all at once. Something that presses against your ribs every time he looks at you like you’re more than a mission partner. More than a teammate.
He searches for the med kit which is thankfully fully equipped. That’s probably the only thing you’ve got to thank Tony for right now. Bucky keeps removing your layers, touches you only where necessary.
You’re burning. Brighter and lighter and hotter. Fever mangles the world and Bucky and your mind into softness. You can’t hold onto words but you can hold onto him — his silhouette bending over you, the erratic pounding of his heartbeat where your hand brushes his chest.
“Hey.” Bucky’s voice is frantic. “Stay. You hear me?”
“M’stayin’” you slur.
“Good. Don’t go anywhere.”
You need to tell him. Just in case. It’s been lodged in your chest for an eternity, and he deserves to know. Just in case. He deserves to live with the knowledge that your feelings for him run so much deeper than he could ever imagine. Just in case.
You try your best to lift your eyes to his.
“Bucky,” you whisper again, thick-tongued, fever-drunk. His name is the only thing that still feels real. Your eyelids drag, weighted.
He meets your gaze immediately, blue eyes blown wide with terror. “I’m here, sweetheart. Yeah? Not gonna leave you. I’m here.”
Everything sounds underwater. “I need to—,” you start, weakly. “Need to tell you— something, before I— before—”
“Hey,” Bucky cuts in, sharply, his breath hitching. “No. No, Y/n, don’t talk like that.”
You’re not sure you hear him. “I need you to know, that—”
“No,” he says instantly, panic rising. “No, doll. You can tell me later. You can tell me when you’re not bleeding out on me.”
You manage a weak and sad smile. “I’m not sure you’re gonna like it, but—”
“I already hate this,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Add it to the list.”
“I love you.”
The words fall and tumble and collapse out of you as though they have been waiting at the edge of a cliff, just looking for a strong enough wind. You feel weightless after speaking them. Untethered. Free. Just waiting for them to land, waiting for Bucky to soften the landing, or letting them crash and die on the hard ground.
Bucky freezes. His breath stops.
The world does too.
Even the lantern seems to pause mid-flicker.
It’s as though the confession enters him as a lightning strike, stops the whole machinery of his body for a heartbeat too long.
His hand is still pressed to your wound. His blown eyes are locked on your face, disbelieving. His lips are parted.
Your vision tears again, your fever dragging you sideways, but before the dark can get a hold on you, his flesh hand cups your cheek — warm, shaking.
“Sweetheart…” His voice splinters. He looks ready to cry.
You blink up at him, eyes heavy, cheek pressed against his hand. Your thoughts drift like snowflakes — disconnected, soft-edged. “Didn’t wanna… leave without saying it.”
His thumb is rubbing circles into your skin. Or it is simply shaking too hard.
“You’re not leaving,” he chokes out, not being able to swallow properly.
“Just in case,” you breathe weakly, eyes wanting to close.
“I love you, too,” he whispers back, voice hitting on the truth, and he leans his forehead briefly against yours. Staring deeply into your eyes. It seems to be the only thing keeping you alive right now. The words come out quiet but unshakeable, carved from iron and devotion. “God I love you so much. And you’re not dying, okay? I won’t let you. Not that I have— Not when—”
His words melt into you, hot and urgent, a lifeline you cling to as consciousness threatens to slip away.
You smile. It’s wobbly and crooked and delirious, but it feels real on your face.
His confession settles over you with a warmth deeper than fever, more potent than pain.
And then he works. Quickly. Skilled.
He cleans the wound. Dresses it. Monitors your fever with determination and the kind of gentleness that undoes you more thoroughly than any injury ever could. He talks to keep you conscious. Murmured stories. Pleas hidden inside jokes. Your name repeated like a mantra. He presses compresses to your burning skin, checking your pulse every few seconds with a franticness.
“You come back to me, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Come back.”
And you do.
Hours later — though it could be centuries — you wake to the soft glow of lantern light, the storm tapping against the windows.
You’re in Bucky’s lap.
Exhaustion is written into every line of him. He has his eyes closed as his lips brush your hand, still interlinked with his. It seems he refused to leave your side even for a second.
You squeeze his hand.
His eyes snap open. Relief floods his face, loosening every line of fear.
“You’re awake,” he breathes, relief collapsing through him. His smile is small, shaky, and so full of tenderness you feel it beneath your skin. His eyes are bloodshot. “You okay? How do you feel, sweetheart?” His hand presses to your forehead, as though he’s been doing that the whole night in two-minute intervals. “Your fever’s down. The others’ll be here in an hour. You gonna be okay until then? Do you—”
“Did you mean it?” you breathe, not really caring for his fussing, only being lost in the worried blue of his eyes and the love hidden behind it. “What you said?”
He kisses your fingers one by one, eyes sweeping over your face, pulling you closer with his metal arm. “Every word.”
You breathe, deeply, fully, without the earlier pain. His thumb strokes your skin, promising everything without saying a word.
“Good,” you whisper.
His answering smile is sunlight cracking through winter.
Summary: After a hilariously avoidable gym accident, you try to hide the fact that even Avengers get hurt off-duty. But unfortunately for you, Bucky isn’t easily fooled.
Word Count: 5.3k
Warnings: slight allusions to an enemies to lovers dynamic but also not entirely; it’s just Bucky being Bucky lol; injury (accidental); pain; references to perfectionism and workaholic mentality; trying to hide an injury; medical assessment; hurt/comfort; protective!Bucky
Author’s Note: Y’all, I’ve been struggling with writing lately, so I figured I’d start something completely new with zero expectations, in hopes it would make things easier for me. And I guess it kind of helped a little. I did manage to finish it so that means a lot. Though, I’m not really sure what this turned into lmao. It’s a little self-indulgent. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! ♡
Masterlist
The ceilings of the compound’s gym echo your breath back toward you, basically wanting you to choke on it. You still smell faint traces of fresh rubber and eucalyptus from the earlier team yoga class you skipped on purpose, because you have been home from a two-week mission for less than twelve hours, and socializing feels like lifting a cement truck with your teeth.
Now everyone’s in the city doing shots or doing karaoke or being alive in a way you currently refuse to be.
You don’t want joy.
You want the barbell.
You want the barbell because two weeks of a deep-cover op in Bogotá will do some serious brain frying to a person. You also feel like you still have mission dust in your hair and you hope if you sweat hard enough you will finally stop being a person who thinks too much.
You are alone in the gym at 11:37 pm on a Tuesday and every single bulb feels like it’s judging you.
You thought training would feel grounding.
It really doesn’t, but you can’t bring yourself to do anything other than that.
The fluorescent lights feel too bright suddenly, they seem to jab needles into your retinas. Mirrors mirror back a version of you you don’t recognize. A version that needs to recalibrate every joint in your body to remember she is real.
Your bones ache from the flight, your knee is still half bruised, your lower back is whispering threats. You don’t listen. Of course you don’t listen. You are annoyingly competitive with the version of yourself inside your own head. The worst opponent possible.
You pick up the barbell anyway, talk to your own reflection like a menace, and decide to go heavier than you should. You imagine Sam calling this late-night atonement energy. You imagine Natasha calling this the I don’t know how to rest disease. You imagine Tony calling this peak dumbass.
You grab the bar. You set your stance. You inhale fire.
Your muscles pull like reluctant rope.
You start your deadlift.
You lift like you are punishing the molecules.
And because the universe is a pretty little brat, your left pinky finger twitches at the wrong millisecond and the weight slips and gravity shows her claws and you make a sound.
You make a sound because the bar crashes directly onto the very top bones of your right foot. Not enough to pulverize, but enough to send every neuron in your leg into a perfect barbershop quartet of pain.
You go still.
The pain is radioactive. The pain is hilariously specific. It’s like your foot is attempting to write a novel in morse code.
You inhale through your teeth so violently you think you might vomit. Your soul briefly leaves your body, files a complaint, and then returns only to scream.
“Agent, you appear to be in acute pain. Would you like me to alert Sergeant Barnes?”
The humiliation is instant.
Absolutely not.
You would rather limp forever. You would rather cut off the foot with kitchen shears. You would rather crawl into a vent and hibernate.
You will not let Bucky I said that out loud? Wow real sorry Barnes find you helpless on the gym floor.
He would smirk once. Once. And then he’d get that smug quiet face. That sergeant face. As if he’s a patient father of a toddler.
No. You can’t do this. You are a superhero. You once bench-pressed a truck. Small truck. Flatbed. And Steve might have helped a little. But still.
“No,” you wheeze, trying to sound composed. “No notifications. This is a private moment. A stupid private moment.”
You grip the iron and shift it away, and your vision whites out like someone turned the saturation all the way up.
Your mouth hangs open like a glitching tab in a browser, and you are trying to breathe with just the top half of your lungs because the bottom half is currently replaying your poor life choices.
You slowly lower yourself onto the mat and clutch your foot like a widow clutching her pearls.
It throbs so intensely you are convinced the bones rearranged out of spite.
“Your injury metrics are not insignificant,” FRIDAY offers again, very calmly.
“I’m fine,” you lie to the ceiling, to the AI, to the ghosts of your own pride. “I don’t need him of all people.”
The gym buzzes with fluorescent indifference.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your eyes from watering.
You genuinely might vomit.
“Friday,” you whisper-yell, shaky and wrecked, “this stays between us.”
There is silence. And the glimmer of a camera diaphragm narrowing somewhere behind a tinted panel.
You close your eyes.
You stay there, trying to breathe through the sharp pain, refusing to acknowledge the part of your stomach that dipped when FRIDAY suggested him. The part you would sooner die than admit.
Because if Bucky Barnes walks in here right now and sees you like this, you will never hear the end of it.
You stay seated on the cold gym floor for exactly fifteen seconds before panic kicks in.
Because logically, rationally, historically; Bucky never actually mocks you when you get hurt. Not once. He is surprisingly gentle in those moments. Weirdly soft-spoken then. His eyes do that serious, scanning thing and he starts troubleshooting silent solutions like a one-man tactical medic unit.
And yet.
You are absolutely convinced that this particular flavor of idiotic self-injury will turn him into the smuggest man alive. This is different. This is embarrassing. This is textbook hubris. You can practically hear his voice in your head.
really?
the bar fell on your foot?
Your pride is choking you like a boa constrictor of your own stupidity.
You haven’t even seen him yet tonight. You stepped off the quinjet, showered, lowered your cortisol enough to pretend to be a functional human, and then came here to sabotage yourself with iron. Classic. Meanwhile, the rest of the team went out to some bar in Brooklyn because they apparently enjoy friendship and daylight and the dopamine of communal beverages.
Bucky stayed behind. That’s nothing new. Bucky never goes with them. He does not do sociable frivolity. He does the exact opposite. He haunts the hallways like a large, beautiful housecat with too many knives.
And you could hear him earlier.
When you were changing in your room, you heard the solid thud-thud-thud of his boots pacing in the hallway you both share. A restless zig-zagging that made the wood subfloor complain just enough to announce his existence. Like he was waiting for his thoughts to quiet. Or for something to happen.
And now the risk of him appearing is non-zero.
You very carefully begin the slow-motion process of standing up on your one functional foot. The pain radiates catastrophically, like a small nuclear detonation in the cluster of metatarsals you once trusted. You hiss under your breath, like a dying teakettle.
You limp.
It is not dignified.
You are trying to disguise it as a casual limp. A sexy limp. A limp that implies you are aloof and ethereal and maybe you just did something mysterious and glamorous. You are trying to make this limp seem like a lifestyle choice.
FRIDAY thankfully doesn’t call you out on it.
You take another hobbling step toward the door.
Your foot screams like a siren.
You grit your teeth and tell yourself fiercely, that you’re going to make it to your room like a stealth operative. You are not going to encounter him in the hallway. The universe loves you. It is rooting for your dignity.
The universe, of course, does not answer, and the hallway that leads away from the gym feels like a mouth about to bite down.
It is a dim, blue twilight ribbon of motion sensor light. You commit to the bit. You commit to the limpless limp. You commit to an Oscar-worthy performance of nothing is wrong here, I am merely walking like a normal person with normal bones that have not betrayed me.
You try to glide past the kitchen as though you are not a person in agony but instead a hologram of a person in agony.
You are almost safe, but then you see him.
Bucky is standing at the kitchen counter in a soft gray T-shirt, hair damp like he just showered, stirring honey into a mug of tea with an absent expression that looks almost thoughtful. Or irritated. Or both. His face always sits somewhere between those two coordinates.
In the overhead LEDs he looks like a man who’s been alive too long and somehow still cares enough to steep Earl Grey.
He glances up at exactly the wrong or right second.
His eyes catch yours fast, as if he expected you.
You tell your face to perform. Placid. Composed. The girl who has two functioning feet and never did anything as embarrassing as dropping iron on her own bones.
Your right foot is an electrified balloon.
“Hey,” he lets out gruffly.
You blink in the same startled way a raccoon might blink after being caught in someone’s garbage.
“Hey,” you say, voice too casual. Casual like a person trying to launder their own voice through a filter of charm.
He looks too awake for this hour. Damp hair pushed back, shirt soft and lived-in, sleeves loose on his shoulders.
He glances at you in that slow, data-logging way he always has. His jaw makes a tiny shift.
“You’re back.” He says it as though it’s information he already had. Stored away. It’s as close as he’ll get to I was aware of your absence and the knowledge of that makes your chest go fizz.
“Yeah,” you answer, absolutely planting both feet to the ground in a stance that looks stiff and unnatural. Both feet touch the ground, technically, but all your weight stays on the left leg. Your right foot is barely skimming the tile, like a very nervous hovercraft. “Got in earlier. Crashed for a while.”
Bucky studies you for one long second.
He has that look that reads people like a list of ingredients.
“Rough trip?” he asks, with that deep and throaty voice.
You swallow. “Kind of.”
He takes a sip. Eyes stay on you. Calm. Reading you like a page with underlines.
“You want tea?” He nods vaguely at the kettle. He doesn’t even say it as a question. It’s just Bucky being Bucky. Communicating in half-offers so he can pretend he doesn’t have feelings.
You try to pivot and your right foot brushes the tile a little too forcefully and your soul leaves your body, briefly. “No, thanks.”
He nods once, takes a sip. “Others are out in Brooklyn.”
“Yes,” you echo, as if you had just invented geography. “Bars. People. Laughing. All that.”
He hums. “You didn’t feel like joining?”
You shrug, hoping the casual movement distracts from the fact that your right foot has become a private expanding sun of pain. “I was tired. I wanted some peace and quiet. And a shower with real water pressure and products that don’t smell like industrial lavender.”
His mouth tugs at one corner. The hint of an almost-smile.
But he doesn’t stop studying you.
He taps his spoon on the rim of the mug, lightly. “You good?” he asks with a small tilt of his head. This is his version of leaning closer without actually leaning closer.
Your heart rate spikes so abruptly you nearly wobble onto your injured foot. Your stomach does a weird flutter, and your mouth lies on autopilot.
“Yeah,” you say too fast, too bright, too defensive. “Just tired, still”
Bucky hums, setting his tea down. He taps his metal thumb on the counter twice. It’s a little thinking tic you’ve catalogued without meaning to.
You plant your feet deeper into the floor to make it look more natural, but that was another stupid decision. Lightning surges up your right foot. You keep your expression intact, hopefully. But your small smile feels strained and brittle, like a sticker coming off in the wrong direction.
Bucky squints at you subtly. He does not buy it. He does not not buy it either. He is in the investigative purgatory of maybe.
“You sure?” His voice drops half a register. Not teasing. Sincere. Some microscopic muscle in his jaw flexes.
You nod. “Yeah, totally.”
He stands there, still, like a statue that thinks it’s a shadow.
“You’re standing kind of weird,” he assesses.
“Weird how?” you ask nonchalantly, but you feel the sweat at the nape of your neck starting to sting.
Both feet remain on the ground for demonstration and you think you might faint from the flash of pain but you do your best to keep your face movie-perfect. It doesn’t really seem to work but all you can do is try. You need to leave before the pain makes you involuntarily scream.
He stares at your posture. “Don’t know.” His voice is faraway, reflective. However, his eyes are a little too focused for your taste.
You decide you should leave before he witnesses the collapse of your whole performance. You start to pivot - warily, guardedly, like a spy tiptoeing through a field of pressure plates.
“Okay well, I’m back in my room, trying to get some sleep in,” you start, feeling nervous but doing your best not to let it seep into your tone. “Guess you should too.”
He watches you turn, watches you aim your body toward your bedroom hallway like a wounded gazelle refusing to acknowledge the predator in the room.
“Good night.“ His voice is quiet.
You can feel his gaze between your shoulder blades. You can feel him trying to parse the strange thing you are doing with your joints. You can feel another single step might make you whimper.
But you keep going.
Because you are determined.
Because pride is something too important to lose.
Because you would rather fall down in an empty hallway and crawl to your room like a tragic mythological creature than let him see you hurt yourself in the stupidest way imaginable.
You try to keep moving. Every step is sending an array of pain through your body, and you’re glad your back is turned to him so he doesn’t see you grimace.
You clear the kitchen doorway. One more corner and you can hide in the blessed anonymity of your room. But as you turn the corner, the pain detonates. White behind your eyes.
Your right foot tries to touch the ground and your entire body says absolutely not.
You slap your hand onto the wall for support, breath hitching like your lungs just skipped frames. Your injured foot is instantly lifted off the ground. You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale through your teeth, because if you make a noise you will cry and if you cry you will dissolve.
“You shouldn’t walk on that foot.”
You startle again. And then freeze like one of those wildlife documentaries where the deer hears something in the wind.
But honestly, you should’ve expected him to follow you.
When Bucky Barnes finds something suspicious, he’ll dig deep, and he’ll get to the bottom of it.
You exhale every lie you were planning to use.
You turn to him a little, trying for nonchalance again. You swallow. Your pride tries to creep into your esophagus and choke you out. Your back is pressed to the wall. Your right foot is levitating like a hostage.
And Bucky takes you in.
A microsecond scan. That mouth like it knows things. Those eyes like they were born knowing how to observe damage.
His face goes blank in that specific Bucky way. Not cold, not warm - just laser discipline clicking into place.
“It’s not a big deal,” you try.
He doesn’t bother arguing your version of reality. He just gives you that look that could bisect molecules. The one that says I’ve been alive a hundred years, doll, I can spot bullshit from space.
His hand - flesh, this time - lands gentle and firm just above your elbow. Irritatingly tender.
“C’mon,” he says, almost whisper-soft, but directing. “Sit.”
Your body obeys before your ego can intervene. You grind your teeth as you move your foot because it feels like stepping on broken glass and electricity. He guides you to the nearest bench in the hallway's alcove and helps you lower yourself down on it.
The sudden absence of your own weight from that foot makes your whole nervous system sag in shaky relief.
Bucky kneels in front of you and the gesture makes your breath hitch. His hair shifts forward a little as he ducks his head to see, that dark, wet-soft strand falling near his brow.
“Let me see,” he utters, extending his metal hand, palm up.
You hesitate. His eyes move up and pin you.
You offer your injured foot in a slow movement.
He eases your shoe onto his palm, deliberate and mindful. That gentleness always shocks you. You keep forgetting the metal arm is the part used for breaking things, not the man.
He presses carefully along the outside of your shoe, testing for reaction.
You hiss, involuntarily, like air bursting from a tire.
His mouth goes grim.
“What happened?”
There’s no edge to it. Just dead-serious need for accurate data.
You scramble for an excuse. “It’s nothing- mission- just a little-”
He cuts you a short, dissecting glance.
“You weren’t limping off the jet twelve hours ago.”
Your stomach drops.
You stare at him.
He doesn’t blink.
You didn’t even know he saw you come off the jet. You didn’t see him watching.
Your brain does that glitch thing. A stutter-step of surprise. An emotional pothole.
“I didn’t know you were there,” you note, voice a little thinner than you wish.
He doesn’t correct. He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t get embarrassed.
“You weren’t limping,” he simply repeats. “So, try that again,” he adds in the same tone, flat but also nonjudgmental.
He continues evaluating your foot, thumb soft.
You are suddenly eight years old and caught with crumbs on your face and cookie-thief written across your forehead.
“It was nothing, just-” you start. You stare at the floor. Then the ceiling. Then your own disastrous sense of dignity. “I dropped a weight on it,” you mumble into the void.
There. It’s out.
Bucky pauses.
Then, he exhales through his nose. The closest thing he has to a sigh.
“You dropped a weight on your own foot,” he repeats, as though he’s documenting the incident in some internal report.
You slap a hand over your face. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”
He lifts your foot slightly to examine a different angle. His voice is subdued and infuriatingly calm. “I’m not. I’m trying to make sure you didn’t fracture anything.”
You grip the edge of the bench.
“Which plate,” he asks, pragmatic. As if he’s logging injury metadata.
“Twenty-five,” you mutter.
He frowns, lifts his eyes to yours. You are drowning in the blue of them. “You went for a PR while you were still jet-lagged.”
You want to fling yourself into a recycling bin.
“Needed to get my mind off things,” you admit slowly.
He doesn’t say anything to that. Just fixes his gaze back to your foot, pensive.
“I need to remove the shoe, doll,” he tells you, voice deeper, tone gentle. “Won’t be able to see the damage otherwise.”
“Okay,” you say, small.
“Alright.” His tone is even but also soft-spoken in a way that makes something jump in your chest. “Don’t move.”
His fingers find the knotted lace. He works it loose with scientific delicacy. He moves slow enough that you can tell he’s preparing for pain spikes. He knows the math of injuries. He’s done field trauma on five continents. He’s probably triaged broken feet in tundras and deserts and alleys.
Your breath goes shallow.
He eases the heel of the shoe back a millimeter at a time.
Your vision fuzzes.
Your body goes rigid.
He pauses.
And after waiting for your next intake of breath, he slides the shoe off, along with your sock.
The air hits your swollen skin and you suck a sharp breath in because the sensation is a category 5 hurricane.
He sits back a bit. Flesh hand holding your shoe. Metal hand holding the underside of your foot. The coolness of his hand is somehow both grounding and electrifying.
You tilt your chin and pull your bravado on like a thrifted sweater.
He looks at your foot. Looks at the bruising that has bloomed purple-black-green like a chaotic galaxy.
He exhales, slow. A low whistle folded in one long breath.
His expression is grim, so quietly fixed in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and then crawl back in again. His grip remains secure. He keeps cataloguing pain points.
“Yeah, you’re not waking on that,“ he comments decisively. “Not until we ice it.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I can walk.”
His eyes cut to yours again.
“You can pretend,” he corrects. “That’s different.”
He shifts his hold gently, supportive, as if he’s already planned the next three steps.
You get off the bench, reaching for his arm because you are trying to be a reasonable adult. But your foot doesn’t even touch the ground and gives a little spark of fresh agony.
And before you can redirect, or negotiate, he is already sliding an arm behind your back, another under your knees, and lifting you.
Like a damsel.
Like a problem to be redirected.
You gasp, palms flying to his shoulders.
“Bucky- hey- no, put me down-”
He doesn’t even dignify your panic with a reply, he just adjusts you against his chest as though you weigh the mass of a warm towel and starts walking.
It is the least graceful moment of your adult life.
You are hyper-aware of everything. His bicep under the fabric of his shirt. The faint scent of cedarwood shampoo. The fact that your thigh is pressed to his torso in a way that feels obscene for this late hour on a Tuesday.
“This is humiliating,” you complain under your breath, face on fire.
He snorts. “You can feel humiliated while sitting down.”
“Bucky-”
“Stop arguing,” he remarks, and he isn’t condescending. He almost sounds concerned. “You’re injured. I’m not letting you load that foot.”
You stare up at him, mortified and also completely overwhelmed by the fact that his arms are around you and he smells clean and warm and a little like the tea he just had.
Then you try to look anywhere but his face because your heart is beating rude and loud.
The med freezer alcove is small, clinical, stainless steel surfaces and that cold antiseptic smell of professional athletic medicine.
He sets you gently on the padded trainer table and kneels again like earlier.
Except now you’re sitting, and his face is close enough you can count the faint freckles on his cheekbones. You are fully in his gravitational forcefield.
You feel ridiculous. Tiny. Exposed.
He extracts an instant ice pack, cracks the inside unit with a short metal-thumb pressure, shakes it once, then cups your ankle again.
You’re sure the couch in the living room and a simple ice pack from the kitchen would have been enough. But Bucky’s always been a little dramatic.
You wince as he applies the ice.
He watches your expression, careful. Adjusts pressure. Finds the threshold between helpful and too much.
“Next time,” he notes quietly, voice a little rough, “ask someone to spot you.”
You feel heat edge all the way to your scalp.
“I didn’t expect this level of stupidity,” you argue, defensive, self-deprecating.
His mouth almost curves. Not a smile, just a flicker of wry acknowledgment.
“Accidents happen,” he replies, voice level but sympathetically warm.
You scoff. “Not ones this dumb.”
He looks up, a longer look. “S’ not dumb, doll.”
You look away from him. His sincerity freezes you more than the ice.
Your throat goes tight.
He holds the ice pack in place.
You clear your voice, small. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.” A simple statement.
He adjusts your foot again, more secure. His metal hand brackets the underside so the ice stays even.
“And yet,” you murmur, almost whispering.
He doesn’t look at you.
He just keeps his focus on your foot. His voice is calm, but there’s no exit, no loophole, no weakness in it.
“You wouldn’t have done it yourself.” Another verdict.
And you hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows you so well.
He keeps the ice there until the initial stabbing pain dulls into a deep, sullen throb. Your whole body is humming like a machine red-lining.
He’s quiet for a moment.
Then he shifts the pack aside and carefully cups your heel again. His touch is slow and precise and light enough to heat up your skin.
“Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft. “I need to see how bad it is. I’m gonna check range.”
You nod. Your throat is a mess.
He cups your heel with the metal palm - cool straight through your skin - and with his warm organic hand, he supports the arch.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he instructs quietly, gruffly.
He lifts your foot a hair, rotates it a tiny bit. His eyes never leave your face.
You want to die and also be like this forever.
“That hurt?” he inquires, careful.
You swallow. “No. I mean- yes. Kind of. I don’t know.”
His lips jerk the ghost of a laugh. “Okay. What about this.”
He shifts the angle two degrees right.
A tiny lightning strike of pain arcs straight to your skull.
You suck in air through your teeth.
He freezes.
His jaw clenches.
“That’s a no,” he concludes with a scowl. His thumb traces along the bone line with that careful pressure that feels like a spotlight.
Then he angles your foot inward.
You inhale sharply once more.
He holds still. Eyes on your face. “Top? Side?”
“Top,” you whisper, like shame is oxygen.
He nods once. “Alright.”
He lowers your foot back down with so much tenderness it almost offends you.
“Are you enjoying this?” you ask him with a small teasing curve of your lips.
He gives you a look.
“No,” he states plainly. “I’m trying to see if your metatarsals are intact.”
You blink.
He is so serious. Expression pulled so tight.
But he’s watching you with his face growing a centimeter softer, eyes doing that thing where they go half-warm.
Then he shifts your foot again. He uses his flesh hand to gently lift your toes - just a few degrees - just enough to check something internal and intangible and soldier-logic.
Pain punches through your entire leg in a clean bright line so harshly, you choke on your breath.
Your whole torso jerks back.
Bucky flinches with you. His brows slam together in a hard grimace.
He goes stone still.
His jaw goes hard.
“Okay,” he mutters, almost under his breath, as though he’s already adjusting his internal assessment. “That might be a break.”
Your stomach drops through the table.
“Are you sure?” you nervously ask.
Bucky grinds his jaw, still keeping his gaze on your foot, his hands holding it still. “Yeah. I’m guessing you might’ve fractured something.”
You curse under your breath.
“This is such bad timing,” you groan, instantly nauseous. “I’m scheduled to leave again in three days.”
He lifts his eyes to yours, and the look is very Bucky Barnes you’re not doing that energy.
“No you’re not.”
“I have to.”
“You don’t.”
“I do,” you insist, anxiety rising like steam. “If I bail, Fury will-”
He scowls. “Fury can’t send you anywhere like this.”
You cringe. Because you know Fury’s response would be well then get un-broken.
“Fury’s not known for compassion, Bucky. Especially not for something this ridiculous,” you say roughly.
Bucky’s jaw cements. “I don’t give a damn what he’s known for,” he bites out. “He’s not putting you on a plane like this.”
You sink your fingers into your forehead. “He’ll make me regret it.”
“He won’t,” Bucky utters, tone flattening to steel.
“Bucky-”
“You can’t even put pressure on your foot, sweetheart. Your job is to come home alive. Not to impress anybody with how much punishment you can absorb.” His voice is so low, it almost sounds like a threat.
You stare at him. Speechless.
He places the ice back on your foot, softly. Checks your expression again.
You deflate. Shoulders cave inward. Because you know he’s right. But it’s an awful feeling.
You look at your foot. The black-purple galaxy bruise swelling like cursed bread dough.
“When do you think I can go again?” you whisper, trying to sound casual and totally failing.
He angles his head, considering. He studies your foot again, but his expression softens. He is doing timelines in his head. Calculating bone health, trauma recovery, mission requirements, your ego.
“Depends,” he explains softly. “If it’s a partial fracture - five to six weeks minimum. If it’s a clean break - might take a while longer.”
You make a miserable noise.
He watches your face.
And then, very gently, he softens his tone.
“Look,” he offers, quiet, searching. “This happens, doll. You’re not indestructible. And Fury shouldn’t expect you to be. You’ve been stacking mission after mission, overclocking your system.”
You bite the inside of your cheek.
He continues, softer still, eyes pinning yours like a hand on your sternum.
“Maybe this forces you to stand still for a while. And I think that’s not the worst thing. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
You huff a laugh that’s mostly sad.
“I don’t even know how to stand still.”
He smirks, barely. Almost invisible.
“Sitting still, then,” he revises dryly, glancing at your foot, “because you’re absolutely not standing on that.”
You let out a burdened sigh.
“I could hop,” you try again, because apparently, your brand is relentless denial.
He deadpans, not even looking up. “You can hobble into a worse injury. That’s all hopping gets you, doll.”
“You’re very bossy,” you grumble.
He lifts his eyebrows at you, a tiny glint of amusement lining up behind his eyes.
He shifts the ice pack a millimeter - just enough to reduce pressure - and you breathe out like a dying accordion.
“This isn’t a setback, doll,” he tells you empathetically, tone so soft. “It’s just downtime. Think it will be good for you. You stay put. You rest. You let your body catch up. And next time, you let me spot you.”
You blink at him with your eyes stingy because the word downtime feels like a permission slip you didn’t know how to write for yourself. Because the way he’s talking to you makes your spine light up in neon.
He looks down again - checking swelling, repositioning the ice once more - and the whole moment is so gentle you don’t know what to do with it.
“I’ll talk to Fury,” he announces, firm and resolute.
You blink at him.
“What?”
He shrugs one shoulder, not looking up at you. “You’re not taking heat for this. I’ll handle it.”
Your chest goes fizzy weird and unsafe.
You keep staring at him.
This man would go to war with an entire intelligence apparatus rather than watch you limp into one more dangerous thing.
And it’s too much to process so you look at your foot again because it’s easier than looking at him.
“You don’t have to, Bucky,” you reply, almost breathless. “I can deal with it.”
“I know.”
And yet.
“The hardest thing is to give up control when you’ve spent your whole life thinking it’s what keeps you safe.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky x Reader!Steve's Granddaughter
Summary: Her grandfather’s last request was for her to deliver a bundle of letters written to friends he’d never forgotten. She expected a journey into her family history. She didn’t expect to meet Bucky Barnes—or to lose her heart to the man behind the legend of her grandfather's past.
Word Count: 20k
Warnings: best friend's granddaughter; angst; yearning; friends to lovers; angst-heavy relationship conflict; mentions of past death; grief; slow-burnish; cursing; mentions of PTSD; introspection; age gap; definitely not canon but a girl can dream
Author’s Note: I KNOW in canon something like this would never happen and Steve went back to a different timeline but c'mon, Bucky falling in love with his best friend's granddaughter? Does it get any better than that?
My biggest gripe with Endgame was how easily Steve went back to be with Peggy, leaving Bucky behind, so I wrote him as accepting of the choice Steve made, but with a bit of residual resentment.
She was used to the mugginess of D.C., the heavy summer air and the sudden storms that rolled through without warning, but the South was a different beast entirely. She was sure she stuck out like a sore thumb here.
That much seemed obvious. Even in jeans and a tank top, people gave her curious glances as she passed through town. Or maybe they sensed it, the thing she’d been forced to hide her entire life. That her very existence was a secret.
Sam Wilson’s address hadn’t been hard to find, not with his name and reputation. She was surprised his family home — a charming, Southern-style house in a small fishing community — wasn’t swarmed with fans looking for selfies or signatures. But ever since the Blip, the public had learned to be more respectful of heroes. Maybe even a little afraid of them. And she couldn’t blame them. Fear was a natural response to the unknown.
But to her, the unknown had always just been… life. Part of being human.
She took a steadying breath and knocked on the Wilsons’ front door, nerves tight in her chest. She hadn’t really planned this beyond stumbling across Sam’s address in one of her grandfather’s letters — one of many he’d written but never sent. She hadn’t had the heart to open them. It hadn’t felt like her place.
She raised a fist, counted to three, and knocked again — firm, deliberate.
The bundle of letters crinkled at her side.
From inside came the sound of shuffling and a child’s voice, high and animated. Her guess was confirmed when the door creaked open and a young boy with glasses squinted up at her, a suspicious frown tugging at his mouth.
She waited, awkwardly, hoping he’d say something first. When he didn’t, she shifted her weight and offered a small, uncertain smile.
“Hi… um, is your mom or uncle home?”
His frown deepened. “You wanna see Uncle Sam?”
“Yes, I actually would—”
“We don’t know you.”
She blinked at the interruption, caught off guard. The kid raised his brows like he was waiting for her to make a case for herself, arms folded firmly across his chest. He couldn’t have been more than ten, but he stood there like he ran the whole household.
She cleared her throat uncertainly. “Well, I don’t know you either.”
“I live here.”
“Okay, fair.”
A beat.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
She hesitated, then only gave her first name.
The boy wasn’t fooled, however. “No last name?”
“Look,” she signed, starting to get frustrated. “I really just want to give your uncle something. If he’s not here, could I just leave it with your mom?”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you really want with Uncle Sam?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
“Classified stuff.”
The boy’s mouth opened in mild offense. “I’m ten, not stupid.”
She leaned in slightly. “You sure about that?”
His eyebrows shot up like she’d challenged him to a duel. Before he could fire back, a voice called from inside, warm but exasperated.
“Cass, stop interrogating people on the porch!”
Cass rolled his eyes but didn’t move. “She says she has classified stuff.”
“I did not say that,” she muttered.
A woman appeared behind him — Sarah, if she remembered correctly from her research — wiping her hands on a dish towel as she approached the door. Her eyes landed on her instantly, softening with polite curiosity.
“Can I help you?”
Cass muttered something under his breath and stomped off.
She offered a small smile, nerves creeping back in like a tide. “Hi. I’m sorry to just… show up. I was hoping to talk to Sam?”
Sarah eyed her with the same guarded skepticism her son had, gaze flicking briefly to the bundle of letters in her hand. “Are those for him?”
She nodded, her throat tightening. The papers felt hot in her grip. “They’re not from me. I found them a few weeks ago. Thought… he’d want to have them.”
Sarah’s lips pressed into a thoughtful line, her expression unreadable. “Who are they from?”
She hesitated, knowing the next words would shift everything. Up until now, she’d been nothing but a shadow, a secret tethered to a story no one else knew — watching history play out exactly the way her grandfather had said it would.
“They’re from my grandfather,” she said softly. “Steve.”
Sunlight caught the edge of the first envelope in the stack, illuminating the name written in her grandfather’s careful, steady hand, ink faded, but still unmistakable.
.
.
.
It only took one hushed phone call, words muffled through the living room wall. An hour later, Sam Wilson was walking through the front door, boots still dark and slick from the damp autumn evening.
His gaze found hers the moment the door clicked shut behind him.
She'd seen the Falcon countless times over the years. On the news, in grainy online clips, splashed across social media feeds. Usually standing beside a younger version of her grandfather, the man she'd never known in that era. The one who still belonged to the world instead of to her.
In person, Sam Wilson was exactly what she expected and somehow more. Tall, broad-shouldered, steady in a way that seemed effortless. There was confidence in the way he carried himself, yes, but warmth in the set of his mouth, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He had that same quiet geniality her grandfather had always carried, the kind that made you feel like you could trust him before he ever said a word.
Still, his eyes were skeptical as they swept over her. Not rudely, but carefully, deliberately searching. She knew exactly what he was looking for. Did she resemble Steve? Could she really be his last living blood relative? Or was this some elaborate trick, another ghost from the past come back to haunt him?
She already knew the answer. Her mother's side had left her with enough differences that the resemblance wasn't immediate, wasn't obvious. So she waited, still and patient, hands folded loosely in her lap, letting him decide for himself.
The silence stretched. Sarah watched from the kitchen doorway, her hands folded in front of her as if bracing for bad news, or maybe just holding herself together. Finally, Sam's shoulders eased. The tension slipped from him in one long, deliberate exhale. He dropped his duffel bag by the door and gave her a smile. Genuine, but tinged with something bittersweet.
"You have his eyes," he said quietly, voice rougher than she expected. "It's… good to see them again."
She returned the smile, tentative, unsure if her face reminded him too much of a best friend long gone. "He always said he was glad that was the only thing I got from him."
Sam chuckled, a low sound that seemed to ease something in the room. He let out another long breath before dragging a chair over and dropping into it directly in front of her. Elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. His gaze kept drifting back to her eyes, lingering there like he was trying to memorize them all over again. If it weren't for the faint twist of his mouth, the subtle tightness at the corners, she wouldn't have guessed he was lost in memory.
"No super soldier genes, then?" His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was real curiosity underneath.
She shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek. "None that I know of. My mom and her brother never had anything out of the ordinary. The serum didn't change his genetics. Couldn't be passed down. I think… he was grateful for that. Relieved, even."
Sam nodded slowly, absorbing that, quiet for a long beat. He was still studying her, not intrusively, but like he was piecing together a puzzle he'd thought was long finished. He hadn't even asked about the letters yet, though she could feel the questions simmering just behind his eyes, patient and waiting.
"When Steve went back…" he said finally, voice low and careful, "I guess I never thought we'd meet his grandkids one day. Didn't even cross my mind." He paused, something distant flickering across his face. "Makes sense, though. A few months for us…was decades for him."
"He told me everything," she said softly, hoping pieces of her grandfather's voice, his stories, might bridge the impossible gap between them. "World War II. The serum. Waking up in a world that had moved on without him. The Avengers. Meeting you. Fighting Ultron, Thanos… all of it. We watched every news story together, read every article we could find." She smiled faintly. "Well, I did. He said there was no point. He already knew exactly how it would all play out."
Sam let out a short, surprised snort, shaking his head with something like fond exasperation. "Sounds about right. Classic Steve. No point in reliving the headlines when you lived the whole damn thing."
His gaze finally dropped to the bundle of letters resting on the small table beside her, tied carefully with faded string. "Those for me?"
She nodded and lifted them, handing them over like they were something sacred. Some of them were decades old, the edges yellowed and brittle, the paper thin enough to see shadows of ink through the backs.
"He wrote them from the day he went back to my grandma," she said quietly, "all the way until his last. They were in his will… along with this address, and a request to find you." She swallowed. "I never opened them. Didn't feel like it was my right."
Sam turned the packet over in his hands slowly, reverently, his thumb brushing over the worn edges like he could feel the weight of decades pressed into the paper. His mouth tightened, jaw working for a moment before he spoke, voice steady but softer now.
"Thank you," he said. "For bringing these. For respecting them." He looked up, meeting her eyes again. "That means more than you know."
She nodded, throat tight, unsure what to say. Unsure of what to do next, really. She hadn't planned this far ahead in her mind when she first read her grandfather's wish for her to deliver the letters. All she'd really thought about was hoping she'd be able to find the recipients. And praying they'd want what she had been asked to give.
He glanced up after a moment. "I didn't catch your name."
She told him her first name, then added, "Carter. Last name's Carter. Steve took Peggy's name when they married. Said it made life easier to… stay out of sight. Start over."
Something in Sam's expression shifted. Recognition flickered, maybe even understanding — or sorrow for what that choice must have meant. "Your mom and… you said there was an uncle?"
Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers twisting together. "My mother died a few years ago. Cancer." The word still tasted bitter. She swallowed hard. "My uncle… he was killed in Vietnam. Never made it home. So, yeah. I'm the last one left."
Sam was silent for a long moment, watching her with an expression that wasn't pity. He’d seen too much to know that pity wasn’t the accurate response to years of loss. Empathy, maybe. Shared understanding of what it meant to carry ghosts. Then he said, with a faint, sad smile, "You've got Peggy's face. The shape of it, anyway. But the eyes… those are all Steve."
Her own smile wavered, threatening to break. "That means a lot." She cleared her throat, steadying herself. "And… thank you. For taking up his shield. I know it wasn't easy."
Sam looked down briefly, a shade of something unspoken crossing his face. Pride, maybe, or the weight of what she knew was both a gift and a burden. "It's… an honor. Always will be. Even on the hard days."
She hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out another bundle, smaller than the first, bound in worn twine that had frayed at the edges. "I have one more packet," she said, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "These aren't for you. They're from my grandfather… to Bucky."
Sam's head lifted sharply, his brows drawing together. Not surprised, exactly. More like he'd been expecting this, dreading it maybe. Knowingly.
"I need help finding him," she continued, words coming faster now. "I know he's… hard to track down. Doesn't want to be found. But Grandpa wanted him to have these." She met Sam's eyes, steady and sure. "And I think… he needs to. Maybe more than anyone."
Sam stared at her for a long beat, jaw tight, weighing something heavy in his mind. Then he gave a single, slow nod, decision made.
"I might know where to start."
.
.
.
Her grandfather had spent most of his life talking about Bucky. Her grandma used to joke—half-teasing, half-serious—that Bucky was secretly his long-lost love rather than her. He'd just laugh and wave it off with that familiar boyish grin, but she knew better. She'd seen the way his eyes would go distant sometimes, especially in his last years. He carried a tremendous weight of guilt for leaving Bucky behind in the present, an anchor that never quite loosened its hold. He always said Bucky had given him his blessing, had practically shoved him toward the quantum tunnel himself, but the endless war stories about his best friend — told and retold until she could recite them by heart—were his way of coping with the sense of wrongdoing he carried until the day he died.
She knew the broad strokes of Bucky's life. The torture and brainwashing, his years spent as HYDRA's weapon. The time he spent as nothing more than a ghost story whispered in intelligence briefings. The bloody reunion with her grandfather that had made international headlines. His slow, painful return to himself. But it was in her grandfather's final years, after Grandma Peggy passed and the house felt too empty, that she got the clearest picture. Sitting by his bed while illness slowly claimed him, machines beeping softly in the background, she listened as he spoke of Bucky in a way that was more than just facts, more than hero worship or survivor's guilt.
Steve had described him as stubborn to a fault, fiercely loyal, and braver than anyone had a right to be. The kind of bravery that didn't come from fearlessness but from choosing to stand anyway. A man with a sharp wit and a dry sense of humor that could cut through the tension of any battlefield, make men laugh even when they were knee-deep in mud and blood. He said Bucky could fight like hell but would still give away his last meal if someone else needed it more, would carry a wounded soldier on his back for miles without complaint. And no matter how much the world had taken from him, no matter how much blood was on his hands or how many memories had been stripped away, there was still a piece of that kid from Brooklyn who'd do anything to protect the people he loved.
She had to admit, she'd spent the last few years wondering more about Bucky than about Sam. A man out of time, just like her grandfather, but worse somehow. Recovering from losing not just his era but his memories, his autonomy…himself. Utterly alone except for Sam, really, and whatever tenuous thread still connected him to a world that had moved on without him. It was a tragic story, Shakespearean in its cruelty, and she felt quite a bit of sympathy for a man she had only seen in grainy pictures and heavily redacted news reports.
Sam had given her Bucky's Brooklyn address himself, though not without a significant disclaimer.
"He's a bit standoffish," Sam had said, leaning back in his chair like he was bracing her for turbulence. "Still healing in ways that matter. Good guy underneath it all—great guy, actually—but he's got walls. Thick ones." He'd paused, choosing his words carefully. "He's still got a lot of guilt about his past. Still processing Steve being gone. It's… complicated."
He'd let the words sit there, watching her reaction with those perceptive eyes.
The unspoken truth was loud enough to hear: He's still dealing with his trauma and isn't the Bucky your grandfather told you about. Maybe he never will be.
Sam had smirked then, softening what he just delivered with humor. "And hey, fair warning…you might remind him a little too much of Steve. So, y'know… if he slams the door in your face, don't take it personal. That's just his love language."
She'd raised an eyebrow, couldn't help the small smile. "Door slamming as a love language?"
"In Bucky's case? Yeah. Right up there with glaring and intense brooding. Olympic level, really. He could medal."
So, with Sam's warning ringing in her ears and a knot of anxiety in her stomach, she booked the next flight to New York and now stood on the cracked sidewalk outside James Buchanan Barnes' apartment building, clutching his letters like they might vanish if she loosened her grip.
The place was exactly the kind of building you'd expect a man avoiding the world to live in. Weathered brick darkened by decades of soot and rain, yellowed with age and neglect. A rust-flecked fire escape zigzagged up the facade like a skeletal ladder, bolts loose enough that she could hear it rattling faintly when a breeze blew by. The windows were made of that old, wavy glass that distorted the reflection of the afternoon sun into something dreamlike and wrong, and the front door bore the scuffs and dents of a thousand careless kicks.
Inside, the air was thick and close, smelling faintly of old radiator heat and stale cigarette smoke. She wrinkled her nose at the smell upon entering and wondered why he chose to live here, when he could probably have the pick of the litter of any place in the city given his notoriety with the Avengers. Familiarity, maybe?
She glanced at the mailboxes in the narrow entryway. Half had peeling name labels curled at the edges, the rest just bore tarnished numbers. His was one of the bare ones. Of course it was.
Her boots echoed faintly against the chipped tile as she climbed the narrow staircase, the railing cool and slightly sticky under her palm with years of grime. The higher she went, the quieter it got, the sounds of the street fading until all she could hear was the steady drumbeat of her own pulse and the distant hum of someone's television.
Her stomach was in knots. She wasn't sure if Sam had warned him she was coming, or if she was about to knock on the door of a man who might slam it in her face without a word.
A hermit, Sam had called him. She didn't blame him. She'd spent her whole life doing the same, hiding in plain sight, deflecting questions about her family tree with practiced ease.
At the third floor, she stopped in front of his door. The brass number was slightly crooked, loose on one screw, and the wood around the peephole was scuffed and faded. She knocked before she could talk herself out of it, three sharp raps that sounded too loud in the quiet hallway, heart drumming an unsteady rhythm against her ribs.
The door opened a moment later, and for a long, disorienting moment, she was utterly floored.
Because he was far more handsome in person than she had expected. Devastatingly so.
She had seen the photos. Black and white images of a young sergeant with a cocky grin, had heard how much of a ladies' man he'd been back in the day from her grandfather's fond, exasperated stories—but none of that did justice to the real thing.
He was taller than she'd expected, broad-shouldered and solid in a way that seemed effortless, wearing a dark henley that clung to lean muscle and did absolutely nothing to hide his build underneath. His hair was short now, dark and slightly mussed like he'd been running his hands through it, framing a sharp jawline shadowed with stubble and rough, intensely masculine features. The blue of his eyes was startling vivid even as they glared at her from under a furrowed brow, assessing and cold.
She forgot, for just a second, why she was there.
He looked her over quickly, efficiently, his expression darkening immediately. "If you're here to sell me something—"
"I'm not—" she began, but he was already starting to shut the door, movement smooth and dismissive.
Her hand shot out on instinct, catching the edge of the door before it could slam shut, palm stinging from the impact. "Wait, didn't Sam tell you I was coming?" she asked, forcing her voice to stay even, reasonable.
Bucky's jaw twitched, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. His scowl deepened, carving harsh lines around his mouth. "Sam? No. And whatever you're selling, I'm not interested. Have a good day, kid."
"I'm not selling anything." She snapped, leaning her weight into the door, refusing to let it close. Stubbornness flared hot in her chest. "And maybe if you actually answered your phone once in a while instead of ghosting everyone, you'd know why I'm here."
His jaw flexed again, teeth grinding. Annoyance flashed in those steely eyes. "You've got about three seconds to explain before I make you leave."
She huffed, already feeling her patience fray at the edges like old rope. "Wow. You're exactly as charming as Sam said you'd be."
His eyes narrowed dangerously, but there was something else there too. Surprise, maybe, at her directness. He blinked at her, clearly not expecting the attitude. "What…did he send you here?"
"I mean… in a way, but — listen, can you let me explain, dude?"
His expression shifted to something between incredulity and exhaustion, like the thirty seconds he'd spent talking to her had already shaved years off his life and he deeply resented it. "How old are you?"
She blinked at the abruptness, thrown. "Uh… twenty-four? Why is that relevant?"
Bucky nodded slowly, deliberately, like he'd just confirmed a working theory he'd had. Then he reached into his back pocket with his right hand. She frowned, confused, until he pulled out a worn leather wallet. Her eyes widened when he opened it and produced a massive wad of cash, crisp bills folded thick.
"Sounds about right," he said casually, tone flat and matter-of-fact. "If I pay you extra, will you leave and tell Sam you did whatever he paid you for? I'll throw in a tip."
She gawked at the money, speechless. Then at him. Then back at the money, trying to process what was happening. Heat rushed into her cheeks, flooding her face, but not from embarrassment. From pure, uncut, incandescent rage. "Do you think I'm a hooker?"
He looked her up and down slowly, taking in her jeans and jacket, then shrugged like it was the most natural, logical conclusion in the world. He held the bills out again, expression unchanged. "No judgment here, kid. Consenting adults and all that. He does it as a practical joke sometimes, sends someone over, watches me squirm. Don't get too upset about it. You're still a fine-looking dame. Now — have a good day."
Without a flicker of irony or shame, he grabbed her hand, pressed the cash into her palm, folded her fingers over it, and shut the door. Hard. The sound echoed in the hallway like a gunshot.
She stood there frozen, fist full of bills, mind blank with shock, trying to process what the hell had just happened. Her grandfather's best friend, the man he'd spent two decades praising to her, had just mistaken her for a prostitute Sam had sent as a prank and slammed the door in her face without a second thought.
Go. Fucking. Figure.
Shaking her head sharply to break the trance, she muttered a vicious string of curses that would've made her mother roll in her grave. Then, with slow, deliberate care, she crouched down, slid the packet of letters under his door where he couldn't miss them, and tossed the wad of cash down onto the floor where his feet had been ten seconds ago. Let him choke on it.
"Fuck that guy," she hissed under her breath, turning on her heel and stalking toward the stairs. Her grandfather had been dead wrong about James Buchanan Barnes. Absolutely, utterly, infuriatingly wrong. What an asshole.
She left the apartment seething, jaw clenched, already wondering bitterly what anyone—anyone—could have ever seen in the so-called "notorious" Bucky Barnes.
.
.
.
She had been born in D.C., spent nearly her whole life there in the shadow of monuments and power, but when it came time to graduate high school and pick a college, she really only applied to schools in New York. Her mother had passed by the time she was a junior—cancer, brutal and quick—leaving her under the care of her grandparents in a house that suddenly felt too big and too quiet.
Her father was someone she had never met, never bothered to find out about, and never wanted to. Her mother's pregnancy with her had been an accident, a foolish fling with a soldier who had promised her the world and given her nothing but abandonment and a daughter to raise alone. So she had spent a lot of her teenage years hearing about New York instead, learning about her grandfather's early history in painstaking detail. Learning about how he became a hero, how he'd met her grandmother, how Brooklyn had shaped him into something more than just a scrawny kid with too much heart.
She graduated from Cornell top of her class with honors and a thesis that made her professors take notice, landing a position straight out of college with a Veterans' Outreach Nonprofit in New York. So, she had stayed, putting down roots, residing near where her grandfather used to live—close to where Bucky now lived, though she hadn't known it at the time. And when her grandfather had died, slipping away peacefully in his sleep after months of decline, he left all of his considerable inheritance to her as his last living relative. She used none of the money for herself, not a dime. Instead, she opened her own Veterans' Outreach center, pouring everything into it, something she desperately hoped would have made him proud. Something that felt like honoring him without living in his shadow.
Given that her name was plastered all over the nonprofit's website, listed as founder and director, it wasn't a surprise that Bucky Barnes was able to easily track her down. What was a surprise was his quickness in doing so.
The day after visiting his apartment, she had woken up, poured her normal morning coffee with heavy eyes, and drove over to the center to get some work done before opening hours. She had strolled up to the front doors just after dawn, keys in hand, the sun barely peeking over the horizon of the city in soft pinks and golds, when she noticed a familiar figure standing outside, leaning against the doorway like he'd been there awhile.
Dressed in dark jeans and a worn leather jacket that had seen better days, gloved hands shoved deep into his pockets, Bucky Barnes watched her approach with tired, intent eyes that tracked her every movement. In daylight, she noticed things she'd missed yesterday in the dim hallway. The shadows beneath his cerulean gaze were darker, heavier, bruise-like. Insomnia, most likely. Most of the veterans she worked with carried the same weight under their eyes, the same bone-deep fatigue that no amount of sleep could fix.
Still, even exhausted and haunted, for a man who barely looked past his early thirties, he was beautiful in that tragic, carved-from-marble way. The same handsome young man from her grandfather's faded photos, just more haunted now, sharper at the edges.
She stopped five feet from him, fingers curling protectively around the keys in her pocket, metal biting into her palm. She didn’t look at him directly, instead keeping her tone dry to hide the flare of anger in her chest at the sight of him. "I wasn't too hard to track down, then, huh? Did Sam give you my information?"
Bucky didn't answer right away. His expression stayed carefully impassive, neutral, but she could feel him measuring her, taking her apart piece by piece. Sam had done the same, just less subtly, with more obvious emotion.
His gaze drifted over her features slowly, deliberately, lingering on her eyes like he was searching for something specific. She saw the shift in him when he found it—the faint bite of the inside of his cheek, the muscle in his jaw flexing hard as if bracing for impact.
Where Sam's look had been sad, grieving and warm, Bucky's was… resigned. Haunted. Like he didn't want to see her, didn't want this confirmation, but couldn't avoid it now that she was here. She swallowed against the bitter weight of it, turning to unlock the door just as he glanced away, jaw tight.
"I… found the letters you left," he said at last, his voice low, distant, carefully controlled. "From Steve. Called Sam after I read them. If it makes you feel any better, he gave me a good beating for thinking you were a—"
"Doesn't matter," she cut in quickly, the metal of the key scraping against the lock a little too hard, hands unsteady. She doubted he noticed her edge, the sharpness creeping into her tone. "My purpose was to give you both the letters. You got 'em—no harm, no foul. Mission accomplished."
She pushed the door open, but before she could shut it behind her and put a barrier between them, Bucky stepped in smoothly, blocking it with his body. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. I didn't mean to offend you…it's just something Sam's pulled before, and I thought—"
"Really, Mr. Barnes, it's fine," she interrupted again, sharper this time, forcing a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and felt wrong on her face. "If you came all the way here just to apologize, you don't need to. You don't owe me anything. We're square."
He didn't move closer, didn't push, but when she turned fully to face him, his eyes locked on hers like they were reading a page he'd thought long burned to ash. Fascination flickered across his face—raw and unguarded for just a moment—then faded into something harder to read, more carefully controlled.
"I don't," he admitted quietly, "but I am sorry. Shit…if Steve knew I called his —" He stopped abruptly, dragging a gloved hand over his face in frustration. His gaze stayed locked on hers, unwavering. "I don't know how I missed it yesterday. You look just like Peggy. The resemblance is… uncanny. But you have his eyes. Steve's eyes."
"He was always happy I took after her," she swallowed, voice softer now despite herself, giving a shaky smile she couldn't quite control. She couldn't imagine what it must be like for him—to stand in front of the granddaughter of his best friend, wearing two faces he'd loved and lost, ghosts made flesh. "I'm sure he would've gotten a kick out of last night. Laughed himself sick."
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Bucky's mouth, fleeting and sad. It didn't last. His stare lingered, unflinching and intense, and she fought the urge to shift under the weight of it, to look away. She knew so much of his life from her grandfather's stories, had heard his name more times than she could count…yet here he was. A complete stranger standing in front of her looking at her like she was haunting him.
"Found you online," he said finally, breaking the silence. "Didn't realize you'd been living a few blocks away for years. Small world. You own this place?"
"Yeah," she said, glancing around at the dimly lit hallway leading to offices not yet occupied for the day, the rooms where they held group therapy sessions for vets who needed a safe space to talk. "After Grandpa… Steve… passed, I opened it up myself with his inheritance. It's been doing well so far. Better than I hoped, actually. Figured he'd want it in the city he grew up in, where it all started for him. I hope he would have liked it."
Bucky's face didn't change dramatically, but she watched his eyes soften at the edges, something warm and genuine breaking through the careful walls. Again, she noticed that he hadn't torn his eyes away from her this whole time, like he was memorizing her. "He would have loved it. Same with Peggy. It's exactly what they would have wanted you to do with his legacy. Exactly right."
The words were genuine, sincere in a way that hit her square in the chest. The warmth of his praise coursed through her like something physical, and she returned it with a small smile, truer this time, less guarded. "I appreciate that, Mr. Barnes—"
"Bucky," he cut her off gently, his voice softer now, almost careful. The corner of his mouth curved in the barest, almost apologetic smile. "Call me Bucky. Please."
She pulled in a deep breath, hoping it would ground her, steady the sudden flutter in her chest. It didn't. Her pulse still thudded high and fast in her throat, and her fingers itched with nervous energy she couldn't explain or control. Why was she so jittery? This was just a man. A man she'd heard about her whole life, sure, but still just a man. Flesh and blood.
"Okay… I guess we are practically family," she said, forcing lightness into her tone, trying for casual. She didn't miss the faint twitch in his expression at that word. Probably just now realizing how surreal this all was, finally meeting her. Knowing she existed. That Steve's life had continued, had meant something beyond the fight. "But really, I have to get to work. Thank you again for coming by—"
"What time do you get off?"
The question stopped her cold. Her feet, her thoughts, her breath — everything stilled. She blinked at him, searching his face for context she couldn't find, couldn't parse. He just stood there watching her, expression neutral but not quite, and she noticed the restless twitch of his hands inside his pockets, like he wasn't sure if he should keep them there or reach for something else.
"I'm sorry?"
He chuckled quietly, but there was a strain in it. Nerves, maybe, or uncertainty. One gloved hand came up to rake through his hair before settling at the back of his neck, a gesture that seemed unconscious. "I know we got off on the wrong foot and all—worst possible first impression—but… you're Steve's granddaughter. And I'm just finding out he had a life, a whole family, after everything. I'd like to hear about it. About him. About you. If… if that's okay."
Of course he did. And she understood. She even felt the faint tug of wanting to say yes, to sit down over coffee and talk about her grandfather, to share stories and memories. But this…this was exactly why she kept the Carter last name even after Steve died, even when lawyers suggested changing it might open doors. Why she never plastered his shield on the nonprofit's letterhead or renamed it in his honor, despite pressure from the board. Because the moment people knew who she was, everything she'd built—her work, her identity, her worth—would be filtered through his legacy. Through the man who had been Captain America.
And as much as she wanted to believe Bucky and Sam were good men, and she genuinely did, there was always the risk that they'd never see her. Only him. Only Steve's ghost wearing her face.
And she couldn't stomach the idea of failing them. Of not living up to an impossible ghost, of being a disappointment.
So she put on the polite, neutral smile she reserved for boardroom strangers and pushy donors. The one that looked friendly but left no doors open, no room for negotiation. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Barnes, but I won't have any free time tonight. But again, thank you for the apology and for dropping by. I hope the letters were… I hope they gave you and Sam some peace. Some closure."
The change in his expression was immediate and striking. Confusion pulled his brows together sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly, jaw tensing like her smile had shifted something fundamental in him he didn't understand. But she didn't give him a chance to speak, to question, to push.
She pivoted sharply, retreating down the hallway toward her office with more speed than dignity, heels clicking too loud on the tile, refusing to glance over her shoulder even though she could feel his eyes on her back. It felt cowardly, running instead of staying, but if she lingered even a moment longer, she knew she might say something she couldn't take back. Might crack open and spill everything she'd kept carefully locked away.
.
.
.
She figured that was the end of it. She had fulfilled her grandfather's final request, Sam and Bucky had his letters, and now she could quietly slip back into the life she'd built before. The life where she was just herself, not a legacy, not a symbol. Just her.
Except Bucky Barnes apparently didn't know how to take no for an answer.
The next morning, when she arrived at work at her usual ten-past-seven, the sun barely cresting the buildings nearby, she spotted him instantly. He was parked in the exact same spot outside the entrance as yesterday, leaning casually against the weathered brick wall with a carrier tray of coffee in one leather-gloved hand. His eyes found her the moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, tracking her approach with quiet intensity.
A wave of awkwardness hit her so hard she nearly stopped mid-step, her stride faltering. Questions tumbled over each other in her mind like dominoes. What was he doing here? Did he need something else? Was she about to be pulled into some bizarre follow-up errand she hadn't signed up for? She straightened her shoulders, drew in a steadying breath that did nothing to calm her pulse, and approached with as much confidence as she could fake.
"Mr. Barnes," she greeted, nodding politely, ignoring the subtle flicker across his expression at the formality. Something like frustration mixed with resignation. "You're back."
His answering smile was small and tentative, almost nervous in a way that didn't fit the intimidating frame. It caught her completely off guard. Her grandfather had told her countless stories about Bucky Barnes as the smooth-talking charmer who could coax a dance out of any woman with a single grin. The man in front of her, though, seemed nothing like that legend. He was a little fidgety, shifting his weight slightly, a little unsure, like he was carefully considering every word before he spoke.
"I figured you might want some coffee before your day started," he said, gesturing with the tray, voice low and careful. His eyes dropped to it, as if suddenly unsure of the choice, second-guessing himself. "Didn't know what you liked, so… I brought a few different kinds. Covered my bases."
She glanced down at the cups, each neatly labeled in blocky handwriting: latte, mocha, cappuccino, drip coffee. Something warm and unexpected tugged at her chest, unfurling slowly. It was such a simple thing, almost embarrassingly simple, but thoughtful in a way she hadn't expected from a man she'd all but brushed off the day before. From a man who could probably snap her in half without breaking a sweat.
And you were such a jackass to him yesterday, her conscience hissed viciously. He came to apologize and you practically ran away.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, fingers tightening on her purse strap until the leather bit into her palm. Her conscience was right. She'd been defensive, guarded, unfair.
"That's… really kind of you. Really sweet, actually." Her gaze lingered on the cups, then lifted to his—storm-blue and full of quiet sincerity that made her chest ache. "You didn't have to do all that. Go through all that trouble."
A half-smile curved his mouth, uncertain and hopeful at once. His eyes searched her face like he was bracing for her to shut him out again, preparing for rejection he'd clearly decided was worth risking anyway.
"Told you I owed you, didn't I?"
Something in his voice, in the gentle way he said it without expectation or pressure, softened the last bit of hesitation she'd been clinging to like armor. She let her eyes linger on him a beat longer, taking in the tired lines around his eyes, before her lips curved in the faintest, most genuine smile she'd given him yet.
"Well… if you went through all this trouble, it'd be rude not to try them," she said, tilting her head toward the building's entrance. "Come on, we'll sample them together. See which one's the winner. Scientific method and all that."
He blinked, clearly surprised, like he hadn't expected the invitation. He gave a small nod, and the corners of his mouth twitched up again in that almost-smile of his that made him look younger somehow, less terse. More like the photos from before everything went wrong.
Inside, the quiet hum of the early office filled the space, fluorescent lights still warming to full brightness and casting everything in slightly sterile white. She led him down the narrow hall to her small office, tucked away near the back corner. It wasn't much—just a desk perpetually stacked with papers and grant applications, a worn leather chair that had seen better days, and a window that let in the pale morning light and gave her a view of the brick building across the alley—but it felt good enough for her.
She set the carrier of coffees on her cluttered desk and shrugged out of her coat, draping it over her chair. "Alright," she said, reaching for the first cup with both hands, warming her fingers against the heat. "Latte first?"
But before she could hand it to him, his voice cut through the comfortable quiet, low but direct, cutting straight to bone.
"Do you not like me?"
She froze, fingers tightening reflexively on the cup, the warmth suddenly too hot. Her gaze flicked up to his, catching the intensity there. Not harsh or accusatory, but searching. Vulnerable in a way that made her stomach twist.
When she didn't answer right away, couldn't find the words, he went on, voice steady but quieter, more careful. "Or are you afraid of me?"
Her breath caught sharply in her throat, trapped there. Of all the questions she'd expected from him—about Steve, about the letters—that wasn't even on the list. Not even close.
"What?" she said softly, startled more by the raw honesty, the unguarded hurt in the question, than the words themselves.
"You avoided me. Yesterday," he said, eyes holding hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "You seemed like you wanted nothing to do with me. Like I was… I don't know. A problem you needed to solve and move on from."
She blinked, throat tight, then shook her head slowly, deliberately. "No. That's not it. That's not it at all." Setting the latte down carefully, she folded her arms loosely and leaned back against the desk, needing the support. "My grandfather spent half his life telling me stories about you. About the two of you getting into trouble in Brooklyn, getting out of trouble, saving his ass more times than he could count. How you always had his back, even when no one else did." She exhaled, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips despite the weight in her chest. "I… I grew up hearing your name like it was part of the family. I'd never met you, but somehow knew everything about you. I'm not afraid of you, Bucky. I promise you that."
His gaze stayed fixed on her, steady and unreadable, jaw tight as if he was weighing whether to believe her, whether this was truth or apathetic kindness. She let the silence hang for a moment, gathering her courage, before she spoke again, her voice a touch quieter, more vulnerable than she'd intended.
"It's not that I don't like you," she said, fingers unconsciously tracing the seam of her sleeve, a nervous habit she'd never managed to break. "It's just… this is a lot. Meeting you. Meeting Sam. You've both been these… larger-than-life figures in my head for years, because of Steve. These legends. Heroes. And now here you are, standing in my office, and you're real, and I don't…"
She let out a breath, shaking her head slightly, frustration bleeding into her tone. "I don't want to be treated like some figurehead of Steve's legacy. Like I'm only here, only worth knowing, because I'm connected to him. Like I'm just… an echo of something you lost. That's not fair to either of us."
His brow furrowed slightly, something shifting behind his eyes, but he didn't interrupt. He just listened, patient and still.
"I guess part of me is worried," she admitted, the words spilling out now that she'd started, unable to stop them. "That I'll disappoint you. Or Sam. Or both of you. That you'll realize I'm just… me. Not whatever version of Steve you think I might be, or what pieces of him you hope I inherited." She gave a faint, self-deprecating smile that felt brittle. "And honestly? That's a little terrifying. Knowing I can't possibly live up to him. Knowing I'll always fall short."
Bucky's expression softened in a way she hadn't expected. Something sharp flickered across his features and settled there.
"For the record," he said quietly, voice rough with sincerity, "I'm not looking for a version of Steve in you. Trust me, I've already got enough memories of him rattling around in my head to last three lifetimes." One corner of his mouth twitched upward, sad and fond at once. "I just… want to get to know you. Get to know his granddaughter. The woman who built all this from nothing. That's all I want. Nothing more, nothing less."
The tension in her chest eased a fraction, enough for her shoulders to drop, enough for her to breathe properly. Her throat tightened with unexpected emotion, and she had to blink hard against the sudden sting in her eyes.
"Alright," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, glancing down at the carrier of coffee to avoid his gaze. "Then let's start with this."
She slid the first cup toward him, the latte, and kept the mocha for herself, wrapping both hands around it like a lifeline. "First impression counts, so be honest."
He took a sip, and his face immediately twisted into a thin line of poorly disguised disgust. "To be honest with you," he deadpanned, setting it down with exaggerated care, "I don't drink anything but black coffee. I have no idea why I just tried that. That was a mistake."
She snorted, nearly choking on her mocha, laughter bubbling up unbidden. "Okay, so that's a hard no for the latte. Take the drip. Back to basics."
She passed him the paper cup, and her fingers brushed his glove as he took it from her—just the briefest contact, fleeting and accidental. Even through the leather material, he felt warm. Like a contained heat source, like stepping barefoot outside in the early afternoon.
His eyes didn't drop from hers, didn't waver, even when he lifted the cup to his lips for a careful sip.
She felt like she was holding her breath until Bucky set down his cup and leaned back slightly against the edge of her desk, studying her with that same steady gaze from before, but now without the guarded edge, the defensive walls. "You own all this? At twenty-four, with no help? Built it from the ground up?"
She let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "I own it, yeah—but I've got people who help me keep it running. A small staff, volunteers, a board that mostly stays out of my way. I might've inherited Steve's stubborn streak and his inability to quit, but this place… it's worth every headache, every late night. It does a lot of good. Or at least, I try to make sure it does. That's the goal, anyway."
His brow furrowed, like he was trying to reconcile the picture in his head. Whatever vague image of Steve's granddaughter he had with the reality of what she'd just said, what she'd actually accomplished. "So you built this on your own? Really? No partners, no investors?"
"Yeah. After my grandfather—" her voice hitched unexpectedly, cracking on the word, and she bit her lip hard, forcing the wave of grief back down, past the too-vivid image of fresh dirt over a grave beside her grandmother's. Beside her mother's. Three headstones in a row. "After Steve died, he left me everything. Every penny. I'm the last one left…the last Carter. So I took just a portion of it and put it to good use. Did something I know he would have wanted, something that felt right.
"He lived as Steve Carter most of his life. Just a normal, everyday American who paid his taxes and mowed his lawn and complained about traffic. But at his heart, he was always a soldier. That never left him. So I figured… I'd give back to other soldiers like him. The ones who came home but didn't really come home."
Bucky stared at her, eyes wide, blinking once, twice, like he was seeing her clearly for the first time. Then, after a slow swallow, visible in the movement of his throat, he gave her a small, genuine smile. His gloved fingers traced the seam of the coffee cup absently. "That's… yeah. He would've loved that. Been so damn proud of you, too. What you've done here…most people your age wouldn't even think about doing something like this. They'd take the money and run. Buy a house, travel the world, live easy."
She arched a brow, a playful glint in her eye. "Kid, huh? I'm wounded, Mr. Barnes. Truly."
"Stop with the 'Mr. Barnes' nonsense," he groaned, a faint scoff escaping him, exasperation clear in his tone. "It's Bucky. Just Bucky. And you're almost ten years younger than me. Actually younger, not technically. You're a kid to me."
She smiled, but something in her chest twisted unexpectedly, sharp and unwelcome. Disappointment? She brushed it off quickly with a wry remark, deflecting. "Add another seventy decades or so to that ten-year gap."
He shot her a withering look, unimpressed and mildly offended, and she couldn’t help but laugh. An unguarded sound escaped her lips, genuinity that surprised even her.
His eyes lit up at it immediately, actually lit up, his whole posture shifting like he was unconsciously leaning closer, drawn in.
"You live in Brooklyn now? Sam mentioned that," he said, voice casual but curious.
So he'd asked Sam about her. That thought landed somewhere she didn't want to examine too closely, didn't want to unpack. "Ten blocks away. Down by—"
"Ten blocks?" he cut in sharply, his brows pulling together in immediate concern. "You… walk here? Alone? Every morning?"
"Yeah, it's not far. Especially in the morning when the streets are—"
"And you walk home alone too? At what time?" His voice had an edge now, protective and frustrated.
Her frown deepened, defensiveness rising. "Depends on the day. Sometimes six… sometimes ten at the latest. Depends on what needs to get done."
Bucky's expression hardened into a full-on frown, jaw tight. "No. No way. Absolutely not. It's not safe for you to be doing that alone in the city, especially not at night."
She stared at him, caught somewhere between surprise and rising annoyance, heat creeping up her neck. "Bucky, I've been fine—"
"What time are you leaving tonight?" he pressed, ignoring her protest entirely.
She hesitated, sensing a trap. "Probably around seven. It depends on—"
"Okay," he said firmly, leaning forward, voice brooking no argument. "Take down my number. When you're done for the day, call me. I'll come pick you up and walk you home. Non-negotiable."
She blinked at him, his words hanging between them like some kind of decree she'd never agreed to, never asked for. "Uh… no. Absolutely not. Not happening."
His brow ticked upward, genuinely confused. "Why not?"
"Because I don't need a babysitter," she said, setting her coffee down with a little more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet office. "No offense to you personally. But I've been walking that route for years, Bucky. I know every corner, every streetlight, every bodega owner, every guy selling knockoff handbags on the corner. I'm fine. I've always been fine."
He leaned back carefully, not in surrender but in that patient, infuriating way people do when they're about to dig their heels in and refuse to budge. "Doesn't matter how well you know the streets. Bad things don't send you a warning text before they happen. They don't check to see if you care."
She crossed her arms defensively. "What, you're suddenly my bodyguard now? My personal security detail?"
"No, you're a defenseless, attractive, young woman walking alone in one of the most dangerous cities in the country at night," he said bluntly, unapologetically, meeting her glare head-on. She forced herself not to linger on the fact that he called her attractive. "No offense meant by that, but it's a fact. And before you argue, because I can see you gearing up for it, I'm not doing this because I think you're helpless or incapable. I'm doing it because Steve would haunt me for the rest of my life if I let something happen to you when I could've prevented it.."
Her lips parted, but nothing came out right away. He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like it was just… objective truth. No drama, no condescension, no macho posturing. And that made it so much harder to push back, to argue.
And as much as she hated admitting it, even silently to herself, he was right. Her grandfather would be biting her head off if he knew she walked alone at night. If he knew she was entirely alone in general, no family, no real support system. He would probably be thanking Bucky profusely for this act of service, buying him drinks, clapping him on the back.
"I'm not calling you," she said finally, though the words lacked the bite she'd intended, coming out more resigned than defiant.
Bucky just smirked faintly, infuriatingly confident, like she'd already lost and they both knew it. "We'll see about that."
.
.
.
She didn't call him. Or text, though she wasn't even sure if he knew how to text on the archaic-looking flip phone he'd pulled out earlier like it was perfectly normal in 2025. She'd survived twenty-four years without a man coddling her, hovering over her like she was made of glass; she definitely didn't need her grandfather's century-old friend shadowing her every move like some overprotective watchdog.
And yet, somehow, it didn't surprise her in the slightest that when she flipped off the office lights at five minutes past eight and went to lock the front doors, key in hand and exhaustion settling into her bones, Bucky Barnes was right there. Leaning casually against the brick wall like he'd been part of the architecture all along, like he'd grown roots.
He gave her a look straight out of a disapproving parent's playbook, the kind reserved for a teenager who'd ignored curfew. She couldn’t help it — she bristled and shot her own challenging glare back at him.
"You didn't call," he said plainly, voice flat, one brow arched over a face that belonged on a Greek sculpture. Not that she'd ever tell him that. His ego didn't need the help.
She didn't bother hiding her sigh, shooting him a deadpan stare. "Told you I wasn't going to. How long have you been out here?"
"Three hours," he replied without a hint of shame or exaggeration, as if he'd been waiting three minutes instead of sitting in the cold Brooklyn evening for half her shift. "You need help with your bags?"
"Three… hours?" She gaped at him, her irritation temporarily short-circuited by sheer disbelief. "Why didn't you just come inside? We have chairs. Heat. Coffee that's only moderately terrible."
He shrugged, his expression flat but his tone casual, as though camping outside her workplace was nothing out of the ordinary, just a normal Thursday activity. "You were busy. Didn't want to bother you or get in the way. Now, hand me one of your bags, kid."
"I'm not going to give you my—"
With inhuman smoothness, faster than she could track, he plucked the heavier bag off her shoulder the instant she turned, holding it in his left hand, his metal hand, like it weighed absolutely nothing. Less than nothing. She froze, staring at him in disbelief and growing frustration.
"HYDRA serum," he said dryly, raising his brows with mock innocence. "In case you forgot. Super strength and all that fun stuff."
"I know about the—" She exhaled sharply through her nose, muttering a creative curse under her breath that would've made a sailor blush. "Fine. Whatever. Let's just go. We can keep bickering on the way; maybe it'll save me some of my night. I have laundry to do."
She took off at a brisk pace, determined to make the walk home as short as humanly possible, but his strides were longer, effortlessly longer. Within seconds, he was half a step ahead, matching her pace without even trying.
"Wanna tell me why you didn't call?" he asked, his tone threaded with quiet amusement, like this was entertaining to him.
She kept her eyes forward, jaw set. "We went over this already. I told you I wasn't going to. I don't need a bodyguard. I'm a grown woman."
"And I told you I didn't care what you thought you needed," he shot back easily, unbothered. She could feel his gaze flick toward her, deliberate and assessing. "Steve would've—"
"I swear to God," she cut in, glaring at him from the corner of her eye, heat rising in her cheeks, "if you mention doing something for me because of my grandfather one more time, I'm going to start running. Full sprint. See how you like chasing me down the street."
Bucky went silent, his boots slowing just a fraction on the pavement. She didn't look at him, stubbornness winning out, but she could almost feel him processing her threat.
"I'd catch you in maybe four seconds flat," he said after a beat, voice low and matter-of-fact. "Five, if you wanted a head start. Your call."
"Oh my God," she drawled, finally stopping in her tracks, spinning to face him. He halted too, looming over her, his chin dipping as he looked down. She realized, belatedly and with growing awareness, how close they were. Less than a foot of space separated them and she was close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. He was absurdly tall compared to her. Even in heels, the top of her head barely reached his sternum. The sheer size of him, the solid presence, was… obvious. Undeniable. Dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with violence.
She forced herself to blink those treacherous thoughts away and shook her head. "I don't need you doing things for me out of obligation to your best friend's memory. I lived every single day up until two days ago without knowing you existed outside of stories, and you did the same. So, please, stop doing things because you feel guilty. Because you feel bad for me. Or for my grandfather. I'm not a charity case."
For a long moment, he just studied her, his expression unreadable in the dim orange glow of the streetlight above them. Then his jaw shifted slightly, tension releasing.
"I know," Bucky cut in, calm but firm. He leaned forward slightly, closing the already-small distance, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that stole her breath. "That's not why I'm offering."
She tilted her head, uncertain, searching his expression for the catch, the angle she was missing.
"I know what it's like to build something from nothing," he said after a moment, voice low and even, weighted with experience. "To be underestimated constantly, to have people look at you and think they've already figured you out, already decided what you're worth. And sometimes… having someone in your corner, someone who sees you, can make the difference between working out and burning out. Between making it and breaking."
His eyes held hers, steady and without pity, without condescension. Just truth. "Steve was that for me, more than once. In more ways than I can count. Guess I'm just trying to return the favor in my own way, pay it forward. And yeah, selfishly, you're his blood and flesh. His legacy walking around. He was my brother. That makes you a priority to me whether you like it or not."
The tightness in her chest eased, though she wasn't sure what to do with the warmth settling in its place, spreading through her ribs.
"Okay. I get it," she breathed, letting her gaze trace over his face—the shadows smudged under his eyes like bruises, the stubble along his jaw from a day or two without shaving, the small scar cutting through his eyebrow. This close, she caught the faint bite of mint toothpaste on his breath, the lingering trace of cologne in his clothes. Something sharp and musky, masculine, expensive.
She could see why women had flocked to him almost a century ago, why they still would now if he let them; he was all rugged charm and effortless masculinity wrapped in danger. But beneath it, in the depths of his eyes, in the measured, careful way he spoke…there was still that edge of darkness. The shadow of too many lifetimes carried alone, too much blood, too many ghosts.
She wondered, not for the first time, what it would have been like to meet him before the fall from the train. Before HYDRA. Before the Winter Soldier. When he'd been her age, still untouched by the weight of what was coming. The man her grandfather had grown up with.
And then it clicked. An idea forming fully-realized in her mind.
"I have a deal for you… Sergeant Barnes." She tested the title on her tongue deliberately, catching the way something flickered in his eyes at the sound. "I'll let you walk me home every day from work… if you come to some of the group sessions we do with veterans."
His expression shifted immediately, surprise flashing across his face, eyes widening slightly. He blinked down at her, mouth slightly open. "Group… sessions? Like group therapy? You want me to talk about my feelings?"
"No, not like that. Not therapy." She shook her head quickly. "In the evenings, a few times a week, we host a group where military veterans can come in and just… talk. Share experiences if they want. Listen if they don't. It's more helpful than you'd think. No pressure, no judgment. I think you might actually like it. Or at least not hate it."
Bucky dragged a hand down his face, his eyes still fixed on her, looking torn. He sighed heavily. "I don't need any friends, kid—"
"It's not about making friends," she cut in, her confidence building as she warmed to the idea. "Though, from what Sam said about your social life, or complete lack thereof, you could probably use some human interaction that doesn't involve punching things. It's about connecting with people who understand. Just talking. Seeing you're not—"
"Anyone in there brainwashed by Nazis, fitted with a vibranium arm, and trained to kill mindlessly for seventy years?" he interrupted, dry sarcasm dripping from his voice. His eyes were dark despite the humor laced into his words.
She leveled him with an unimpressed look. He smirked despite himself.
"Don't be a smartass," she said, shaking her head but fighting a smile. "You know what I mean. Just try one session. One. If you hate it, you never have to go back. I'll never ask again."
He studied her in silence, his gaze unreadable, intense. She waited, heart thudding, resisting the urge to fidget under his scrutiny or backpedal.
Finally, he let out a slow breath and shook his head, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Reluctant, fond. "You really are Steve's blood, aren't you, sweetheart?"
The heat rushed to her cheeks at the nickname before she could stop it, unbidden and obvious. She wanted to kick herself. "So… deal?"
"You gonna let me walk you in the mornings too?"
She bit her lip in thought, considering. "Two group sessions a week then."
He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a curse. "One to start."
"And next week, you move to two."
He narrowed his eyes, still unreadable, weighing it. "Fine. But you have to actually use that phone I'm going to give you my number for and call me when you're done. Every time."
She grinned in victory, genuine and bright, offering him an outstretched hand. "You have yourself a deal there, Sergeant."
Bucky shook his head in exaggerated annoyance, but the light in his eyes spoke volumes. Warmth, amusement, something softer she couldn't quite name. He took her hand, his grip firm and warm even through the glove, and shook once. "Just make sure you actually use the damn phone. I mean it."
.
.
.
She used the phone.
The next morning, he was outside her building at 6:30 A.M. sharp, two coffees in hand—one black, one a mocha. She called him thirty minutes before she planned on leaving work that night, and there he was again, waiting outside the center patiently as she locked the doors.
And surprisingly, miraculously, it was never awkward. He didn't talk much, content with silence in a way most people weren't, but she had enough to say for the both of them. Conversation came easier than she expected, flowing naturally. Beneath his gruff edges—socially awkward, a little withdrawn, occasionally grumpy in that old-man way—she caught glimpses of the man her grandfather had described in those late-night stories. Sarcastic with a bite that made her laugh. Charming in unexpected moments. Blunt to the point of brutal honesty. Unlike any of the boys her age she'd met through dating apps or fleeting college flings that never went anywhere.
And, albeit begrudgingly at first, she started noticing him at some of the group sessions. She never intruded, respected his privacy too much for that, but she'd steal a glance or two from the hallway window when she passed by. Without fail, he was there every Tuesday and Thursday at 5 P.M., sitting in the circle with the other veterans, listening more than talking. When she finally worked up the courage to ask him about them, he'd just shrug and mutter, "Went well today," like he didn't want to make a big deal of it.
Curiosity got the better of her eventually. She asked Shaun, an Army veteran in his forties who ran the sessions with practiced ease, how Bucky was doing. If he seemed like he hated being there, if he was just going through the motions to keep his end of their deal. Though she kept that last part to herself.
"He's quiet, kinda standoffish at first," Shaun said, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed. "But he participates every single time now. Doesn't give much detail on his past…not that anyone here doesn't know who he is, but he's trying. Really trying, in the best way he knows how. Seems like he's improving, opening up more. I think it's helping him."
She took it as a small victory, a private one. Maybe it was helping him process things, work through decades of trauma in small, manageable pieces. She hoped it was. Her grandfather would have wanted that for him more than anything.
And over time, the calls to him stopped feeling like a responsibility or an obligation, and started feeling like a reward. Something she looked forward to.
She began counting down to Mondays, to seeing him after the weekend stretched too long. To the walks between her apartment and the bookstore on the corner, where she'd tell him stories about Steve and her childhood—the embarrassing ones, the sweet ones, the ones that made her voice crack. She'd listen to him laugh over old Howling Commandos memories that sounded impossible and watch his expression shift into something more serious when she asked careful questions about his own past.
It worked, somehow. Their friendship. That's what she decided to call it, for lack of a better term. The unknown granddaughter of Captain America and the century-old, vibranium-armed former assassin who'd killed more people than almost anyone in modern history. She could only imagine the headlines if the public ever found out about her, the think pieces and hot takes.
Two weeks after their first walk, Sam called her to ask if he could join the sessions too. Said Bucky had brought it up over beers, asked him to come along. She was stunned, not just that the new Captain America wanted anything to do with her little nonprofit, but that Bucky, who rolled his eyes dramatically every time Sam's name came up despite their obvious friendship, had actually invited him. Asked for him. Of course, she said yes immediately.
And just like that, two very famous Avengers were suddenly fixtures at the evening group sessions. It took less than twelve hours after the first social media post of them walking into the building together, Sam with his arm slung around Bucky's shoulders despite his scowl, for the media to swarm her doors the next morning, demanding interviews, quotes, photo ops. Then came the flood of donations, overwhelming the nonprofit’s ancient website. The waitlist for sessions that now stretched months long. The scramble to hire more staff, find more space, expand faster than she'd ever planned. All within weeks.
She wasn't an idiot, she knew exactly what the two of them were doing. So after poring over the numbers on a Saturday night, scrolling through thousands of tags on social media until her eyes burned, and seeing her name splashed across local news headlines for "making a difference in the military community", she picked up the phone and called Bucky for the first time without it being a thirty-second "I'm leaving now" or "I'm at work" update.
The line rang just once before he picked up, like he'd been holding the phone.
"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, voice low and gruff through the speaker, threaded with concern. No hello, no small talk. Just that deep, even voice of his cutting straight to what mattered.
"Nothing's wrong," she said, tucking her legs up under her on the couch, pulling a blanket over her lap. "But I think we need to talk."
There was a pause, deliberate and weighted. She could almost hear him leaning back in whatever chair he was sitting in, crossing his arms in that skeptical way he did when he knew he'd been caught at something and was deciding whether to admit it.
"Must be important if you're calling me on the weekend, kid. What about?"
She hesitated, suddenly aware of how small her apartment felt, how the silence pressed in around her. How quiet the night was. "About… whatever game you and Sam are playing. Bringing him to the sessions, showing up together, making sure every camera in Brooklyn catches you walking through my doors."
"We didn't make a scene," Bucky said flatly, defensive.
"You knew what would happen," she pressed, her voice sharper now, frustration bleeding through. "Two superheroes walking into a group session for veterans? It's a media circus, and now I'm being turned into this—" She cut herself off abruptly, the word sticking uncomfortably in her throat.
"This what?"
She exhaled hard through her nose. "This symbol. This figurehead for the community. Steve's legacy personified. And I don't want that, Bucky. I don't want to be put on a pedestal I didn't ask for. I don't want to disappoint you, or Sam, when I inevitably fall short. And honestly? The whole thing is… it's terrifying."
Silence hummed between them for a long moment, heavy but not hostile. She could hear him breathing, thinking.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, gentler. "That's not why I did it."
She waited, heart thudding.
"I didn't do it for Steve," he went on, words careful and measured. "Or for Sam. Or for some press stunt to boost my image or whatever the hell people think I care about. I did it for you."
Her pulse skipped, stumbled. "For me?"
"You're out here busting your ass every day for people who need it," he said, voice rough with conviction. "No cameras when you started, no paycheck worth the hours you put in, no orders from someone higher up telling you to care. Just you, doing good because you actually give a damn. Because you want to make a difference."
He let that hang in the air for a moment, let it settle. "You deserve someone in your corner. And if I can make sure you get a little more support—funding, visibility, resources, whatever you need—then I'm gonna do it. Not because Steve would've wanted it. Not because Sam thinks it's a good idea. Because I want to."
She swallowed hard, suddenly unsure where to look in her own empty apartment, throat tight with emotion she didn't know how to name. "You… want to help me."
"Yeah," he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I want to help you. Because you deserve it. You're one of the good ones, and that's rare these days. People doing good just for the sake of it, without expecting anything back. And if anyone's gonna be the one backing you up, supporting what you're building, I want it to be me."
Her heart clenched painfully. Something washed over her, a feeling she only used to get when her grandparents smiled at her with pure pride, when her mom ran her hands through her hair and told her she was loved. Her mouth went dry, words failing her completely.
I want it to be me.
"You still there?"
Bucky's voice brought her back, anchored her. She cleared her throat, biting down on her thumb. "Yeah… sorry. I—"
She stopped. How could she even thank him properly? What words could possibly match his actions, his belief in her?
"Do you want to come over?"
The line went silent for what felt like the longest five seconds of her life. She heard nothing from his end. Not even an inhale or exhale, no rustle of movement.
So she waited, perched on the edge of her seat, wondering why the hell she'd spoken without thinking, why she couldn't just leave well enough alone.
Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was soft.
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
Exactly ten minutes later, her heart hammering wildly in her chest like it was trying to escape, there was a knock on her door. Three precise raps.
She opened it to find Bucky standing in her hallway, still in his jacket and jeans from wherever he'd been. Probably home, probably alone.
His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd run his hands through it repeatedly on the way over, and there was something in his eyes she couldn't quite read. For a moment, they just looked at each other — her in her oversized sweater and leggings, bare feet on cold tile, him with his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he didn't know what else to do with them.
"Hey," she said softly, voice barely above a whisper.
"Hey," he replied, staring at her intently, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in that almost-smile she'd come to recognize.
She stepped back to let him in, and he moved past her into the small space, his presence somehow making her already-tiny apartment feel even smaller, more intimate.
He stepped inside, leather gloves covering his hands like armor. She realized, not for the first time, that she'd yet to see his metal arm uncovered. Wondered if he ever took the gloves off, even alone.
Bucky's gaze swept the room with quiet precision, taking everything in with the practiced eye of someone trained to assess threats and exits. Her apartment was simple, almost sparse—not much in the way of trendy décor or expensive furniture, but filled with personal touches that made it hers: framed photographs on every surface, a worn bookshelf stuffed with dog-eared paperbacks, little pieces of a life she was trying to piece together.
He stopped in front of a picture hanging beside the bedroom door—her younger self, maybe eight or nine, standing between her grandparents in front of a lake—and a faint, almost wistful smile ghosted across his face when his eyes landed on the older man beside her. Steve, silver-haired and content, his arm around Peggy's waist.
"He looked happy," Bucky said quietly.
"I think he was." She stepped closer, her own eyes settling on the familiar image, memorized down to every crease. "Always had a smile on his face, even at the end. But… he missed you. Talked about you all his life. Wondered how you were, if you were okay."
Something shifted in Bucky's expression. A flicker of sadness edged with something darker, more complicated. Guilt, maybe. Resentment.
She knew he'd told Steve to go back, to live his life, but she could imagine the bitterness that might still linger beneath the acceptance. Being left behind wasn't something you just… got over. Not really.
And then, like he'd physically closed a door on the thought, it was gone. His gaze returned to her, steady and searching, intense.
"You ok?"
"Yeah." Her mouth went dry, tongue thick. It hit her, abruptly and uncomfortably, that she had no idea what she'd meant to say once he got here. She hadn't even put any thought into what would happen next, what came after "come over." All she knew was that she had wanted to see him. Needed to, maybe.
Her mind scrambled desperately for something—anything—and before she could stop herself, before common sense could intervene, she blurted out, "Do you… want to grab dinner?"
The moment the words were out, she winced inwardly. It was nearly ten at night, and she sounded like she'd just asked him out on a real date. Like a teenager with a crush.
Bucky didn't seem to mind. In fact, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, genuine and warm, one that made him look younger for just a moment. Like the boy in her grandfather's stories again. "Yeah," he said easily, without hesitation. "I know a place."
By half past ten, they were standing in the warm, fluorescent glow of a corner bodega a few blocks away. The place smelled faintly of fresh bread and oregano, the quiet hum of the refrigerator cases filling the comfortable space.
The man behind the counter, a kindly older gentleman with a heavy Italian accent and hooded eyes, smiled warmly as he wrapped their sandwiches in white paper. His eyes crinkled as he glanced between them. "You make a lovely couple."
She froze mid-reach for her wallet, heat crawling instantly up her neck and flooding her cheeks. "Oh— we…we aren't dating," she stammered, her voice higher than usual, too quick. She kept her gaze firmly on the floor tiles, the scuffed linoleum, refusing to risk looking at Bucky's face and seeing his reaction.
"Nonsense," the man tutted with the absolute certainty of someone who thought they knew better. He tapped a finger knowingly on the register as he rang them up. "He looks at you like you have hung the moon, my dear. Like you are light."
Her heart did an uncomfortable flip, lurching sideways in her chest, and she swallowed hard, still not daring a glance in Bucky's direction. The silence that followed was heavy.
She finally risked a sideways look. Bucky's mouth was twitching, not quite a smile or a smirk, his gaze fixed on her with that same unreadable intensity that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or annoyed. He didn't respond to the man’s comment, didn't deny it or laugh it off. Instead, his hand closed over the wallet in her grasp, warm and firm even through the glove, pushing it gently but decisively back down toward her purse.
"I'm buying," he said, voice low and final, brooking no argument.
She opened her mouth to protest—she'd invited him, after all—but he cut the attempt short with a single look. Sharp, steady, and impossible to argue with. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a couple of bills from his own wallet and handed them to the man behind the counter.
She bit the inside of her cheek hard and didn't speak again until they were outside, seated at a plastic table far too small for a man Bucky's size, his knees bumping the underside. The night air was cool against her flushed cheeks, and she busied herself with unwrapping her sandwich with more concentration than necessary before finally breaking the silence.
"If that guy knew you were over a century old," she said, her tone attempting casual but leaning a little too much on the sarcastic edge, deflecting, "I doubt he'd stand by his statement."
Bucky's brow furrowed slightly beneath the shadow of his cap as he looked at her, genuinely confused. "Which statement?"
She gave him a look of disbelief, surprised he was making her say it. "That we're dating, Buck."
His eyes lingered on her for a beat too long, something flickering in their depths, before he turned his attention back to peeling the wrapper from his sandwich. "Some people might be into that sort of thing in this era. Age gaps aren't as scandalous as they used to be."
She rolled her eyes, taking a bite to avoid responding immediately. "Feel like that was more of a thing in your era, grandpa. Wasn't it normal to marry sixteen-year-olds back then?"
"I was born in the 1910’s, not the Dark Ages, sweetheart," he said dryly, a hint of offense in his tone.
God, she hated when he called her that. Mostly because she couldn't stop the blush that crept up her neck every single time and the way her stomach flipped traitorously.
And now she was flustered. Because here he was, without question the most gorgeous man she had ever seen in her life —- sitting across from her at a plastic table outside a bodega, those startling blue eyes fixed on her like she was the only person in the world, like she mattered. Her. A girl a decade younger than him physically, whose only real claim to fame if she had one was her famous grandfather. And him—one of the world's most celebrated heroes despite a bloody, chaotic past that would haunt anyone else forever—a man with a vibranium arm who had endured more than anyone should, who'd been unmade and remade, and who had seen far too little of life's beauty and far too much of its cruelty.
So naturally, because she was apparently a glutton for punishment and had no sense of self-preservation, she decided to poke the bear.
"Have you been…you know, dating?"
Bucky stopped chewing instantly. His gaze snapped to her like she'd just asked him to commit a felony.
"Have I been… dating?" he repeated slowly, carefully, tasting each word like he wasn't sure if they belonged together in that order.
She felt like an idiot now. But there was no going back, no taking it back. Tapping her leg nervously under the table, she kept her voice as casual as she could manage. "Like, going on dates with women. Dinner, maybe a movie…or, you know, 'courting' or whatever—"
"Sweetheart, I know what dating is," Bucky said flatly, cutting her off. "And no. Not really. Went on one date a bit back, before the whole Flag Smashers mess with Sam. Didn't go very well. My fault, mostly."
"Oh," she mumbled, tearing at a piece of lettuce in her sandwich, suddenly finding it fascinating. "Well… maybe you should reach out again? Give her another shot. Second chances and all that."
Bucky's gaze stayed locked on her for a long, heavy moment that stretched unbearably. "I don't need to do that. I've met you."
It was like her brain short-circuited, all coherent thought evaporating. If there was a term for feeling like you were both on fire and drowning at the same time, suspended in impossible contradiction, she would have used it.
She nearly choked on her bite of sandwich but forced a small laugh, trying desperately to look relaxed instead of completely undone. "We aren't dating, Buck. I don't see how I factor into your love life."
Bucky tilted his head, studying her like she was the most interesting puzzle he had ever encountered, like he was trying to figure her out. "We aren't dating," he agreed, voice low, "but I'd rather focus my time on you."
She didn't trust herself to answer that directly, didn't dare ask him what he meant by that, so she went with the conversational equivalent of stepping sideways to avoid a collision. "So… how are you sleeping lately?"
Something flickered in his eyes at the abrupt transition—amusement, maybe—but he didn't comment on it, didn't call her out.
His shoulders shifted in the kind of shrug that said don't expect too much honesty, but his eyes gave him away. "Still hard to get through the night most nights," he admitted quietly. "Wake up more than I stay asleep. But… I like the group sessions. They help. More than I thought they would. More than I wanted them to."
"That's good," she said softly, leaning forward on her elbows, genuinely pleased. "Really good. I'm glad."
For a moment, they just sat there, the hum of the city filling in the silence between them. Distant sirens, someone's laughter, the rattle of a passing subway. Then she ventured, carefully, "What about the letters? Did you… read all of them?"
Bucky's mouth twitched. This time, a faint, genuine smile reached his eyes. "Yeah. I read 'em all. Every single one, multiple times. They helped a lot, more than I can explain. Gave me something I didn't think I'd ever get back."
"What's that?"
"Peace."
Her chest tightened painfully, and before she could stop herself, before she could think better of it, the words slipped out. "I still feel terrible he left you behind."
But Bucky just shook his head, calm and sure, no hesitation. "I don't. Not anymore." His gaze met hers, steady and warm in a way that made her stomach flip dangerously. "If he hadn't gone back, if he'd stayed, I would've never met you."
Something warm and overwhelming flared in her chest at his words.
Something she couldn't quite name through the haze of nerves and want and confusion.
She smiled at him, sweet and unguarded. Because she wanted to, because she couldn't help it. The rest of her sandwich sat forgotten on the wrapper, growing cold.
She didn't even have to ask him to walk her home. He did it like it was instinct, like there was never any question. When the night air made her shiver, goosebumps rising on her arms, he shrugged off his jacket without a word and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest.
She caught the faint trace of his cologne as she pulled it closer, wrapping herself in it. The same earthy musk and something sharper, the kind of scent that was undeniably, uniquely him. The sleeves hung loose and long, like she was a kid drowning in her father's coat.
Even in just his thermal shirt, the bulk of his arms was obvious. Corded muscle shifted beneath the fabric with every movement, powerful and controlled. Her gaze drifted to his gloves as they neared her building, the unsaid thought forming and reforming in her mind.
She toyed with it, weighing the right words, the right approach.
It wasn't until they reached her floor, standing in the too-bright hallway outside her door, that she finally blurted it out.
"You don't need to wear the gloves around me, you know."
Bucky froze mid-step, his whole body going still. He glanced at her sharply, surprise clear on his face. She met his eyes head-on, determined to read whatever emotion flickered across his usually carefully impassive face.
First came surprise, raw and unfiltered. Then the tight pull of anxiety. The flicker of fear. She watched his shoulders tense, his breathing pick up noticeably.
He didn't speak right away. Just blinked at her, clearly at a loss for words, for what to do with what she'd said. So she filled the silence herself, pushed through the tension.
"I know you wear them in public in general," she said softly, keeping her voice gentle. "And I know it's not about me specifically. But you don't need to hide yourself from the world. They don't get to decide who you are, or what you've been through, or what you're worth. And if that's too big of a step, if that feels impossible… maybe you could just start by taking them off when you're with me."
Still, he said nothing. Just looked at her with those piercing eyes, a quiet storm raging behind the blue. Like he was bracing for her to laugh, or take it back, or reveal it was some kind of cruel test. And in that moment, she saw what her grandfather must have seen all those years ago when the Winter Soldier's mask was first ripped away.
Fear of himself. The shame, the certainty that he was something monstrous.
She did what she would have wanted someone to do for her. What felt right. She reached for his hand.
She heard his sharp inhale, felt it in the air between them, before she felt the tension in his body when her fingers wrapped gently around his left hand. The vibranium one. A faint tremor ran through him, and she wasn't sure if her own hands looked steadier than they felt, betraying her nerves. But he didn't pull away. He just stood there, breathing slow and heavy, measured, as she held on.
Carefully—watching him closely, waiting for any sign of retreat or panic—she began to peel the glove from his hand.
He didn't stop her.
The glove slipped free and fell between them, forgotten the moment it hit the floor. She took in the arm she had only seen in news footage and grainy photographs, but up close it was something else entirely. Sleek and intricate, Wakandan black threaded with veins of gold that caught the light, like molten sunlight trapped in metal. The faint hum of hidden mechanics vibrated against her palm, each twitch of his fingers carrying an understated strength that felt both dangerous and impossibly, yet carefully gentle.
"It's beautiful," she murmured, tracing the lines with her eyes before looking up, wanting to see him in this moment.
His jaw was tight, clenched hard, like he didn't know what to do with her words, how to process them. He didn't look away — just kept his gaze locked on hers, as if he was afraid to blink and she would disappear.
When her fingers slid between his, lacing together, he let out a slow, almost imperceptible breath that sounded like relief. The plates under her touch shifted minutely as his grip tightened, careful but sure, like he was testing just how much pressure she could take, how much of himself he could give.
"Can you feel things with it?" she asked quietly, curiosity genuine.
He hesitated, his brow knitting before he answered. "I can tell when something's hard or soft. Textures. I can sense pressure when something's there. But it's… not the same as my actual hand. Not even close. It's muted."
She gave his fingers a deliberate squeeze, firm and real. "Different doesn't mean worse. And I'm not afraid of it, Bucky. I'm not afraid of you."
His eyes softened, the faintest flicker of something—gratitude, relief—crossing his face. The way he was looking at her sent shivers cascading down her spine, made her breath catch.
And for a moment, maybe longer than a moment, she forgot who he was. His connection to her grandfather, his age, his past, the bodies, the blood. For now, he was just a man standing outside her door, holding her hand like it was something precious and fragile.
He stepped closer, blue eyes darkening until they were nearly black in the dim hallway light. She could taste his breath, mint and coffee, feel the faint heat radiating from him like a furnace. His gaze traced over her face with aching slowness, lingering—her hand in his, her lips, the curve of her jaw—before returning to her eyes.
Her pulse thundered in her neck, loud and insistent in her ears. If he just tilted his head, just leaned one more inch forward, his mouth would be on hers.
And she realized, his metal hand like fire against her skin, that she wanted that. She wanted him to kiss her.
Down the hall, a door opened suddenly. The sharp sound sliced through the silence like a knife.
And the moment shattered.
Bucky blinked, like he'd been jarred from a trance, pulled back from somewhere far away. He cleared his throat roughly, stepping back, putting distance between them. The magnetic pull between them snapped.
Much to her abrupt disappointment, he let go of her hand. Slowly. As if he hadn't even realized he'd been holding it.
"I… should go. It's late," he said, his voice pitched rough. It sounded like he was talking more to himself than to her. "I had a good night. With you. A really good time."
The words were warm, sincere, but they didn't stop the disappointment from settling heavy and cold in her chest. She dropped her gaze to her feet, not trusting her expression, not wanting him to see. She didn't want him to see the truth written plainly in her eyes.
That she hadn't wanted the night to end there. That she wanted more.
He stepped back another pace, boots scuffing the worn hallway floor, but didn't turn right away. Instead, his eyes flicked over her face like he was memorizing it, committing every detail to memory. Then he moved toward the stairwell door, his movements reluctant.
His hand was already on the knob when he stopped. He didn't look at her at first, just let out a slow breath that she felt more than heard.
"I don’t… wear the gloves because of what people think," he said finally, voice quiet but steady.
His gaze found hers again, and there was something raw there. Vulnerable. "I wore them around you because I didn't want to scare you."
Her chest tightened, ached.
"You wouldn't," she murmured, the words instinctive and true.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then he gave a small nod, like he'd been hoping to hear that.
"Goodnight, sweetheart," he said softly, and this time he left without looking back.
Her mind was a mess the whole night. She turned over every moment of their interaction, every word said and unsaid, every look, every touch. Sleep was impossible.
He looks at you like you have hung the moon, my dear.
I doubt he'd stand by his statement.
Which statement?
.
.
.
When Sam called her the week after, inviting her for a night out with the group, she initially wanted to politely decline. Because she knew Bucky was part of "the group," and while everything had been perfectly normal between them since that night together—surface-level normal, anyway—she still couldn't shake the nerves she'd developed around him, the hyperawareness that made her pulse jump whenever he was near.
He'd picked her up for work on Monday glove-free, and while she'd noticed it immediately—it was impossible not to—she didn't mention it. And he didn't mention anything about the moment they'd shared outside her door, the hand-holding, the almost-kiss that still played on repeat in her mind at night. Just resumed business as usual. He continued to walk her to and from work with easy silence, picked up coffee without being asked, and sat in on the group sessions.
So she didn't bring it up either. As much as she wanted to. As much as the words sat heavy on her tongue every time they were alone.
But was there even anything to bring up? All they'd done was hold hands for a moment, really. Something she'd done in middle school during lunch period with her first boyfriend. And here she was, a grown adult, holding hands again and thinking it meant something. Obsessing over it like a teenager.
She couldn't say no to Sam, though, despite her reservations and the anxiety coiling in her stomach at the implications. So she confirmed that she would be there, at the dive bar he'd named with infectious excitement.
The place was tucked into the corner of a block that hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in years, maybe decades. The wooden sign out front hung crooked on its rusted chain, its neon beer logo flickering in and out like it was barely clinging to life. Inside, the air smelled faintly of old wood, spilled whiskey, and decades of cigarette smoke that had seeped into every surface. A jukebox in the corner warbled a classic rock song, something by Springsteen, over the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses.
She could see why Sam and Bucky would like the place. Typical guy bar.
She spotted them right away. Sam leaning back in a worn leather booth near the wall, next to a young man about her age she didn't recognize, grinning broadly as soon as he saw her. Bucky sat opposite him, shoulders relaxed but posture alert. His head turned when Sam's gaze shifted toward her, and a small smile tugged at his lips. It was so subtle most people would miss it, but she'd learned to read the minute movement in his cheeks, the softening around his eyes.
"Hey, you made it!" Sam called over the noise, waving her over.
Bucky's reaction was quieter, more contained. His eyes tracked her as she wove through the crowd, his expression neutral despite the whisper of a smile on his lips in that way she was starting to recognize as deliberate control. When she reached the booth, Sam gestured enthusiastically at the spot next to Bucky.
The space next to him was open, waiting. Her heart beat a hair faster as she slid in, hyper-conscious of every movement.
"Long time no see, kiddo," Sam teased, nudging her shoulder once she settled.
She sighed dramatically, shaking her head in mock displeasure. "What is it with everyone calling me 'kid'? I'm a functioning adult with a nonprofit."
Bucky said nothing, but she could feel the awareness of him beside her. The heat of his body, the way you feel fire without looking at it, the magnetic pull. She deliberately kept her thigh from brushing his, maintaining a careful inch of space.
"That's 'cause you are one," Sam noted with a knowing grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Both of you, actually."
He gestured at the young man sitting across from them—Hispanic, military-sharp haircut, fit build, and grinning like a kid meeting his heroes for the first time. "This is Joaquin Torres. Joaquin, meet—"
"Oh, c'mon man! I know who she is," Joaquin beamed, practically vibrating with excitement as he leaned across to shake her hand enthusiastically. "Pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Sam and Bucky have talked a lot about you."
Bucky grumbled something under his breath that she couldn't quite catch, but it sounded distinctly like a warning.
"Nice to meet you, Joaquin. Are you… the new Falcon?" she asked, genuinely curious.
Joaquin's chest puffed up like he'd just been knighted. Sam groaned dramatically.
"Don't get him started," Sam huffed, but there was affection in his exasperation. "Coming from a pretty girl like you? He's never gonna shut up. Ever."
"C'mon, dude, give me some credit," Joaquin chuckled, but his grin said otherwise. "But seriously…did you hear that from Sam or did you see a cool news clip? Maybe a TikTok edit? Please tell me it was a TikTok edit."
Bucky's voice cut through the table like a blade, quiet but stern. "Leave her alone, Torres. She's not here to feed your ego."
She laughed, a warm counter to Bucky's gruffness, trying to lighten the sudden tension. "It's fine, Buck. Really. If I were the new Falcon, I'd be just as excited. It's a big deal." She leaned toward Joaquin conspiratorially. "Saw you and Sam take down that cartel on the news the other week. You guys did great, really impressive work."
Joaquin looked like he might actually faint, stars in his eyes. Sam shook his head with a smirk. "Oh, he's gonna marry you now. Especially if he finds out who your grandfather is."
Bucky's head snapped toward Sam with frightening speed, his voice sharper than before, cutting. "Don't."
Her brows lifted slightly at his tone, at the edge of real warning there. "It's okay," she said gently, turning to him, catching his eyes. "I don't mind if he knows. It's not a secret if he’s an Avenger."
Bucky stared at her for a long moment, his jaw ticking visibly before he finally looked away, tension radiating from his shoulders.
With Torres looking between all of them in growing confusion, Sam didn't waste the opportunity. "Torres, buddy, turns out our girl here's the granddaughter of a certain Captain America. The original."
Joaquin froze completely, then looked at her like he'd just been handed the keys to a vintage Ferrari and told it was his. "No way. Nope. That's it. I'm in love. When's the wedding?"
She laughed along with Sam as Joaquin clasped his chest in exaggerated mock devotion, playing it up. Beside her, Bucky stayed quiet. His jaw was set hard, his arm resting on the back of the booth behind her, close but not touching, the faintest shadow in his eyes even as the others joked and laughed.
Bucky's shift was subtle, but she caught it, and had been watching for it. The faint smirk he'd been wearing earlier flattened completely, his shoulders going rigid like someone had just flipped a switch inside him, shutting down something warm. He didn't even glance at Sam this time—his eyes stayed on Joaquin, mouth set in a hard scowl.
Sam caught her eye across the table and raised his brows in that way friends would do when silently trying to communicate something important. She didn't know if it was a warning, a tease, or both. She frowned at him in confusion.
"What?" she murmured under her breath, leaning slightly toward Sam.
Sam just gave her a faint, knowing smirk before looking away, taking a deliberate sip of his drink.
When she turned back to Bucky, she saw the faint tick in his jaw again, the clear tension in his neck. "You could try being less of a storm cloud," she said quietly, half-joking but half-serious too.
"I'm not a storm cloud," Bucky muttered without looking at her, eyes still fixed on Torres.
She arched her brow. "You kinda are right now. Very brooding and thunderous."
That earned her a sideways glance. Brief, but loaded.
"Maybe I just don't like watching Torres audition for a rom-com," he grunted, voice low.
She huffed, shaking her head, fighting a smile. "He's harmless, Buck. Excited. You don't have to act like he's trying to steal nuclear codes or kidnap me."
That got the smallest twitch of his mouth, the ghost of amusement, but it vanished almost immediately. She rolled her eyes and decided to let him stew if he wanted to be stubborn.
"I'm getting a drink," she announced, pushing up from the booth with purpose.
Sam's gaze followed her with that same faint, loaded expression before he turned back to Bucky, clearly ready to poke the bear the absolute second she was out of earshot. She would happily stay out of that one.
The bar top was dimly lit, scarred wood that had seen decades of use. The walls were even lined with faded neon beer signs advertising brands she wasn’t even sure existed anymore. She ordered something simple—vodka soda—the ice clinking pleasantly in the glass as the bartender slid it her way.
She took a slow sip, trying to ignore the nagging question looping relentlessly in her head: What was Bucky's deal tonight?
He was usually grumpy in public, sure—standoffish with strangers, slow to warm up—but tonight, he was different. Off. Especially around Joaquin, his mood souring faster than she had ever seen before. Did it have anything to do with their night out? That quiet, hand-holding moment they'd both were carefully avoiding mentioning?
She was so deep in her own thoughts that she didn’t register a man sliding up beside her at the bar until he leaned in too close, making sure he was in eyeshot. "Haven't seen you here before," he said. She fought the urge to close her eyes in distaste. His tone already carried a presumption that she owed him attention and she had the feeling he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
"I'm just here with friends," she replied evenly, not unkind but not inviting more, keeping her eyes forward.
He didn't take the hint. She watched his eyes run down her frame slowly out of her peripheral, something lighting in his expression that made her stomach churn with instinctive disgust. "Well, your friends can wait. Pretty girl like you shouldn't be standing here alone at the bar."
"I'm fine, thanks buddy." She shifted her stance and gripped her glass tighter, shoulders squaring. Tried to scream with her body language that the conversation was over. At least, she hoped that was what he gathered from her complete lack of interest.
His voice dipped sharper, ugly. "Don't have to be a bitch about it."
His hand suddenly clamped around her arm without warning, fingers digging in just enough to hurt, to send a flash of alarm up her spine. She barely had time to react or even process what was happening, before she heard rapid movement behind her and the sound of heavy boots closing in fast.
In less than a second, Bucky was there.
He slammed the man chest-first against the bar top with brutal efficiency, his metal hand wrapped around the guy's throat, pressing hard enough to cut off air, making the man gasp and choke instantly. The entire room seemed to freeze at the sight, conversations dying mid-sentence.
Bucky's expression was nothing short of murderous. His eyes were like shards of ice, cold and deadly. Every line of him radiated lethal intent barely contained. It would have been a stunning sight if she wasn’t the cause of it.
"Don't touch her, you son of a bitch," Bucky hissed, digging his vibranium hand further into the man's neck. The plates in his palm whirred softly as their mechanics moved, the only sound apart from the man's desperate gasping and the creak of wood beneath him as he struggled.
She heard Sam and Joaquin stand quickly. Sam moved closer but didn’t intervene, posture deliberately relaxed with his hands idle in his pockets.
She sucked in a sharp breath, grabbing Sam's arm when he stopped beside her. "You're not going to stop him?"
Sam's face was serious, but there was an unmistakable spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Nah. He's not gonna kill him. I've seen Buck actually trying to kill someone…this ain't it. Besides, I'm not the kind of guy to step in on another man protecting his girl."
Her head whipped toward him, eyes wide with shock. Something churned in her gut at his words. "Sam, we aren't—"
"Oh, but you will be," Sam cut in knowingly, leaning down so only she could hear over the noise. "Thought I didn't notice? Both of you? White Panther over there is head over heels for you. Has been since day one. It's honestly painful to watch at this point, all this pining."
She stared at him, her pulse skipping. Her brain was barely processing the words, struggling to catch up with the reality of it all. She had no words for once — all she could muster up was something that sounded like a mix of a scoff and a wheeze.
Sam's grin widened, clearly enjoying himself. "Tell me, does he do the staring thing with you too? That intense, unblinking thing where he looks at you like he’s X-raying your insides?"
She opened her mouth, but again, nothing came out. Sam just looked far too pleased at the response, like he'd been waiting weeks to say this.
The sound of the man's choking dragged her attention back to reality. He was still struggling desperately against Bucky's iron grip, voice raspy and terrified when he finally managed to croak out, "C'mon… man… I'm sorry. Didn't… know she was with—"
"Shut up," Bucky snarled, low and venomous, voice like gravel. His jaw was locked tight, his entire body coiled like a spring. She had never seen him like this, terrifying in a way that made the air feel heavier, dangerous enough that every person nearby had gone completely silent.
"Apologize to her," he ordered, pressing harder against the man's throat. His eyes were like blue fire, burning.
The man instantly wheezed out a hoarse, pathetic, "Sorry—"
"Louder."
The man's eyes went wide with panic, real fear. He coughed out a second, much louder apology, voice shaking with terror. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Only then did Bucky release him, letting him crumple forward against the bar. The man stumbled back immediately, clutching his throat, gasping for air before scrambling toward the door without looking back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Bucky let out a heavy breath, flexing his metal hand slowly as the plates shifted, before he turned to her. His chest rose and fell fast, fury still smoldering visibly in his expression, but his gaze swept over her like a careful scan—checking for injury, for fear, for any sign she was hurt.
She just stared at him, probably still looking dumbstruck. She had no idea what to think, what to do, how to process what just happened. All she could hear was Sam's words ringing in her ears on repeat.
Head over heels for you. Has been since day one.
Bucky's blue eyes locked onto her own. The fire faded gradually, burning down, turning into something softer. Something warmer. Purer.
She recognized it. She had seen it in his eyes before, she realized with startling clarity. She had seen it so many times before—when her grandfather looked at her grandmother in old photographs, in her memories of them together. And now, it clicked.
Which statement?
She was an idiot. It had been in front of her this whole time, so obvious she had been blind to it.
The air around them was electric, thick with the echo of what just happened, with Bucky's ragged breathing settling back into stillness. He was still riding the wave of his own fury, but as the tension dissipated, his gaze relaxed just enough to break into concern.
"You okay?" His voice was gravel, edged with barely contained anger still simmering beneath the surface.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. The mix of adrenaline, shock, and something far more dangerous was coursing through her too fast for coherent words.
"Damn, Barnes," Sam drawled from behind them, the smirk unmistakable in his voice. "Didn't know you had it in you to make public service announcements like that. Very dramatic."
She barely heard him. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, deafening. Without thinking, she stepped forward, grabbed Bucky's wrist, the metal one, and muttered, "Come with me."
He frowned, taken off guard, surprised. "What—"
But he didn't resist as she tugged him past the crowd, past Sam's knowing look and raised eyebrows, past Torres's confused expression, toward the back hallway.
They reached the single-person bathroom, and she shoved the door open, pulling him inside before locking it firmly behind them with shaking hands.
Bucky blinked, still catching up, still processing. "What are you—"
She didn't give him a chance to finish. In one sharp movement, fueled by adrenaline and clarity, she pushed him back against the wall, her hands curling tight into the fabric of his shirt.
His eyes widened in genuine surprise, just for a moment, before her mouth crashed against his.
The kiss was messy, heated, reckless—a clash of lips and tongue. He froze for a beat, stunned, but then his hands found her waist immediately, one warm and one cold, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, until she could feel every hard line of him against her.
Pleasure flared within her immediately, hot and demanding. He tasted like the beer he'd been drinking and something sharper, more distinctively him. The taste of him was intoxicating, something so undeniably sweet it made her dizzy.
Her breath hitched sharply when his metal fingers flexed against her hip, careful and controlled, his other hand sliding up her back like he couldn't decide whether to anchor her there or drag her impossibly closer. Like he was fighting the want to consume her.
Her back hit the cold tile as he reversed them without warning, caging her in with one arm braced above her head, the other still gripping her hip like he was afraid she'd disappear if he loosened his hold. His mouth left hers just long enough for a ragged inhale, his forehead finding a pillow against her own.
"What are you doing?" he asked, voice hoarse and rough, shaking slightly. But he didn't move back, didn't put distance between them.
She swallowed hard, her pulse rattling violently in her throat. "Testing a theory."
That was the truth. She didn't know why she'd dragged him in here, didn't know why her body had made the decision for her before her brain could catch up—but she knew the feeling of him holding her like this was making her dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.
He searched her face like he was trying to find the answer for himself, his breath hot against her cheek, pupils blown wide.
"Testing a—" His voice broke slightly, rough and strained, his grip on her hip tightening unconsciously. "You shouldn't. Not with me. I'm… not… enough for you. You're too good, too sweet, too—"
"Bucky…" She meant it to be a warning, maybe even a plea to stop talking, but it came out softer, breathier, almost like an invitation.
Something in his expression cracked, the last thread of restraint snapping audibly. His mouth was on hers again, deeper this time. Almost desperate, devouring her with a passion that felt unbridled. She clutched the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until his body was pressed flush against hers, until she could feel his heart hammering against her own chest.
Every inhale was shared, every sound they made swallowed into the charged space between them. Her head tipped back against the wall, and he followed the motion immediately, his lips brushing down her jaw to the rapid thrum of her pulse at her throat.
The heat between them was overwhelming, an intoxicating mix of want that she couldn’t put into words if she tried. Her senses were overrun by pleasure, his touch alone short-circuiting any tangible thought she could muster.
He caught himself then, just barely. She watched him pull back enough to look at her again, chest heaving, as if needing to confirm she still wanted this. That this was real and not some sort of fever dream.
He studied her intently, like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face. "You shouldn't… we shouldn't," his voice frayed at the edges, his grip tightening. "You don't know what you're asking for."
Her lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think I do."
Something in his eyes broke then, the restraint giving way to something darker, more primal. His mouth crashed back to hers, almost desperate, the kind of kiss that burned straight through bone, through reason.
She gasped into him, and he took the sound like he'd been starving for it, pressing her harder into the wall. His hands traced her waist, her back, her ribs, as if he was trying to brand the shape of her into memory. Learn every curve, every divot. She was doing the same to him, running her hands along any part of his body she could reach. The corded muscles in his forearms, the strain underneath his biceps as he gripped her. He felt heavenly, like he’d been carved out of marble and chiseled to perfection.
When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, she kept her gaze locked on his. His eyes were dark, nearly black with want, and the sight made her shiver.
"Sam told me you've been… attracted to me. Wanted me, liked me—whatever word you want to use." Her voice trembled, not from fear but from the way his breath brushed her lips, the way he was looking at her. "I wanted to… find out for myself if it was true."
Bucky's expression didn't waver. The hunger in his eyes didn't fade even slightly. If anything, his grip tightened, pulling her even closer, eliminating the last molecule of space between them. "Sam's got a big mouth."
She almost laughed, but the sound caught in her throat when his thumb brushed along her jaw with devastating gentleness. The gesture was so gentle, so reverent, so at odds with the intensity of moments before. "Is Sam's big mouth telling the truth?"
His eyes flickered. Desire tangled with something heavier, more complicated. "I fell for you the second I came to your office," he admitted, voice rough and raw. "And when you walked away from me that first time, brushed me off, I knew it. Knew I was in trouble. Knew I wanted you in a way I had no right to. And the more I got to know you, the worse it got. Every conversation, every walk, every smile."
He paused, jaw flexing. "At first, I tried to kill it. Bury it. You're Steve's blood. His legacy. You're… young. Too young for someone like me, someone with my past." His throat bobbed. "I felt guilty as hell. Still do, if I'm being honest."
Her chest ached at the emotion in his voice, at the way he looked at her like he'd already memorized every inch of her but was still afraid he'd somehow ruin her.
She leaned in, close enough that her words brushed his lips. "I'm not too young for you. And I'm not Steve. Whatever rules you think apply, they don't here. Not with me."
Bucky sighed heavily, reaching up to cup her cheek in his hand—the flesh one, warm and calloused. She understood the hesitation. His dead best friend's granddaughter, almost a decade younger than him physically, a lifetime younger in experience. So she continued, needing him to understand. "You don't need to feel guilty. And neither should I. We're both adults. We both want this."
Bucky exhaled sharply, his metal fingers flexing against her hip like he was trying to let her go but couldn't quite bring himself to, couldn't quite make himself step back. She saw the battle play out clearly in his eyes. Duty versus want, guilt versus satisfaction.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he said, voice low and strained, almost pleading. "Steve… he was my best friend. My brother. And you're his granddaughter. Hell, I shouldn't have even looked twice at you. Shouldn't have let myself get close."
His jaw tightened visibly, but then his eyes softened almost painfully. "But the truth is…I didn't stand a chance. The second I saw you, I was done for. And every damn day since has just made it worse. Your laugh, your smile, the way you look at me…you're perfect in ways I can't even put into words. And it kills me how much I want you when I know I shouldn't."
She pressed closer, sliding her hands up the hard planes of his chest until they hooked behind his neck, fingers threading through his short locks. "Then stop killing yourself over it. I'm not some fragile little thing you need to protect from yourself, Barnes. And I'm certainly not going to go tattling to my grandfather’s ghost about this."
That earned the smallest smirk from him, a flash of humor. "Pretty sure he'd still find a way to punch me. Come back from the dead just for that."
"Then he can get in line," she shot back, her voice dipping into a whisper that sent heat rushing between them like wildfire. "Because you've kept me waiting long enough."
Something in him broke then. Snapped like a cable under too much tension. His hand slid up her back, pressing her flush against the wall as his mouth finally crashed against hers again. The kiss was hungry, yet revenant, all of his careful restraint burning away in a single instant.
Her fingers gripped his hair, pulling him closer, swallowing the groan that rumbled deep in his chest. When they finally broke for air, both breathing hard, his lips still brushed against hers as he murmured, "You have no idea what you've started."
She grinned against his mouth, breathless and reckless. "Guess you'll have to show me."
And then his mouth was on hers again, rougher this time, more demanding. And she knew he had every intention of making good on his promise.
Summary: After accidentally slipping through a portal into an alternate Earth, she discovers that this world’s version of herself is dead—and that version of herself had an unexpected, mysterious bond with Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 21.2k
Warnings: angst; angst-heavy relationship conflict (verbal fighting, yelling, unresolved anger); panic; mentions of past death; slow-burnish; cursing; introspection; bit of an age gap; variants; mentions of different universes
Author’s Note: i had ZERO idea this fic would get as much love as it has but truly, deeply - from the bottom of my heart - thank you all so much for your kind words and praise of this story. i was so taken aback so many people loved this fic but truthfully, i am so utterly happy that you all enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it. i see all of your comments, your reblogs, likes, and follows...thank you for every bit of it. i hope this final part lives up to expectations!
let me know if you would like to see a fic about the story of bucky and this universe's original f!detective falling in love. i was itching to possibly explore that as an offshoot of this main story, and would love to hear what you all would think.
Naturally, she begged Stephen Strange for close to two weeks straight to send her back home. Every morning, every evening, she showed up at the Sanctum like a woman possessed, like some fanatic seeking absolution at a shrine that would never grant it. At first, he had been gentle in his refusals, almost pitying in the way he'd greet her at those impossibly tall doors. The ancient wood would swing open before she even knocked, as if the building itself recognized her desperation.
He'd pour her wine—always the same vintage, always in the same crystal goblet — and sit across from her in that cavernous, drafty room. His voice remained maddeningly calm as he explained, with the patience of someone who had to do this often as of late, that he had seen all the timelines. Every thread of possibility stretching out like spider silk across the multiverse, each one gleaming with its own terrible inevitability. And in every single one, every one, she was meant to stay here. It was her fate, he insisted, written in the stars themselves with ink made of cosmic certainty.
The first few times, she tried desperately to believe him. Clung to the possibility that maybe this cosmic joke had some deeper meaning, some grand purpose that would make the suffocating displacement worth enduring. But by the fifth repetition of that same tired mantra, delivered with the same infuriating serenity while she slowly unraveled in front of him, something inside her finally snapped.
Rage cracked through her despair like lightning splitting a storm cloud, white-hot and cleansing. She hurled the wine glass he'd poured her against the ancient stone wall, watching the crystal shatter into a thousand glittering pieces. Crimson liquid streaked down the grey stone like arterial spray, like the blood she wished she could spill to make any of this real.
The silence that followed was deafening. Louder than any scream, more damning than any accusation. Even the floating books had stilled in their endless dance.
She regretted it instantly, not for him, but for herself. For letting her desperation show so nakedly, for proving that she was exactly as broken as she felt. The shame burned hotter than the rage had, settling in her throat like swallowed glass. So she cleaned it up, piece by jagged piece. Not with a flick of his wrist or one of those glowing golden sigils he conjured so effortlessly, but with her own trembling hands. A dustpan and a broom materialized when she asked, the only magic he'd apparently grant her, glass crunching beneath her shoes like the sound of her composure finally giving way. Each shard was a reminder of how little control she had over anything in this godforsaken world, how powerless she was against the cosmic forces that had deposited her here like unwanted cargo.
He didn't stop her. He just watched with those ancient eyes that held something that might have been sympathy if she'd been in the mood to accept it, if she hadn't been drowning in her own mortification.
By the second week, Strange's patience had worn gossamer-thin. His voice lost its careful softness, his gaze its practiced sympathy. He started cutting her off before she even made it through the front door, sometimes not even letting her step over the threshold. The ornate brass handle would turn cold under her palm as invisible wards sealed the entrance against her.
"No," he'd say, sharp and final as a tomb sealing shut, like he was slamming a lock she couldn't see and would never be able to break. To his credit, he never barred her entirely, never cast her out with the kind of dramatic magical barriers she'd seen in movies, but his refusals had become absolute as gravity itself.
She tried everything: bargaining, pleading, offering anything she thought might tempt a sorcerer. Favors that made her voice shake with humiliation, secrets that weren't hers to give, her loyalty, her soul if he wanted it…anything to make him understand that she was suffocating here, that every breath felt like drowning. But the answer was always the same, delivered with the finality of a death sentence. No.
Eventually, she stopped going. What was the point of begging a man who claimed to see the future if he wouldn't even acknowledge her present agony?
Her apartment became her entire universe. Four walls that seemed to shrink a little more each day, the silence so thick it felt like cotton stuffed in her ears. The kind of isolation that made her question if she still existed at all, if she hadn't simply dissolved into the space between molecules and forgotten to notice.
She only ventured out when her fridge was completely bare and her stomach had moved beyond hunger into a hollow, gnawing ache that couldn't be ignored. The two-block trudge to the corner store felt like walking to her execution every time, hood pulled up to hide her face from a world that saw someone else when they looked at her. The cashier, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, always smiled and asked how her day was going. But each time, the simple human kindness hit her like a physical blow. How do you explain that you're not real? That you're wearing someone else's life like an ill-fitting costume?
Sam's calls lit up her phone with increasing frequency and desperation. But she let them all go to voicemail, watching his name flash on the screen until it faded to black. What was she supposed to say? That she was unraveling thread by thread? That she had no plan, no identity, no compelling reason to step outside her door ever again? That every morning felt like waking up in someone else's grave?
So she sat. In the same spot on her thrift-store couch, a mustard yellow monstrosity that she secretly found charming, with whatever liquor she could afford. Sometimes whiskey that burned her throat raw and left her gasping like she was learning to breathe all over again. Sometimes vodka that numbed everything until she felt like she was floating in formaldehyde. Sometimes something sweeter that she always regretted when the headache hit the next morning, pounding behind her eyes like her brain was trying to escape her skull.
She drank and wallowed and thought about what a pathetic creature she'd become, how disappointed everyone back home would be if they could see her now. The old her, the real her, not this displaced shadow wearing someone else's name like an ill-fitting coat, would have slapped her across the face and dragged her into the sunlight by her hair if necessary. At least, she liked to think that, since she knew herself. She would have forced her to fight, to live, to stop drowning in self-pity like some tragic heroine in a bad romance novel.
But here? She wasn't anyone at all. No friends to worry about her except Sam, who barely knew her. No job to miss her — hell, she didn't even exist on paper in this world. No history to anchor her to anything real, no shared memories to prove she'd ever mattered to anyone. She existed in this place only because a man in a red cape had told her the universe demanded it, and even that felt like the cruelest joke of all.
No one called except Sam, who refused to give up on her despite receiving nothing but silence in return, his voicemails growing more concerned and frustrated with each passing day. And certainly not Bucky. She hadn't seen him since that night when everything had exploded between them like a grenade going off in a crowded room.
His absence gnawed at her like an infected wound—the kind that you can't stop poking even though you know it only makes the pain worse. She tried to convince herself she didn't blame him for staying away, that his absence was probably a mercy for both of them. But late at night, when the whiskey had stripped away her defenses, she found herself listening for his footsteps in the hallway, imagining his knock at her door.
The worst part was that she was beginning to regret the things she'd said, the calculated venom she'd spit in his direction like some wounded animal lashing out at anything within reach. In her rage, she'd slashed at wounds that weren't hers to touch, had weaponized his trauma against him like she had any right to judge his pain. Like she understood the first thing about what it meant to claw your way back from being unmade.
Maybe that’s why she was secretly hoping he would come by again. Because she felt guilty. Ashamed of how she acted, what she had said to him. A man grieving the loss of someone who looked like her.
After she'd started reading about his history online, scrolling through article after article until her eyes burned and her chest felt hollow with horror, she finally understood why her words had struck bone so deeply. HYDRA's systematic torture, documented in clinical language that somehow made it worse. The decades of brainwashing and violation, his mind carved up and reshaped like clay in the hands of monsters. The impossibly long climb back to being James Buchanan Barnes instead of their perfect weapon, each step forward probably feeling like walking through broken glass.
He had been cruel too, yes, but he was allowed to be wounded. He had earned his pain through suffering she couldn't even fathom. She had trespassed into his grief and made it bleed fresh again, like ripping stitches from a barely healed wound with her bare hands.
And yet, another part of her still bristled with resentment that she couldn't quite shake. Why was she the one paying for sins she'd never committed? Why was she the ghost forced to atone for a love that belonged to someone else, someone who'd had the privilege of living and dying in her own skin?
Late at night, when the whiskey had loosened the tight grip she kept on her thoughts and the city had settled into that peculiar late night quiet that felt like the world holding its breath, she found herself wondering. Imagining.
How had they fallen in love, the her of this world and Bucky Barnes?
He was so closed off, so heavily armored against the world that even sitting in the same room with him felt like trying to approach a wild animal, all coiled tension and barely contained violence. How had she, someone so utterly ordinary, managed to breach the fortress walls of a man like him? Especially when he was still clawing his way out of the Winter Soldier's shadow, still learning how to be human again instead of a weapon with a heartbeat.
She couldn't picture it. Couldn't imagine what that kind of intimacy would have looked like between them, what quiet moments or shared traumas might have cracked them both open enough to let love take root in the spaces beneath his scars. He was tortured, stoic, and carrying decades of guilt. What had he seen in her that made him willing to risk his heart again? What had she seen in him beyond the obvious?
Well. His attractiveness was easy to understand. He was devastatingly, unfairly beautiful in the way that made her chest tight just looking at him, like her body had forgotten how to process oxygen properly. That much was obvious to anyone with working eyes and a pulse. Maybe that had been enough at first, the simple animal attraction that could bridge any gap.
But no, not for the kind of love she'd witnessed in his eyes when he looked at her that night. Not the way Sam spoke about it, like it was something sacred that had been ripped away too soon, leaving wounds that would never properly heal. That kind of love required more than just physical hunger, it required the kind of trust that felt impossible to rebuild once it had been shattered.
The truth was unavoidable, as much as it unsettled her to carry it like a weight in her chest: he had loved the other her. Deeply and fiercely. And though she couldn't begin to understand how or why, though she seriously doubted they would have ever chosen each other in any other life, she couldn't shake the crushing weight of being the unwilling keeper of that ghost.
The unbearable heaviness of being loved for someone she wasn't and could never become, no matter how hard she tried to fill the shape of a woman who no longer existed.
The knock came just past noon on a Tuesday, sharp and insistent against the thin wood of her door. She ignored it, just as she had ignored the last five calls from Sam, letting the sound fade into the background noise of her misery like everything else that demanded her attention. But the knocking didn't stop. Whoever was on the other side had either infinite patience or terminal stubbornness, and they seemed perfectly content to keep hammering away until the door gave up or she did.
Finally, with a groan that came from somewhere deep in her chest, she shoved herself off the couch. The movement disturbed the half-empty glass of whiskey that had been sweating rings into her coffee table, amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She shuffled to the door in yesterday's clothes, or maybe the day before that. Time had stopped meaning much when every day bled into the next without distinction.
When she cracked the door open, Yelena Belova was leaning against the doorframe like she owned the building. She was dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen actual combat, though she knew the woman had stories to tell that would probably give her nightmares. She was chewing on something that looked suspiciously like beef jerky, her dark eyes conducting a thorough inventory of the disaster standing before her.
"You look horrible," Yelena announced flatly, her Russian accent making the insult sound almost clinical. Then, without waiting for an invitation or even a response, she shouldered past her and entered the apartment. Her confident presence immediately made the space feel smaller and more pathetic, like a spotlight illuminating every bit of accumulated failure.
"Smells horrible in here too. Like sad person and cheap alcohol." Yelena's nose wrinkled as she surveyed the damage. "Are you sure you are an adult woman and not a teenage boy having a breakdown? Because this level of pathetic is usually reserved for people who think dying their hair black is a personality trait."
She blinked, still processing the fact that someone had actually invaded her carefully constructed fortress of solitude. "Excuse me?"
"I said you look horrible. Like you fought death and lost. Multiple times." Yelena plopped down on the couch without ceremony, making herself at home with the kind of casual audacity that probably served her well in her line of work. She picked up the abandoned whiskey glass, sniffed it with obvious disgust, and held it away from her face like it might be radioactive.
"This is no way to live. Sam tells me you are being... how do you say this gently..." She paused, clearly savoring the moment. "Pathetic. He is not wrong, but he is too nice to say it properly. I prefer a direct approach."
Her jaw clenched, defensive anger flaring despite her exhaustion. It felt good to feel anything that wasn't numbness or despair. "He said that?"
Yelena shrugged, already making herself at home by propping her combat boots up on the coffee table. "He said you were sad, mopey, hiding away like a babushka with forty cats waiting for death. I say pathetic. Much more efficient word. Gets to point faster, uses fewer syllables."
She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to muster some dignity from somewhere. "I'm not hiding."
"You are hiding. But you are also sulking, drinking cheap liquor that probably tastes like paint thinner, and avoiding life." Yelena's grin was sharp as a blade, but there was something almost kind in her expression. "You know what we called that in the Red Room? Tuesday. But it gets boring very quickly, and then you die. Much less romantic than movies make it seem. Usually involves more crying, less dramatic music."
Despite everything — the depression, the anger, the bone-deep exhaustion that she had been dealing with for so long — a laugh almost bubbled up from her throat. It was the first genuine emotion she'd felt in weeks that wasn't some variation of despair. But she caught herself and stopped, not quite ready to let go of her misery just yet.
"Why are you here? Not to be rude, but you don't actually know me. We've never even met."
"Because Sam told me about you, and you remind me of myself once upon a time." Yelena's posture shifted slightly, her playful demeanor taking on a more serious edge. "I also sat in a dark apartment for months, drinking whatever I could find, waiting for the world to swallow me whole so I wouldn't have to make an effort anymore. But the world does not care about your feelings. It moves on with or without you. You either move with it, or you rot in place like forgotten fruit."
Something darker crossed over her face then, and her gaze dropped to the floor when she spoke again, her voice softer than before. More vulnerable than she'd ever heard from the woman who seemed to treat everything like a joke or a challenge.
"My sister, Natasha, she admired you very much. Always talked highly of you when your name came up. Said you were a good detective — smart, stubborn in the right ways." She paused, weighing her next words carefully. "And Bucky... he is in pain. Real pain, not just ‘sad-man-with-dark-past’ pain that looks good in movies. He doesn't talk about it, but I see it in how he moves, how he doesn't sleep, how he looks at empty spaces like someone should be there. I think he wants to see you, talk to you, but he doesn't know how to do that without feeling like he's betraying her memory. You wear the face of the woman he loved and lost. This is not an easy thing to just brush aside like crumbs."
The words hit her like a physical blow, and she had to look away, her throat suddenly tight with emotions she didn't want to name. The shame was the worst part. Knowing that her pain was nothing compared to what he was carrying. That her suffering was largely self-inflicted while his had been carved into him by forces beyond his control.
Yelena sat back, her casual demeanor sliding back into place like armor, but the vulnerability remained in her eyes. "So. I have a proposition for you, dead woman walking. You used to be a detective, yes? Sam says you did investigations, problem-solving, all of that smart brain work that makes normal people feel stupid?"
"Yeah..." she managed, her voice smaller than she'd intended. "Something like that."
"Good. Then maybe you stop drinking yourself into an early grave and help us instead." Yelena's grin returned, sharp and challenging. "The New Avengers could use extra eyes on a case that is making us all look like idiots. There is a criminal running around the city—very slippery, like a greased rat with nine lives and excellent lawyers. We track him, we lose him, we track again, we lose again. It is becoming personally offensive to our professional reputation. You like puzzles, yes? Maybe you can solve this puzzle and prove you are not completely useless."
Her eyebrows rose despite herself. "Are you seriously trying to recruit me?"
Yelena laughed, the sound genuine and surprisingly warm. "No, no, you cannot be an Avenger. You are not nearly traumatized enough, and you have no tragic backstory involving dead parents or government experiments. But you can be an associate. Consultant. What is the word... temp? Yes, like an office temp but with more violence and worse health insurance." Her expression turned mock-serious. "You think I am here for your winning personality and subpar hygiene? Please. I am here because you might actually be useful for once here, in this sad, little life you seem to like to wallow in."
Despite everything – the sarcasm, the barbed words — she knew Yelena was being genuine. That she was going out of her way to try to help her find purpose here. Her lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. "You're absolutely unbelievable."
"Thank you," Yelena preened, as if it were the highest possible compliment. She swung her boots off the table and stood with fluid grace, picking up the whiskey glass and tossing it into the sink where it landed with a definitive clink.
"So. Finish your pity party in the next five minutes. Put on shoes that do not smell like despair. Take a shower too. You stink like a sad person and broken dreams. We will leave soon."
"Yelena, I..." she trailed off, not sure how to voice her biggest fear, the thing that had been eating at her since that night like acid in her veins. "As much as I want to help, I'm not sure Barnes wants me anywhere near him right now. We...it won’t end well."
Yelena stopped mid-stride and turned back to her, fixing her with a look that was sharp enough to cut glass. "He wants you around. He just doesn't know how to say that without feeling guilty about wanting it. Just...be nice to him, yes? He is like a kicked puppy right now, and you are the only one holding treats he actually wants.”
The crime scene was cordoned off with yellow tape that snapped restlessly in the autumn breeze, the plastic barrier looking fragile and inadequate against the weight of what had happened here. The building itself was nothing special, just another gutted warehouse on the industrial edge of the city, all broken windows and rust stains. But the dark blood spatters on the concrete told a much more sinister story. They looked black in the afternoon light, like spilled ink. Violence always left its mark, and this place reeked of it.
The New Avengers were already spread across the perimeter when she and Yelena arrived, each of them occupying their own sphere of focused tension. John Walker stood rigidly near the main entrance, his arms crossed as he surveyed the scene with military precision, jaw set in the kind of hard line that suggested he took these failures personally. His entire posture screamed authority, but there was something brittle underneath it, like he was constantly nervous.
Alexei was pacing restlessly near the loading dock, his massive frame radiating barely contained energy as he muttered in Russian about how boring crime scenes were when all the action was already over.
Ava, the Ghost, kept herself close to the shadows cast by the building's overhang, her eyes sharp and restless as they tracked every movement, every detail. She looked like she was cataloging threats that hadn't even materialized yet, catching things the rest of them would miss.
And then there was Bucky.
He was crouched near what looked like the primary kill site, his metal fingers tracing the air just above a particularly dark stain on the concrete. He was careful not to disturb anything but clearly reading the story written in blood and scuff marks, his enhanced senses picking up details that would be invisible to anyone else. When he looked up the moment Yelena led her forward, his expression shifted instantly from focused professional assessment to something softer and infinitely more complicated.
Recognition, maybe, or regret. The kind of look that made her chest tighten with emotions she didn't want to examine too closely, like her heart was trying to beat its way out of her ribcage.
"What is she doing here?" His voice wasn't harsh exactly, but it carried enough weight to make her instinctively take a half-step back, as if his words were a physical force pushing against her.
Before she could even attempt an answer, or even figure out what the right answer even was in this impossible situation, Yelena rolled her eyes with theatrical exasperation and stepped smoothly between them like a referee of sorts.
"Save the dramatics for someone who cares, Barnes. I dragged her here because she was rotting in her apartment like a sad raccoon in a garbage can, and we need all the help we can get in this case. So deal with it like a grown-up, or I will make you deal with it."
Personally, she was taking slight offense to being likened to vermin, but she decided it wasn't the time to bring that up around this particular group of people who were all looking at her suspiciously.
Bucky's jaw tensed, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, but he didn't push the issue further. His gaze lingered on her face for another moment before he turned back to the crime scene, but she could feel the weight of his attention even when he wasn't looking directly at her.
Walker was the one who finally broke the tension, gesturing toward the scene with crisp military efficiency. "The murder happened three days ago. Victim was Carter Doyle, sixty-seven, retired SHIELD informant living under a protective alias. Someone walked him out of his apartment building at approximately two in the morning, brought him here, execution-style killing. Single gunshot to the head, close range. Neighbors reported hearing nothing unusual, saw no suspicious vehicles or individuals."
"Doyle was instrumental in helping SHIELD track down HYDRA sleeper cells in the aftermath of the organization's public exposure," Ava added quietly, her voice carrying the kind of precise neutrality that suggested she'd memorized every detail of the file. She was still scanning the scene like she could somehow see the crime playing out in real-time. "Every victim so far that’s died recently around the city follows the exact same pattern. All ex-SHIELD assets, all directly involved in HYDRA hunting operations during the cleanup years."
Alexei clapped his massive hands together with sudden enthusiasm, like someone had just announced an exciting new game. "So! We have mysterious killer man with grudge and good planning skills who likes to pick off heroes and do-gooders. HYDRA fingerprints all over everything. Very classic setup, like old spy movie but with better special effects!"
Her stomach dropped at the word, that familiar cold wash of dread flooding her system like ice water in her veins. HYDRA. It always came back to them somehow even in this world, like a poison that had seeped so deep into the universe’s foundation that you could never fully scrub it out. Though, she supposed evil existed in every crevice of existence as long as life existed in those pockets.
She found herself moving before she'd consciously decided to investigate, her detective instincts kicking in despite herself. The familiarity of it was almost comforting—the methodical process of reading a scene, of letting the evidence tell its story without the messy complications of human emotion getting in the way.
She crouched low near the edge of the kill site, running her fingers lightly over the concrete around a bullet hole that had been punched clean through a wooden shipping crate. The cold reality of the violence sent a chill racing up her spine. This wasn't a random act or a crime of passion. This was execution, clean and professional.
"So we're not just chasing a killer," she murmured, more to herself than to the group, but her voice carried in the warehouse's acoustic emptiness. "We're chasing someone who's systematically cleaning up HYDRA's past. Erasing loose ends."
The silence that followed her words was heavy and thoughtful. Even Alexei stopped his restless pacing, his usual boisterous energy subdued by the implications of what she'd just laid out.
She could feel Bucky's gaze on her like a physical weight, intense and searching, but she forced herself to focus on the evidence instead of the way his attention made her skin prickle with unwanted awareness. This was her element, the one place where she felt like herself instead of a pale copy of someone else.
Rising from her crouch slowly, she brushed the concrete dust from her palms and let her eyes sweep the scene again with fresh perspective. The bullet trajectory, the forced entry marks on the rear door, the shallow scuff marks on the warehouse floor that told the story of how the body had been positioned, it was all clicking into place with the kind of clarity that had always made her good at her job. Even when everything else in her life was falling apart.
"He's likely prior military," she said finally, her voice gaining strength and confidence as she settled into the familiar rhythm of building a profile. "Special forces, probably. Look at the shot placement where the blood is — it was center mass…. a single entry wound, no wasted ammunition. That's not luck or rage, that's training. That’s muscle memory drilled into someone until it becomes second nature."
She pointed toward the back exit, where faint streaks in the concrete dust told their own story of careful positioning and deliberate staging. "And see the drag marks there? He never leaves the body where it falls. Always repositions them, makes sure they're found in a specific way. That's not impulsive killing, that's ritual. He wants these deaths to send a message, and he wants to make sure that message is received loud and clear."
Yelena tilted her head, genuine interest flickering across her face. "Okay, very impressive spooky profiler voice. Please continue."
"He's probably working from a list. These victims aren't random targets of opportunity…they're likely carefully selected based on their connection to HYDRA takedown operations. That means he has access to classified intelligence, probably from his time inside the organization." She paused, the full implications of what she was saying settling over the group like a shadow. "He's not just killing for revenge. He's... settling accounts. Closing books that he thinks should have stayed closed."
The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the warehouse's settling metal groaning in the wind. Even John Walker's usual cocky confidence seemed to falter as he processed what she'd laid out, the military precision of the operation clearly striking a nerve.
Ava's gaze darted between the bloodstains like she was replaying the murders in enhanced detail, seeing things the rest of them could only guess at. "That's... disturbingly thorough. And probably accurate."
Alexei gave a low whistle of appreciation, his earlier enthusiasm tempered by genuine respect. "Very good, little detective raccoon. Maybe Sam Wilson was right about you after all."
Yelena's smirk was sharp with satisfaction, like a teacher whose problem student had finally shown their work correctly. "Told you she was useful. Much better than standing around looking confused and lost."
But she wasn't really listening to the praise or the banter bouncing around her like verbal ping-pong balls. Her attention had been pulled, drawn almost against her will subconsciously, to Bucky. He was staring at her with an expression that made something deep in her chest ache. There was sadness there, yes, but also something that looked suspiciously like pride mixed with pain. Like admiration tempered by grief.
It was as if every word she'd spoken had dragged him back to another time, another version of this scene, another her who had stood in similar warehouses and broken down similar cases with the same methodical precision. One he had already lost, and was now being forced to remember through her performance.
God, she felt so guilty.
John Walker finally cleared his throat, the sound awkward and overly loud in the charged atmosphere. "Well. That was... probably exactly what we needed to hear. Good work."
"Yeah," Ava added reluctantly, like the admission cost her something. "I didn't think you had it in you. Guess I was wrong."
"Get used to being wrong," Yelena quipped. "It builds character and keeps life interesting."
The casual banter continued to flow around her, but it felt distant and muffled, like she was hearing it from underwater. Her chest felt tight and constricted under the weight of Bucky's stare, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was somehow trespassing on sacred ground, wearing someone else's expertise like an ill-fitting costume that everyone could see through.
Finally, she drew in a sharp breath and turned to face him directly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a bird trying to escape a cage. "Can we...talk? Privately?"
The request hung in the air between them like something vulnerable, carrying more weight than the simple words should have been able to bear. The rest of the group glanced between them with barely concealed curiosity, yet no one said anything. Even Yelena managed to keep her commentary to herself, which was probably a minor miracle.
Bucky hesitated for a long moment that felt like an eternity, his blue eyes searching her face for something she wasn't sure she could give him. Then, almost imperceptibly, he gave the smallest of nods.
They stepped a few paces away from the others, the sound of Yelena bickering with Alexei about proper crime scene etiquette fading into the background. Here, in the corner of the ruined crime scene with a breeze cutting through the broken windows, the silence pressed between them like a living thing.
She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking, her eyes dropping to the cracked floor before forcing herself to look up at him. Even now, even with everything that had never happened between them, he was devastating to look at. All sharp angles and barely contained strength, like he'd been carved from something harder than marble.
"I owe you an apology," she began, her voice unsteady in the way that voices get when you're trying to say something important and failing spectacularly at it. "For what I said. About you being the Winter Soldier."
Bucky's jaw tensed, his metal fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just waited with the kind of patience that itched at something under her skin. Her own nerves, undoubtedly.
"In my world," she went on, her words slow and deliberate as she tried to find the right way to explain something that felt unexplainable, "that's all you ever were. No Steve Rogers pulling you back from the brink, no Wakanda to help you heal, no second chances or redemption arcs. Just a weapon. A killer. I never knew you as anything else, never saw you as anything but the monster they made you into."
Her throat worked as she swallowed around the growing tightness. "So when I look at you... I don't see hope, or a man trying to make up for the things he was forced to do. I see the ghost of what I knew. And that's not fair to you, but I don't know how to unsee it."
Something flickered across his face. Pain, sharp and quiet, the kind he'd gotten good at hiding behind masks of stoicism and careful control. He blinked, looking past her shoulder for a beat before meeting her eyes again, and when he spoke his voice was rougher than usual.
"I get it," he said at last, his voice low, gravel scraping at the edges. "Doesn't mean it doesn't… sting. But I get it."
She nodded, forcing her tone to steady even as her chest tightened with the weight of his understanding. "I want to help. I'm good at this kind of work. But if it makes it harder for you, I'll step back."
He hesitated, and she saw the war inside him plain as day, duty battling with self-preservation. The desire to do what was right wrestling with the need to protect what was left of his heart. His shoulders twitched, as if he might walk away, but then he shook his head with the kind of resolve that must have carried him through decades of impossible choices.
"If you can help… then I don't mind." He looked at her a long time, the weight of memory softening his features until she could see glimpses of the man he'd been before HYDRA carved him hollow. "Just…seeing you do it… it's like watching a ghost. She used to do the same thing. The same little pauses, same way of looking at a scene. Even your hands—"
He stopped abruptly, jaw clenching like he'd revealed too much, like the words had escaped before he could cage them properly. The vulnerability in his voice made her chest ache with an emotion she couldn't name.
The guilt pressed heavy in her chest, settling there like stones. "I'm sorry for being here. I know it's not fair to you."
His response was immediate, rough with barely contained emotion. "It's not your fault." Then, softer, like the admission was being dragged from somewhere deep inside him, "But it doesn't make it easier."
His eyes lingered on her then, open and raw in a way that startled her with its intensity. Sadness, thick and deep, carved lines into his face that hadn't been there moments before. The weight of his gaze felt like drowning and breathing at the same time, and she turned desperate to break the moment before it pulled her under completely.
But his voice stopped her retreat like a physical barrier.
"Stephen said you've been… visiting. Every day. Begging him to send you back."
Her shoulders stiffened at the words, tension crawling up her spine like ice water. She turned just enough to glance back, her eyes already glassy with the threat of tears she refused to let fall. "Yes. Because I want to. There's nothing for me here."
That answer seemed to cut him deeper than she'd intended, deeper than any of her previous cruelties. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Just the sharp intake of breath that sounded pained.
He searched her face , almost pleading, and when he finally managed to speak his voice was barely above a whisper. "Is it really as bad as Yelena says? In that apartment. Alone."
She let out a breath that trembled at the edges, her composure finally cracking under the weight of his concern. A sad, humorless smile curved her lips. "Of course it is. No one wants me here. I'm wearing a face that haunts people. Mostly you. Why should I have anything to live for here?"
The words hit him like a physical blow. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, but enough for her to see the way the words landed. Like they were carving fresh wounds into barely healed scar tissue. His expression cracked open, hurt bleeding through the stoicism, and she realized with devastating clarity that she'd just confirmed his worst fear about what his presence in her life was costing her.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The warehouse air seemed to thicken around them, heavy with words that couldn't be taken back and truths that hurt too much to voice.
Her throat burned with unshed tears and unspoken apologies. She forced the words out anyway, each syllable scraping her raw. "See you around, Sergeant Barnes."
His name left her lips softly. Like it cost her something fundamental to say. Like speaking it aloud was another small death in a string of endings she couldn't control.
She supposed in a way, it did.
And before he could respond, before he could see the way her composure was completely falling apart, she turned and walked away with the silence stretching between them like a wound left open.
The walk back to her apartment felt endless, each step weighted with the conversation she'd left hanging in the air. Her chest ached with a persistent throb that no amount of deep breathing could ease, internal discomfort that settled deep in her ribs and made breathing feel like work.
She kept replaying his face, frame by frame, when she'd told him she had nothing to live for here. The way his expression had cracked open, raw and unguarded. The hurt that had flooded his eyes for someone who didn’t deserve it.
It made her feel like she'd taken a scalpel to something that was barely healed. Worse,like she'd done it deliberately, with surgical precision, aiming for the places that would hurt the most.
By the time she reached her block, the streetlamps had flickered to life, casting long skeletal shadows across the cracked pavement. The familiar ritual of unlocking her front door felt mechanical, her body moving through the motions while her mind remained trapped in that warehouse corner, replaying every word, every micro-expression, every moment where she'd watched him reveal his hurt.
Inside, the air was thick and stale, as if the apartment had been holding its breath while she was gone. The silence pressed against her eardrums with an almost physical weight. It was the same hollow emptiness that followed her everywhere in this universe, a void that no amount of work, liquor, or forced purpose could seem to fill.
She sank onto the couch with boneless exhaustion, her bag sliding off her shoulder to hit the floor with a dull thud that echoed too loudly in the quiet space. Her head tipped back against the worn cushions, eyes tracing the spider web of cracks that spread across her ceiling like a roadmap to nowhere.
Her gaze drifted toward the half-empty bottle of whiskey on her kitchen counter, amber liquid catching the late afternoon light. The neat stack of papers Yelena had pressed into her hands at the crime scene was still in her hands — case files, witness statements, the kind of paperwork that had once been her lifeline.
She fought the urge to smile. Yelena seemed to know exactly what kept people afloat, had an instinct for the kind of purpose that could serve as oxygen when everything else felt like drowning.
She sighed, glancing away from the whiskey and pulled the files into her lap, forcing herself to focus on the black ink instead of her own thoughts. This wasn't the time to be reaching for liquid amnesia, she told herself grimly. Not when she had actual work to do, actual problems to solve that didn't involve the impossible mathematics that had to do with Bucky Barnes and her guilt.
Just as her eyes began moving across the first page of the coroner's report, three sharp knocks rattled her front door.
Her pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding her system.
When she opened the door, Bucky Barnes filled the frame, but he looked nothing like the man who had stormed into her apartment weeks ago with fury radiating from every line of his body. Gone was the sharp-edged rage that had made her space feel too small to contain him safely. Instead, his posture was coiled tight with a different kind of tension — something more like restlessness. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises, and when his gaze flicked up to meet hers, she caught something she'd never seen there before.
Something that looked dangerously close to vulnerability.
She blinked, completely thrown by the appearance. "Did I... forget something at the scene?"
He stared at her for a long moment, his brow creasing as if was thinking of the right words to say. Finally, he cleared his throat, the sound rough in the evening air. "No. That's not—" He paused, jaw working soundlessly while he seemed to wage some internal battle. "I came to check on you."
Her lips parted in surprise, the simple admission hitting her like an unexpected blow. "To... check on me?"
He nodded once, sharp and mechanical, but his gaze kept skittering away from her face like he couldn't quite meet her eyes directly. Like looking at her too long might fracture the moment. "Yes."
She tilted her head, suspicion already blooming in her chest. The idea of him caring enough to seek her out felt too fragile to trust. "Did Yelena put you up to this?"
The suggestion hit him like a personal insult, his spine straightening as offense flashed across his features with surprising intensity. "No."
"Sam, then?"
His mouth pressed into a hard line, irritation sparking in his eyes. "No, I—" He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, raking his flesh hand through his hair in a gesture that seemed almost nervous. When he forced himself to meet her gaze again, there was something raw and unguarded in his expression. "Can I just come in? Please?"
The ‘please’ was what did it, soft and uncertain, like he wasn't sure he had the right to ask for anything from her at all. Her suspicion crumbled instantly.
"I mean, sure, but why—"
He brushed past her before she could finish the question, bringing with him the scent of leather and something clean and masculine. He stood in the liminal space between her kitchen and living room, shoulders filled with tension. His presence filled the cramped area with restless energy and he looked wildly out of place among her thrift store furniture and accumulated mess, all coiled power and barely contained intensity.
She closed the door softly, studying him from the safety of the hallway. His eyes were already cataloging her space like he did this with every room he stepped into — dirty dishes forming a precarious tower in the sink, case files scattered across the coffee table, the whiskey bottle sitting open on her counter.
She didn't miss the flicker of disappointment that crossed his features when his eyes landed on it, subtle but unmistakable. Shame cut a path through her chest.
"That was from this morning," she blurted out before she could stop herself, immediately regretting the defensive explanation. If anything, admitting to day drinking made everything worse. She cringed, kicking herself internally.
His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing with sharp concern that felt too intense, too personal. For the first time since she'd landed in this cosmic joke of a universe, someone was looking at her with something that resembled genuine worry rather than suspicion or barely concealed pity.
"How much are you drinking?" The question came out low and controlled, but there was something dangerously terse lurking beneath the calm.
Heat crawled up her neck, embarrassment and defiance warring in her like competing flames. "I don't see how that's any of your business." She turned away from his penetrating stare, snatching the bottle and screwing the cap on with unnecessary force before shoving it back onto the counter with enough force that made the glass rattle against the wall.
She could feel his sharp exhale behind her, could practically see the frustration rolling off him in waves. The silence stretched between them, heavy and accusatory, and she filled the uncomfortable void with busy work—running water, clattering dishes, anything to drown out the weight of his judgment.
"If you want to help us with official matters," he said finally, his tone clipped and professional in a way that somehow hurt worse than outright anger, "I'm sure we'd all prefer you to be sober for it."
"Oh, is that what this is?" she shot back, drying her hands with more violence than the task required, her movements sharp and defensive. "A welfare check for the good of the team? How noble of you."
His voice hardened then, rising to cut through her sarcasm like a blade. "You don't have to act like this behind closed doors. Like some petulant child throwing a tantrum because the universe didn't arrange itself to your liking. The world isn't falling apart so catastrophically that you need to develop habits designed to kill you."
She spun around then, fury igniting in her chest like struck kindling. The accusation hit every raw nerve she'd been trying to protect, every wound she'd been nursing. "I thought we left things on a decent note at the warehouse, but apparently you're determined to revert to being a complete ass."
His expression darkened, jaw clenching as he took a deliberate step closer, crowding into her personal space until she could see the dark flecks in his blue eyes, until his proximity made her breath catch and her heart hammer against her ribs. "You're the one sitting here rotting away in your own misery when there's no rational reason to be wallowing in self-pity—"
"No reason?" The words tore from her throat, raw and bleeding, carrying weeks of accumulated pain and frustration. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling with the effort of not lashing out physically—though whether at him or at the universe itself, she couldn't tell. "I thought we went over this! One little accident, literally a slip, and I'm trapped in a world where the original me is dead and buried. Half the people here look at me like I'm her ghost come back to haunt them, the other half like I'm some pathetic fraud trying to steal her life."
Her voice was rising now, cracking with emotion she could no longer contain. "I had a real existence back home, Barnes. A career that mattered, friends who knew my actual history, a life that belonged to me instead of being some cosmic hand-me-down from a dead woman." Her voice broke completely on the last words, but she pushed forward anyway, desperation making her reckless. "And you all expect me to just stay here, smile and nod, pretend to start over like none of that mattered? Like I should be grateful for the chance to live in someone else's shadow? When everyone hates me for existing?"
Something fundamental shifted in his expression as she spoke. The righteous anger cracked, revealing something much more vulnerable underneath. Something that looked like recognition, like he was seeing her clearly for the first time instead of filtering her through the lens of someone else's memory.
"I don't hate you," he said quietly, the admission dousing the tension a bit.
She scoffed, pressing her fingertips against her temple where a headache was building like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "That's really all you took from what I just said? That's your big takeaway from my entire breakdown?"
"If anyone should understand about drowning in grief," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through her spiraling thoughts, "it would be me."
Her breath caught, the fight going out of her as suddenly as it had flared. The simple truth of the admission tempered her anger instantly.
His voice softened but lost none of its intensity, as if the words themselves were scraping him raw from the inside out. "I lost nearly a century to HYDRA's torture. They carved me up, piece by piece, until I couldn't tell where I ended and their weapon began. I woke up with a ledger drowned in innocent blood, everyone I'd ever loved dead and buried, nightmares that still hunt me down every time I close my eyes."
He paused, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, his eyes dangerously dark. "And yet, I’m still here. Still breathing, still fighting, still trying to build something meaningful from the wreckage they left behind. I made this world into a home. I found reasons worth living for, worth protecting." His eyes found hers then, blazing with conviction. "You can too. You're stronger than you're giving yourself credit for."
The silence that followed was electric, both of them breathing hard like they'd been running instead of standing in her cramped kitchen tearing each other apart with words that cut too deep to heal cleanly.
Then his gaze cut into hers, softer but no less demanding, carrying an intimacy that made her want to step back and lean closer at the same time. "So tell me what you're really running back to. What's waiting for you in your old world that's so much better than anything you could build here? Was there someone special? Family? A lover? What's the golden life you're clinging to that makes this one feel like such a punishment?"
"You're talking to me like you actually know me," she said, her voice trembling with emotion she couldn't quite name. Anger, yes, but something deeper and more complicated underneath it. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, tears threatening but refusing to fall. Not because she was angry at him, but because she was furious at the joke of it all. Angry that she was standing here arguing with a man who looked at her like he knew her, when most of what she knew about him came from a computer screen.
"But you don't know me at all," she continued, the words scraping her throat raw. "I'm not her, Bucky. You don't need to save me, or fix me, or give me inspirational speeches like you have any idea how my mind works. We might share the same DNA, the same basic facial structure, even the same damn name…but that's where the similarities end."
Her voice broke on the next words, but she pushed through the crack with desperate determination. "I'm not the woman you loved." The confession broke something vital in her chest as it left her mouth, but she forced it out anyway. It was the only mercy she could offer, making him let go before the hoping killed them both. "And I'm sorry, I am so deeply sorry for how much this must hurt you. I know you loved her desperately. But I'm not her, and pretending otherwise is only going to destroy us both."
When she finished, silence wrapped around them like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. He didn't lash out this time, didn't retreat behind walls of ice and anger like she'd expected. He just stood there absorbing her words with the stillness of someone who'd survived a lifetime of devastating truths, a lifetime of loss and pain.
Then his eyes lifted to meet hers, and they were soft with something that surprised her. Something that looked dangerously close to peace.
When he spoke, his voice was careful, like he was afraid the wrong tone might set her off again. "You share more than just her face and name," he said firmly. "You've got the same stubborn streak that won't let you back down from a fight, even when you should. The same fire in your eyes when you're passionate about something. Like right now, when you're telling me I don't know you."
His gaze flickered with something that might have been longing, carefully controlled but unmistakably present. "The same smile, though you try not to use it around me. I can tell. You even laugh the same way, when you forget to guard yourself against letting me see who you really are."
He looked past her shoulder toward the whiskey bottle, and a sad, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The way you keep your space... it's exactly how she did. Same organized chaos, same preferences. Even down to the brand of whiskey."
Bucky’s voice faltered slightly, but he pushed on with determined honesty. "The way you analyzed that crime scene today…it was word for word how she would have approached it. Same methodology, same instincts, even the same little pauses you do when you're processing evidence and building the story in your head."
He shook his head once, slow and heavy, like he was trying to anchor himself to reality. When his eyes found hers again, they were no longer bogged down by grief. Instead, it looked a lot more like tenderness.
"So it's not just about looking at you and seeing a ghost," he continued, his voice roughening with emotion he couldn't quite hide anymore. "It's because you still are the same, in every way that matters. The core of who she was, who you are, it's identical. Every piece of her that I fell in love with, it's right there in you, whether you want to acknowledge it or not."
His throat worked visibly as he swallowed, and when he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper. "And if she found enough reasons to be happy here, enough purpose to build a life worth living—" His voice cracked slightly before he steadied it with visible effort. "Then I'm willing to bet you could too, if you'd let yourself try, instead of running back to whatever you think you're missing."
The silence that followed was thickly discomforting.
Her first instinct was to fight him, to argue that he was wrong, that she was her own person with her own history and choices that had nothing to do with some parallel universe doppelganger. Anger coiled hot in her stomach. How dare he try to define her through someone else's existence, try to trap her in another woman's story like she was just an understudy waiting in the wings to step into a role she'd never auditioned for.
But as he spoke — as she watched his face soften when he mentioned her smile, her laugh, as she heard his voice break when he talked about her, the fight began to drain out of her. These weren't accusations, weren't demands or attempts to force her into a predetermined mold. They came weighted with grief…but also with something that felt dangerously close to reverence.
She could see it now. Could finally understand what she'd been missing in all their previous interactions. He wasn't angry at her for not being identical to the other girl he had lost. He was angry at the universe for the cruel joke of it all. For putting someone in front of him who both was and wasn't the person he'd mourned. For making him choose between clinging to a ghost and letting go of the closest thing to her he'd ever find again.
It struck her with sudden, devastating clarity that this wasn't about biology or cosmic coincidence. It was about the way different universes shaped their inhabitants. How environment and experience carved people into what they became, but never completely erased the foundation they'd been built on. The foundation might be the same, but the life lived on top of it created all the details that mattered, all the small differences that made each person unique.
And maybe that explained why she recognized herself in his descriptions, why his words rang true even when she wanted to reject them with every fiber of her being.
Maybe he wasn't seeing what he wanted to see. Maybe he was just seeing her more clearly than she'd been able to see herself.
"Okay," she murmured finally, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I get it. No more wallowing in self-pity like it's a competitive sport."
Her voice grew smaller, more uncertain. "It's just... I don't feel like I have a purpose here. A place in this world that's mine instead of borrowed from someone else's life. It's been harder than I expected to find my footing as of late."
The change in his expression was immediate. The stern line of his mouth softened and the rigid set of his shoulders instantly relaxed. His eyes shifted too, warmed with something fragile and achingly gentle.
She knew why. She'd just given him the first real glimpse of who she was underneath all the defensive armor.
He cleared his throat, running his flesh hand through his dark hair in a gesture she was starting to think he did when he was nervous. "I understand that better than you know," he said quietly, his voice carrying an invisible weight. "I felt exactly the same way when I first got my mind back from HYDRA's programming. Still feel that way sometimes, if I'm being honest. You just... you need to find things that anchor you. That give you something worth fighting for."
Her chest tightened at the admission, and not for the first time, she found herself wondering how the other version of herself had helped him through those early days. How had she managed to be patient with someone who was more scar tissue than man, who was learning how to be human again after decades of being nothing but a weapon? If she truly was some variation of that woman, she couldn't imagine where she would have found the gentleness required for that kind of healing work.
The questions burned on her tongue like acid, but she didn't dare voice them. The wounds in his voice still sounded too fresh, too close to bleeding all over her kitchen floor and staining the cheap linoleum.
Instead, she let herself take a moment to study him — to take in the sharp line of his jaw softened by dark stubble, the pale strokes of scars that mapped old violence across his skin, the way time had finally started to write itself into the corners of his eyes and the furrows of his brow. He was devastatingly handsome in the way that made her chest tight just from being in the same room.
But beneath all that hardened masculinity, she caught glimpses of the boy she'd read about in history books. The one who'd followed Steve Rogers into hell because it was the right thing to do.
At least in this universe, he'd managed to claw his way back to something resembling that original purpose.
So, she asked the question pushing at the seam of her lips, hoping the genuine curiosity didn’t come back to bite her. “What…what was it that gave you purpose to keep fighting? After everything…after all that you’d been through?”
His eyes lifted to hers slowly, and blinked, like her question was still churning in his mind. For a moment he didn't move and just studied her silently.
Then his lashes fluttered faster, like he was fighting back some overwhelming emotion that threatened to spill over if he wasn't careful.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Had a few things that helped. But I think you already know what the main one was."
Her throat constricted, muscles seizing like she had swallowed something too solid. She couldn't look away from his eyes, that startling blue that seemed to hold so much she didn’t know. There was an energy there she'd never seen before, something alive and burning that definitely wasn't meant for her. Something that belonged to memories and time.
And yet, he was looking directly at her with all that overwhelming intensity, like she was simultaneously the answer to every prayer he'd never dared voice and some cruel twist of fate.
She didn't know why the words were leaving her mouth until they'd already escaped into the charged space between them, hanging there like they were a tangible thing.
"Do you... want to stay for dinner?"
Her own eyebrows drew together in confusion, like her body was surprised by her own invitation. She wasn't the type to ask anyone into her space, especially not him. Especially not when every interaction they'd had so far had ended with one or both of them angry or upset. But there it was, still hanging in the air for him to answer.
Bucky blinked at her, visibly thrown by the unexpected offer, his entire body going still. For a heartbeat she thought he was going to decline, maybe make some excuse about having somewhere else to be, someone else who needed his attention more than whatever she was to him in his own mind.
But then, after a pause that stretched just long enough to make her nervous about asking, he gave the faintest nod. "Yeah. I'd like that."
The surprise was definitely mutual, written clearly across both their faces.
She turned quickly before he could read too much into her expression, before she could examine too closely why the thought of him staying made something dangerous unfurl in her chest. She tugged open the refrigerator door and stared at the pathetically barren shelves with growing mortification. Half a jar of marinara sauce that had seen better days, yogurt that was definitely past its expiration date, a carton of eggs she wasn't entirely sure she trusted, and not much else that could constitute an actual meal.
Not exactly the ingredients for an impressive culinary experience.
"Is frozen pizza okay?" she asked, clearing her throat and trying to sound casual instead of ashamed by her complete lack of basic grocery shopping abilities.
When she gathered enough courage to glance back at him, he was smiling. Bittersweet, like the gesture, was kind and sad at the same time. The transformation was stunning, taking years off his face and revealing glimpses of who he might have been in another life. "Yeah…that's perfect. We used to live on frozen pizza. You were always a disaster in the kitchen, could barely manage toast without setting off the smoke alarm. Takeout and frozen meals were your specialty."
A sharp laugh escaped her before she could stop it, surprising herself. "That sounds exactly right. I once burned water trying to make pasta."
The sound of her genuine laughter seemed to make his smile grow wider, transforming his entire face. It was beautiful — the kind of expression that made her understand with devastating clarity exactly why the other version of herself might have fallen so completely and irrevocably in love with him. Because when he smiled at her like that, she didn’t know how she could ever stay mad at him.
While the oven preheated, she slid the pizza onto the middle rack, brushing flour from her hands and trying to ignore the way he was watching her every movement with laser focus. She turned around, watching him lean against her counter with deceptive casualness, arms folded across his broad chest. His gaze was still fixed on her with the kind of intensity that made her skin prickle.
"So," she said carefully, searching for safe conversational ground that wouldn't lead them back into the emotional minefield they'd just navigated. "What's your story? The abbreviated version, at least."
He huffed out something between a sigh and a laugh, the sound carrying decades of weary experience. "Born and raised in Brooklyn. Got drafted in '43. Fell off a train in the Alps during a mission with Stevie — though 'fell' makes it sound simple."
His expression darkened slightly with the weight of memory. "HYDRA found me, put me back together with spare parts and a lot of creative chemistry, and spent the next seventy years turning me into their perfect weapon. Steve managed to break their programming and pull me back from the brink when I didn't even remember there was a brink to be pulled back from. The rest..." He shrugged with deliberate casualness that didn't quite hide the weight beneath it. "You can probably fill in the gaps from whatever you've read online."
She nodded slowly, pressing her lips together as she processed his words. His tone was carefully neutral, but she caught the way his eyes flickered when he mentioned certain details. Like each condensed phrase represented years of trauma he'd learned to compress into manageable sound bites that wouldn't overwhelm whoever was listening.
Something in her heart clenched.
"And..." she hesitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she debated whether to push into territory that might be too personal. She was uncertain, but also unable to resist asking. "How did…we meet? In this universe, I mean."
The question seemed to rock him. His eyes widened slightly, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed hard, his hands twitching against his chest. For a moment she thought he wasn't going to answer at all, that she'd pushed too far into territory that was still too painful to revisit, too difficult to share with someone who wore the face of the woman who'd lived it.
Then, slowly, his expression gentled with something that might have been gratitude — like he was grateful she'd asked.
"You were working with SHIELD," he began, his voice low. "This was after the whole Winter Soldier debacle, after everything went public and my face was plastered across every news channel. Steve asked you to help track me down when I disappeared after D.C."
He paused, his gaze never leaving her face, studying her for any reaction. "You found me in Romania, living in a pathetic little apartment, trying to stay invisible while I figured out how to exist in my own head again."
Her breath caught. That detail hit close enough to home.
"At first, I thought you were just another agent sent to bring me in," he continued, his voice taking on a distant quality as he lost himself in a memory. "I didn't trust anyone back then. Couldn't afford to. Everyone was a potential threat. But you..."
He shook his head slightly, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You didn't push. Didn't try to fix me or convince me I was worth saving when I couldn't even convince myself I deserved to keep breathing. You just... existed in the same space. Sometimes hours would pass and you wouldn't say a word, just sat there reading or working on your laptop while I tried to remember how to be human again instead of a weapon with no name."
The oven timer chose that moment to beep, startling them both from the intensity of the moment. She turned quickly to rescue the pizza, grateful for the excuse to hide her face while she processed his words, while she tried to reconcile the difference between the woman he was describing and herself .
Her hands were trembling slightly as she set the hot pan on the stovetop, the simple domestic task feeling surreal in the aftermath of his confession.
"You were stubborn as hell," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice now. Warmer, more present than the distant tone he'd been using before. "Half the time I wanted to tell you to get lost, to stop wasting your time on something that couldn't be fixed. But you never did. And after a while, I realized I didn't want you to leave anymore. Started looking forward to the sound of your key in the lock, to the way you'd hum under your breath when you thought I wasn't paying attention."
She desperately wanted to ask more—if he'd fallen for her first or if she'd been the one to claim that title, if what they'd built together had been worth the pain he was carrying now. But the words stuck in her throat, too heavy to voice, too loaded with implications she wasn't ready to examine.
"She sounds like she was better than me," she whispered instead, the admission scraping raw against her vocal cords. It was easier to speak to the pizza than to turn around and face whatever expressions were dancing across his face.
His response was immediate and fierce. "No. You're exactly the same. Different circumstances, maybe, different experiences that shaped the details…but don't you dare think for a second that you're somehow less than she was."
The conviction in his voice made something crack open in her chest, some small fissure in the wall she'd built around her heart. She kept her back to him, focusing on cutting the pizza with unnecessary precision rather than facing the intensity of his gaze she could feel burning into her. But she couldn't stop the way her hands shook just slightly as she worked, couldn't ignore the way his words settled around them.
"I don't know how to be her," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to be the woman who could save someone like you, who could be patient enough to sit with all that pain and not try to fix it."
"You're not supposed to be her," he said quietly, and she could hear him moving closer. Could feel his presence like a physical weight behind her. "I don’t need saving anymore. You're supposed to be you. And maybe... maybe it’s my turn to return the favor."
She finally turned around then. He was closer than she'd expected. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, close enough that the scent of leather and something uniquely him flooded her senses.
He took one of the plates from her hands, their fingers brushing in the exchange. The simple contact sent electricity racing up her arm like lightning.
"Thank you," he said, and she wasn't entirely sure if he was talking about the pizza or something else entirely.
They ate in relative silence, but it wasn't the uncomfortable kind. This felt different, like they were both testing the boundaries of this new dynamic they'd stumbled into. She found herself stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking, studying the way he ate with mechanical precision, the way his eyes would drift to her face every so often.
"The case," she said finally, needing something concrete to focus on, some safe harbor in the storm of emotions swirling between them. "The HYDRA connection…do you think the killer is someone who used to work for them?"
His expression sharpened, slipping back into professional mode within a heartbeat. "Has to be. The intelligence required, the access to classified files on SHIELD operations — it's not something an outsider would have. This is someone cleaning house, tying up loose ends.”
"But why now?" she pressed, her investigative instincts finally finding solid ground. "What's changed? What's the catalyst that made them decide to do that?"
He was quiet for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully. "Could be anything. Maybe they've been planning this for years and just now got the resources. Maybe something spooked them. New intelligence suggesting their past was about to catch up with them. Or maybe..." He paused, meeting her eyes across the small table. "Maybe they have nothing left to lose now. Decided to settle old scores before checking out permanently."
The possibility sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "That would make them even more dangerous. Nothing more unpredictable than someone with nothing to lose."
"Exactly." His gaze was steady on hers, and she caught something that looked like pride in his expression. "Which is why we need to find them fast, before they work their way through whatever list they're operating from."
She nodded, feeling more like herself than she had in weeks. This was familiar territory. Puzzles to be solved, patterns to identify, justice to pursue. It gave her something to anchor to that had nothing to do with magic portals or duplicate identities.
"I'll go through the files tonight," she said. "Cross-reference the victims, look for connections we might have missed. There has to be a pattern somewhere."
Something shifted in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or something that looked dangerously close to gratitude. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," she interrupted, and realized as she said it that it was true. For the first time since arriving in this universe, she had something that felt like purpose again. "It's what I'm good at. And maybe... maybe it's a start."
A start toward what, she didn't say. Didn't need to. The words hung between them, heavy with possibility and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to build something meaningful from the wreckage of her displacement.
When he finally left, long after the pizza was finished and the case files spread across her coffee table, she found herself standing at her window watching him disappear into the night. For the first time since Stephen Strange had delivered his painful verdict on her fate, the silence in her apartment didn't feel quite so suffocating.
Gradually, piece by piece, she began to stitch herself into the fabric of this universe. It still didn’t feel like home, still didn’t fully feel like she would ever belong, but it was something. And it began with the superheroes around her.
Yelena had a way of barging into her apartment without knocking, tossing case files onto her coffee table like scraps of meat, demanding her "brilliant detective brain" work through the puzzles she didn't have patience for. Yelena never said it outright, but the message was clear: you're wasting away in here, stop it. And for a while, those files gave her something to chew on, something to look forward to when sleep refused to come and the silence of her apartment became unbearable.
Sam was the one who encouraged her to go further. His words were softer than Yelena’s, as if he knew how precariously she balanced on the edge of belonging and alienation. "You've got a gift," he'd told her over coffee one morning, his voice warm with genuine conviction. "The kind we need." She wanted to argue that she wasn't one of them, not a hero, not a fighter — but Sam brushed aside her protests with a patience she wondered if he had applied to Bucky years ago.
But what struck her most wasn't Sam's encouragement, or Yelena's brashness, or even the others' gradual acceptance. It was the love that tethered them all together. Especially the love wrapped, invisibly but unmistakably, between Sam and Bucky. She saw it in indirect ways — a small smile at an inside joke, an elbow in the ribs when Sam made a reference to Bucky’s age, the way they unconsciously lifted each other when a crisis arose. It was a pure, unwavering brotherhood. Beautiful in its quiet certainty, despite both of their efforts to pretend like they hated each other.
The team eventually began inviting her into the field, at first only on "safe" missions. The ones that didn't end with them dragging each other back, bleeding and broken. She didn't mind. She wasn't a superhero, would never be one. She was a detective, and she leaned into that role—sifting through data, profiling suspects, chasing threads others missed.
Joaquin slipped her access to databases she shouldn't have had with a conspiratorial wink. She spent long nights in front of screens, piecing puzzles together with the same thrill she once felt chasing criminals in her own world. And before she realized it, she had a badge for the Watchtower. Guards knew her by name. Maintenance crews nodded in passing. She belonged, at least on the surface.
Friday nights were spent drinking with Yelena, trading stories and learning to decode the Russian's particular brand of affection—insults wrapped in concern, threats that were really promises to have her back. Tuesdays she cooked with Bob, who laughed off her disasters in the kitchen with infinite patience and taught her how to whip up more than pancakes and sandwiches. Ava sparred with her, never letting her win, but teaching her how to read an opponent's tells, how to use her smaller size as an advantage, how to turn fear into fuel. Alexei insisted she watch his "essential list" of 80’s films and compared far too many things in them to the Soviet Union, but his enthusiasm was infectious and oddly endearing. Even Walker — brash, smug, impossible to most — one day sidled into her makeshift office, cheeks red, asking for her advice on talking to his ex-wife. She hadn't expected it given the fact they had nothing beyond a working relationship. Maybe that was why he asked her. And though he still lobbed barbed comments her way, she noticed he started treating her with more respect.
But Bucky... Bucky was different.
Even after their fragile truce over frozen pizza, he kept his distance like she was something dangerous. He spoke to her when the team was around but didn’t seek her out otherwise. His sentences were short and polite — never rude, but always edged in restraint that felt like a wall she couldn't scale. And yet, slowly, almost reluctantly, he softened in his own ways.
A bottle of her favorite cold brew appeared in the fridge one morning, no note attached. Her messy desk was one day rearranged with military precision with files sorted and pens organized. A gun she hadn't realized she needed was left for her, its balance perfect in her hand, the holster exactly her size. Small gestures, quiet ones that she knew came from him. But he still couldn't bring himself to look her fully in the eye for more than a heartbeat at a time.
She didn't need to be a detective to know why.
The first time she caught him staring, really staring, was during a team briefing three weeks after their pizza encounter. Yelena was explaining mission parameters, her voice background noise as she felt eyes on her. She glanced up from her notes to find Bucky's gaze fixed on her face, his lips set into a neutral line. For a moment, the world narrowed to just them, but once he realized she'd noticed, the shutters came down so fast she almost wondered if she'd imagined it. He looked away, jaw tight, metal fingers drumming against the table in a rapid rhythm.
But she hadn't imagined it. And now that she'd seen it once, she started noticing it everywhere. The way his eyes would find her across a room when he thought she wasn’t looking, drinking her in. How he'd position himself during investigations the team went on so he could see her, could keep track of her safety without being obvious about it. The careful space he maintained between them so they were never close enough to accidentally touch, but never so far that he couldn't reach her if needed.
One night, when the team had been deployed to take care of the killer of the ex-SHIELD agent’s they had managed to track down, curiosity got the better of her. She told herself it was harmless, that she wasn't prying, just... looking. Bucky always kept his door shut, as if whatever lay behind it was sacred ground. But she opened the door a crack, then stepped inside.
The room was stark, utilitarian. A bed made with military corners, a nightstand, a dresser. More hotel than home, stripped of comfort or intimacy. Everything about it screamed of a man who didn't want to leave a mark, who feared permanence like others feared death. Except for the top of the dresser.
That was different.
There, scattered carefully, was a collection of framed photographs. She saw one of Sam and Bucky, the same photo Sam kept in his office, their arms slung around each other's shoulders with wide grins plastered on their faces. Another in sepia tones, Steve Rogers and a young Bucky in uniform, laughing, carefree, so achingly alive. His face there was unrecognizable: smooth, clean-shaven, lit with the sheen of youth. Innocent. Untouched by the decades of violence that would follow.
And then her breath caught, lodging in her throat like a physical thing.
Between those frames were more pictures of her. Or rather, the other her.
Photographs of moments she'd never lived, memories that belonged to a ghost. Blurry, off-center snapshots, none taken by a professional by any means, but they radiated something raw and unfiltered. In every one, she was smiling. Laughing. Resting her head against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. The joy on her face was undeniable, luminous. The kind of happiness that seemed to spill out of the frame itself. And his expression was worse.
It wasn't just happiness; it was devotion. A quiet reverence, as though every second captured in those frames was proof of a miracle he'd never expected to receive.
Her eyes locked on the one at the center, clearly his favorite. She had her arms wrapped tight around his neck, grinning at the camera with unguarded delight. But he wasn't looking at the lens. He was looking at her. With an expression she had never seen beyond a film screen — pure adoration. Contentment so complete it made her chest ache. A man utterly in love.
Her stomach twisted violently. It was too much, too intimate, too sacred for her to be staring at. This was a window into his grief made real, his love crystallized into something she could touch but never truly understand. She reached out with trembling fingers, almost touching the glass of one of the photos.
"He really did love her."
She spun, gasping, heart leaping into her throat. Bob stood in the doorway, hands raised like he was trying not to startle her further. His expression was soft, almost apologetic.
"I didn't mean to sneak up," he said quietly, nodding toward the dresser. "But it's true. I never met her, but...we all knew about her. Bucky never talked about it. Not once. But he didn't have to. It was obvious."
Her voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "How could you tell how much he cared? If he never spoke about her?"
Bob's lips turned up in a sad, knowing smile. "That's when you know someone's at their lowest, when they're still trying to look like they're not. We didn’t know him when she died, but we know he was a hair away from falling apart. From giving up on himself. But he never did. Just kept going, kept protecting people. Because…that's what she would have wanted." He paused, studying her face with gentle eyes. "He said that once. That she would have killed him herself for giving up. He's been carrying that love like a wound that won't heal. Until you showed up, anyway. Now…I think he’s just as confused as you are."
Her heart twisted in her chest, a sharp pain that stole her breath. She let out a shaky exhale, gave Bob a brief nod, and closed Bucky's bedroom door with his words ringing in her head like a bell she couldn't silence.
The team came back a few days later in the late evening, everyone banged up and nursing wounds from a fight that had broken out when they apprehended the killer. Yet, all were in surprisingly good spirits. They all stayed gathered in the living room eating pizza and drinking semi-warm beer Bob had bought for them, still in uniform despite the dirt and blood covering more than a few of them. War stories of the mission mixed in with laughter echoed amongst the room, the kind of easy camaraderie that came with running so many of these missions together.
She watched Bucky throughout the evening, noting the careful way he held his right arm, how he favored his left side when he thought no one was looking. But his face gave nothing away, his usual stoic mask firmly in place, participating in the banter with the occasional dry comment that made Yelena snort with laughter and Walker shake his head in exasperation.
She slipped out quietly once Alexei started on his third retelling of the takedown, deciding to head home for the night. She had a room here, insisted upon by Yelena with her typical stubbornness, but she still tried not to linger too long in the Tower. Still wanted to keep some distance, maintain the illusion that she could leave if she needed to.
She had just made it outside the elevator when something down the hall caught her eye. Movement, a faint grunt of pain quickly stifled. She stopped, curiosity getting the best of her, and peered into the adjacent control room where the sounds were coming from.
Bucky, who had slipped off minutes before her, was seated with his shoulders hunched forward, his head bowed as he wrestled a roll of gauze around his right arm slowly. The sleeve of his uniform was peeled back, crimson seeping stubbornly through the fresh layers of white. She had guessed he'd been hurt when they got back but he hadn't asked to go to medical or given the slightest indication of pain. Though, she was learning, he was notorious for brushing off the team's doctors, always patching himself up in shadows before they noticed the damage.
In the blue glow of the monitors around him, he looked tired in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. There was something raw and vulnerable about seeing him like this with his guard down, struggling with his own stubborn self-reliance.
She found herself stepping forward before she'd made a conscious decision to move.
"Hey," she called softly, before she could talk herself out of it. Her voice sounded too loud in the dim, humming room. "Why aren't you getting that taken care of?"
Bucky's hands stilled, though his jaw ticked when she stepped into his line of sight. He pulled the gauze tighter than necessary, as though the sting was needed. Only after knotting it off with fumbling fingers did he finally glance up at her. The glow of the monitors carved shadows across his face, catching the tired lines etched deep at the corners of his eyes. He looked worn down in a way that went far beyond the mission—like he'd been fighting a war inside himself that had no end in sight.
"It's fine," he said, his voice rough but even. His eyes didn't meet hers, focusing instead on some point past her shoulder. "Doesn't need stitches. I've had worse."
The casual dismissal tugged at something in her chest, something that felt dangerously close to protectiveness. Of course he'd say that. Of course he'd measure every new pain against all the agony he'd ever endured, not allowing the present, this wound, to matter. She stepped closer, arms folding like armor against the pull in her mind screaming at her to go to him.
"Doesn't mean you should be sitting in here alone, bleeding out in the dark like some kind of martyr."
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but it wasn't a real smile. More like a reflex, an attempt to ease the weight between them. "What, you volunteering to play nurse?"
Her pulse stuttered at the quiet rasp of his voice, at the way he finally looked at her from beneath his lashes with something that might have been hope. She forced her expression to stay flat, unreadable. "Someone has to. You're terrible at taking care of yourself."
His gaze lingered on her, longer than it should have, like he was trying to decide whether to believe her offer or push her away out of habit. His metal hand flexed against his thigh, a restless tell she'd come to recognize as anxiety poorly disguised.
"You shouldn't worry about me," he said at last, low and steady, but not unkind. Just... final. Like he'd made peace with being alone long ago.
She ignored his dismissal and walked further into the room, closing the distance until she was standing directly in front of him. His shoulders stiffened, breath catching almost imperceptibly, but he didn't move, didn't protest as she reached for the gauze with steady hands.
"Let me," she murmured, fingers brushing against his wrist as she caught hold of the roll.
The contact was electric. Not sparks, not movie-magic electricity. No, something deeper and more dangerous. The simple touch sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the way he went completely still beneath her fingers, like her touch had the ability to freeze him. His skin was warm, marked with old scars that told stories she didn't know.
For a second, he didn't release the gauze. His grip was firm, his jaw set, and the air between them went taut like they were suspended in a moment neither of them could afford to shatter. She could feel the tension radiating from him, could see the war playing out behind his eyes. Part of him wanted to accept her help, she realized, but another part — the part that had learned to survive by never needing anyone in the last few years — was screaming at him to push her away.
Finally, with a quiet exhale that sounded like surrender, he let go, his metal hand settling against the chair with a soft clink.
"This is going to sting," she warned quietly, beginning to unwrap the sloppy layers he'd wound around himself with his left hand.
"I know," he said simply, but his voice was softer now, some of the walls coming down. "I'm used to it."
The blood had already seeped through, warm and damp against her fingertips, more than she'd expected. She forced her breath to steady as she peeled the fabric back, revealing the angry slice across his forearm. It wasn't life-threatening, but it was raw, deep enough to require more care than his hasty field dressing. The wound was clean, he'd at least managed that much, but the edges were slightly swollen still.
"You always do this?" she asked softly, voice barely above the low hum of the monitors. Her fingers worked carefully, cleaning away the dried blood with gentle precision.
His eyes stayed on her face, watching every movement like he couldn't quite believe this was real. "Yeah. Easier this way."
She glanced up at him, catching the weight in his gaze, the careful distance he maintained even while letting her tend to him. "Easier, or safer?"
Something flickered in his expression. The mask came off for a second. He looked away, jaw flexing, throat bobbing like her words had struck somewhere too close to truth. "Same thing, isn't it?"
The quiet admission hung between them, heavy with implications she wasn't sure she had the experience to unpack. She said nothing more, focusing instead on wrapping him properly, her fingers careful and precise as they worked. Every accidental brush of contact made her pulse skitter—the ridges of scar tissue that mapped his history, the tense muscle beneath his skin, the warmth radiating from his skin. The intimacy of it was overwhelming.
Bucky's breathing shifted, slower now, heavier, as though her touch unsettled him more than the injury itself. She could feel his eyes on her face, studying her expression, like he was looking for something in particular.
When her thumb accidentally brushed over the pulse point in his wrist, he inhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of electronics. She looked up to find his gaze already on her, blue eyes dark and intense in the monitor light. For a moment, the air between them crackled with something unnamed, something that made her heart race and her hands tremble.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly, though his tone lacked conviction, like he was testing whether she'd flee if given an excuse.
"I know," she whispered, securing the gauze snug against his skin. Her hands lingered a second too long, fingertips tracing the edge of the bandage with unconscious care. "I want to."
She didn't know why she said it. It was as though her brain was two steps behind her mouth, honesty spilling out before she could say something safer. But she knew it wasn't a lie. There was something about seeing him like this—unguarded, letting her help—that cracked something open in her chest.
The silence that followed was dense, electric. His eyes searched hers, as though trying to find the reason, the truth behind her words. And in that stillness, she thought she saw the truth of it all.The truth behind his pain. It was a raw, unspoken need for someone to stay anyway. For someone to see the wound and not turn away.
He had said the other her had found him when he was hiding in Romania, had stayed with him despite everything, despite nothing to keep her there, really. But she had stayed. Had helped him when he withdrew, kept pushing with nothing more than support until his walls came down.
And wasn’t she doing exactly that now?
Her chest tightened, and she realized her hands were still on him, fingertips brushing the back of his forearm where his pulse thudded steady and real beneath her touch. He didn't pull away. He just watched her, lips parting like he might say something, then pressing together again. As though the words he wanted to say were too dangerous to let slip.
The moment stretched between them, fragile and precious, until she forced herself to pull back slowly — reluctantly — her fingers lingering before she stepped away. Clearing her throat, she tried to sound casual. "There. Now you won't get a flesh-eating infection and lose the good arm."
His lips quirked, a low sound slipping out that wasn't quite a scoff, but wasn’t quite a laugh either. "Two metal arms would be a bit inconvenient."
"Well," she muttered, lips twitching in spite of herself. "We might as well keep the flesh one in case you need me to play nurse again."
The words slipped out before she could stop them, innocent enough on the surface but weighted with implications that made her face burn. She froze, pulse stumbling, realizing the double-edged meaning of what she'd just said. He froze too, or maybe just stilled. If he was surprised, he buried it beneath that soldier's mask quickly, but she still caught the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his eyes darkened just a fraction.
A cough tore from her throat, awkward and thin. She felt exposed, stripped bare by her own careless words, and had no idea why she was unraveling like this around him. All she knew was she needed distance before she humiliated herself further.
She pushed to her feet too quickly, brushing her hands on her pants like the motion could smooth over the stumble in her heart. "Well. Now that I've saved your life, I'm gonna head home before it gets too late. Alexei should still be talking about the mission for the fourth time, if you're lucky."
Bucky's brow furrowed, that careful distance cracking into genuine concern. "It's already almost midnight. You're walking alone?"
She shrugged, patting the gun he had given her beneath her jacket with mock confidence. "Yeah, it's not far. Former detective, remember? If I get abducted, I'll leave the right clues for you to find me."
His stare flattened into something sharp and distinctly unamused. "Very funny. You sure you don't want to stay here tonight?"
Her throat tightened. The truth, that she couldn't risk being this close to him, not when every interaction chipped at her carefully constructed armor, would hurt more than a lie.
So she lied, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "No... I like my own space, you know? And not hearing Walker and Ava bicker every morning is... a necessary grace."
That almost-smile slid back onto his lips, faint but knowing, like he could see right through her deflection. "Your left eyebrow twitches when you lie."
Her heart stumbled again, betraying her completely. She froze, wincing inwardly, then bit out before she could stop herself. "How many months into dating her did you learn that tell?"
The reference to their shared past hung in the air between them, dangerous territory they'd both been carefully avoiding. But he didn't even flinch. His voice was steady, matter-of-fact, like it was the simplest truth in the world. "Didn't learn that from her, sweetheart. Learned that from watching you."
The words were casual and devastating all at once. The air seemed to thin, pressing in around her until she felt dizzy. She stared, waiting for him to crack — to smirk, to walk it back as a joke. But his face stayed impassive, like he hadn't just dropped a grenade into her chest.
Her silence stretched, and maybe he mistook it for invitation. He stood, rolling his shoulder with a sigh that sounded heavier than it should. "If you insist on going home tonight, let me walk you."
She blinked, startled into a whole new kind of unsteady. "Oh no, there's no need—"
"I insist." His tone was steel, firm and immovable. His gaze pinned her with the same unyielding gravity, like he'd chain himself to her side if that's what it took to keep her safe. "It's late, and you're..." He gestured vaguely at her, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Just let me walk you home."
She knew she'd lose this battle. It was written in his stance, in the set of his jaw, in the way he was already reaching for his jacket. So, she blew out a breath through her nose and gestured stiffly toward the elevator. "Fine. You win. After you, Terminator."
His brow furrowed at the reference, clearly lost, but he started forward without another word. She trailed after him, her heart still dancing far too fast in her chest for reasons she couldn't quite name.
Or didn't want to examine too closely.
The streets were quiet that late, the occasional hum of a car in the distance or a neon sign buzzing faintly above the closed shops they passed. Their footsteps were steady but unhurried, his longer stride intentionally slowed to match hers. She could feel the tension in the air, not hostile, but something quieter that clung to them like the humid summer night.
She shoved her hands deeper in her pockets, glancing at him sidelong. The silence was stretching, growing heavier with each step, and she needed to break it before the weight of it crushed her completely. "Do you... ever miss it? Not being an active Congressman anymore?"
Bucky shook his head, a humorless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Miss what? The infighting, the regular dance with public opinion? The constant reminders of all the shit I've done?" His voice was rough, honest in the darkness. "No. If it were up to me, I'd stay far away from all of it. I'd live quietly. Far away from all of it."
The last sentence came out weighted, like it meant something more. Something about the way he said pulled at her chest. The resignation in his voice was apparent, like he'd convinced himself that isolation was not just what he deserved but what he really wanted.
She hesitated, thought back to what Bob had said about Bucky’s relationship with her other version of her, then said carefully, "I think that's exactly why the world needs you. You're not doing it for glory. You're not chasing cameras or headlines. You help because you can. Because you care, whether you admit it or not."
His eyes flicked up to hers at that, lingering a little too long. In the warm glow of the streetlights, she could see the surprise in his expression, the way her words seemed to settle into him.
He gave a small nod, voice rough around the edges. "Thanks. For saying that."
They walked in comfortable silence for a few more blocks, the city breathing quietly around them. She found herself studying his profile in the glow of the streetlight—the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead.
"Are you still as sad as you were when you got here?" he asked suddenly, the question emerging like it had been building in his head for weeks. "Still thinking about leaving?"
The unexpected vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard. She looked down at her shoes, tracing the cracked edge of the pavement with her toe while she gathered her thoughts. "I don't know," she admitted finally. "I'm happy here, with the team. They make me laugh. They keep me moving forward, give me work to do. And I appreciate that. But..." She paused, struggling to articulate the ache that lived just beneath her ribs. "I still feel like a stranger sometimes. Like I don't quite belong, like I'm living in someone else's life. Like I'm not wanted for who I actually am."
His brows drew together, eyes narrowing like she had just said the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. He stopped walking entirely, turning to face her suddenly. The streetlight above him illuminated the earnest expression in his face.
"That's not true." His voice was firm, almost fierce. "You're not just tolerated. Not by any of us. They all love you, more than you realize. You've done more for this team than you even know." His voice softened then, just a notch, but somehow that made it hit harder. "Sam looks forward to whenever you call him. Yelena actually smiles when she talks about you. Bob lights up whenever you walk into the kitchen. Even Walker—" He huffed a laugh. "Walker actually does ask about you when you're not around."
Her throat tightened at the statements. Things she had never really seen or picked up on. She had always just imagined they were tolerating her to keep her from moving backwards.
"We want you here," his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “I want you here."
Her breath hitched, the confession landing like a punch to the gut. His words hung in the air, hot and sharp, the spark daring to catch fire in the space between them.
He seemed to realize the weight of what he'd said, because his jaw flexed, but his voice didn’t lose that soft edge. "I was wrong about how I treated you when you first showed up. It was a shock, seeing your face again. It messed with me in ways I didn't know how to handle. I didn't know how to separate you from her, how to see you as your own person instead of some sick reminder of what I'd lost."
His eyes lingered on her face in a way that made her skin feel too tight. "But you were right. You're not the woman I knew. I can accept that now, let that go." He paused, swallowing hard. "Doesn't mean you're not a hell of a person in your own right. You are. Brave as anyone on the team, stronger than you even know. You've carved a place here when most would've folded under the weight of it all."
Her throat felt tight, her eyes aching with emotion she didn’t want to shed at his unexpected kindness. The way he was looking at her now was something she didn’t quite have the words for. Like she mattered — not as a replacement or a consolation prize, but as herself. No one had ever had ever made her feel like her existence was something worth celebrating. Not here, not even back in her own world. She had never really had that kind of raw intimacy.
They'd reached her building, but neither of them moved toward the door. Something was shifting between them, some invisible barrier finally cracking after weeks of careful distance. The air felt charged and she found herself leaning slightly toward him without conscious thought.
"Goodnight," he murmured finally, but he didn't step back, didn't create the space that politeness demanded. He just stood there, close enough that she could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes again, close enough that the air between them felt nonexistent.
She nodded faintly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Goodnight, Bucky."
She turned toward her building, fishing for her keys with trembling fingers, hyperaware of his presence behind her. She could feel him watching, could sense his reluctance to leave even as she slipped her key into the lock. The door opened with a soft click, and she stepped inside, letting it close between them like a barrier she wasn't sure she wanted.
She leaned against the cool wood, pressing her palms flat against its surface as her heart pounded wildly. Through the thin door, she could hear his footsteps, slow and reluctant as he finally began to walk away.
She thought of the thing he had said. Of the look in his eyes when he admitted he was wrong, the careful way he'd said her name like it was something precious. Of how close he had been to her, how much she actually wanted to close that final distance herself, to see what would happen if she stopped running from the pull she felt toward him.
Every nerve in her body screamed against the door. Go after him.
Her breath caught, and before she could talk herself down, before fear could win another mental battle, she spun and threw the door open, bursting back out into the cool night air.
"Bucky!" she called, her voice sharp in the silence of the night.
He was halfway down the block, his broad shoulders tense. He stopped at the sound of her voice, turning around quickly. Confusion was etched in his features, his brow furrowed like he couldn't quite believe she'd called his name. "What—?"
She didn't let him finish. Didn't let herself think about consequences, what fate might be, or the weight of the face she wore. She closed the distance in a rush, her feet carrying her forward before her brain could catch up.
When she reached him, she grabbed the front of his jacket with both hands and pulled him down into a kiss that stole the breath right out of her lungs.
For a heartbeat, everything went still. The world reduced to the warmth of his lips against hers, the sharp intake of his breath when she grabbed him, the way his hands came up instinctively to steady her even as shock overcame him. His lips were softer than she'd expected, slightly chapped from the night air. He tasted like coffee and something uniquely him that made her head spin.
Then, something in him seemed to break, or maybe rebuild, and he was kissing her back with a desperation that matched her own, his arms wrapping around her like he could anchor them both to this moment.
Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything but him. The way his lips moved against hers like he'd been starving for this, aching for this, the kiss deepening as if every second they'd spent apart had led them inexorably here. His flesh hand slid up her back, fingers trembling as they tangled in her hair, holding her close like he was terrified she might dissolve if he let go.
The kiss was everything and nothing like she'd expected. It was grief and hope in equal measure, of years of longing compressed into a single moment of reckless courage. When his thumb traced the line of her jaw with heartbreaking gentleness, she shivered against him, her own hands fisting tighter in his jacket in case she lost her footing.
When she finally pulled back for air, gasping as though she'd surfaced from deep water, their foreheads came to rest together naturally. Her eyes fluttered closed, focusing on nothing but the sound of their uneven breathing mixing in the warm night air.
"Bucky..." his name fell from her lips like a prayer, trembling and broken, carrying more weight than she realized.
He searched her face in the dim glow of the streetlight, blue eyes heavy with a thousand emotions she wished she could name. "You shouldn't have done that," he rasped, though his thumb brushed against her cheekbone like he couldn't stop touching her, like contact was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"I know," she whispered, her lips still tingling from the press of his, still close enough that her words brushed against his mouth. "But I couldn't stop myself. I…wanted to."
He sighed, his hands still shaking slightly against her face as he warred between resistance and surrender. She could see the battle playing out behind his eyes— the fear of the unknown, the desire she had guessed correctly that he had for her. Then, like a dam finally giving way, he kissed her again. It was softer this time but somehow more devastating, like he wanted to memorize every second, every sensation shared.
"I can't be her," she said, the words coming from some deep, honest place she'd been trying to keep locked away. "I won't even try. But I can be me. And if that's enough—if I'm enough—then maybe we can figure out what this is together."
For a long moment, he just stared at her, blue eyes searching her face like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then, slowly, carefully, he turned his hand palm-up beneath hers and laced their fingers together.
"You're not her," he said, voice thick with emotion. "You're you. All the best qualities she had, and all new ones too. And you're..." He shook his head, like words weren't adequate. "You're everything I never thought I'd get to want again."
The confession hung between them, raw and honest and terrifying in its simplicity. She felt tears prick at her eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice, the way he was looking at her like she was some kind of miracle he didn't deserve.
"I'm scared," she admitted, the words barely a whisper.
"So am I," he said, thumb tracing over her knuckles with infinite gentleness. "Terrified, actually. But I'm tired of being afraid. I'm tired of living without trying."
Her heart thudded wildly against her ribs, seemingly threatening to bruise itself on bone. When they broke apart again, she found the courage to voice the question that had been burning in her chest since the moment their lips first met.
"Do you..." she began, then stopped, swallowing down the fear of rejection lodging in her throat. "Do you want to come inside?"
The question hung between them, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on both of them like a physical force. She could see him processing it, and could watch the implications settle into his expression. The recognition that crossing this threshold would change everything between them, that there would be no going back to careful distance and polite restraint.
For a second, his lips parted in surprise, like he hadn't expected her to ask, hadn't dared hope she might want anything at all. A flicker of hesitation crossed his features too, some last wall of self-control holding on, some final attempt at defending his heart from possible pain.
But then he smiled, small and crooked and devastatingly real, the kind of smile she’d seen in those photographs on his dresser. It transformed his entire face, erasing years of careful control and revealing the man underneath—vulnerable and utterly human.
"Yes," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion he'd stopped trying to hide. His eyes stayed locked on hers. "God, yes. I'd like that."
The first time he stayed at her place for longer than a few hours, it was purely practical. A late mission briefing had run until almost one in the morning, and by the time they'd walked back to her building, the idea of him trekking across the city to the Tower again seemed ridiculous.
"You could stay," she'd offered, trying to keep her voice casual. "If you want. I mean, if you want.”
He'd looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
But when she'd emerged from her bedroom the next morning, she'd found him fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the couch with his shoes already on, looking like he was poised to bolt at the first sign that he'd overstayed his welcome.
"You don't have to leave," she'd said softly, padding into the kitchen to start coffee. "I was going to make breakfast."
The smile that had crossed his face then was small but genuine, touched with something that looked like relief. "I'd like that."
It became their routine. Slowly, carefully, they began to build something new between them. Coffee in the mornings when he stayed over, quiet dinners when he didn't. He started leaving small things at her apartment—a spare jacket draped over her chair, a book he'd been reading on her nightstand, his favorite mug in her sink.
She began to learn the smaller intimacies of him. How he took his coffee (black, two sugars). The way he unconsciously positioned himself between her and any potential threat whenever he was in proximity to her, even in the safety of her living room. How he slept, on his back with his arms crossed, like he was still ready to fight at all times. The first time she'd woken to find him having a nightmare, thrashing and muttering in what sounded like Russian, she'd touched his shoulder gently and whispered his name until he surfaced, eyes wild and unfocused until they found her face.
"Sorry," he'd rasped, running a shaking hand through his hair. "I should go—"
"Stay," she'd said firmly, surprising them both with the strength in her voice. "Please. Just... stay."
He'd looked at her like she'd just offered him water in a desert, and when she'd opened her arms, he'd come to her like a man drowning.
They were careful with each other in those early weeks, polite almost to a fault. He would ask before kissing her, as if each touch needed explicit permission. He would check in constantly—was this okay, was she comfortable, did she need space? It was sweet and maddening in equal measure, this delicate dance around each other's damage.
The first time they made love, it was nothing like she'd expected.
It had been building for weeks. Lingering glances, touches that lasted a heartbeat too long, the way he'd started looking at her like she was something he wanted to devour slowly. When he'd kissed her that night, there had been something different in it, a heat that made her toes curl and her pulse race.
"Are you sure?" he'd asked against her lips, even as his hands mapped the curve of her waist with trembling reverence.
"I'm sure," she'd whispered back, and meant it with every fiber of her being.
He'd been achingly gentle, worshipful almost, like he couldn't quite believe she was real. Every touch was deliberate, every kiss something that set her nerves on fire. When he'd moved inside her for the first time, his eyes had never left her face, watching for any sign of discomfort, any indication that she wanted to stop.
"Okay?" he'd breathed, voice rough with desire.
"Perfect," she'd managed, pulling him down for another kiss.
Afterward, they'd lain tangled together in the aftermath, her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers had traced absent patterns on her bare shoulder, and she'd felt more at peace than she had since arriving in this universe.
"I’m falling in love you," she'd said quietly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
She'd felt him go still beneath her, tension creeping into his muscles, and for a moment she'd regretted the admission. Too soon, too much, too—
"I am too," he'd whispered back, voice thick with emotion. "I think I already am."
"Does it ever feel weird?"
Bucky's eyebrows drew together in a lazy frown, his arms folding behind his head with deliberate ease. The movement made every muscle in his arms and shoulders shift and flex beneath his skin, drawing her gaze like a magnet whether she wanted to look or not. The man was carved from marble by some Renaissance master and had the audacity to act like he didn't know it.
"Does what feel weird?" he asked, that knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he settled deeper into her pillows like he'd been born there, like this was exactly where he belonged.
She caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror as she rolled her eyes, taking in the utterly shameless picture he made. He was sprawled against her headboard without a care in the world, gloriously naked under the rumpled white sheets, his metal arm catching the golden late-afternoon light streaming through her curtains. Just twenty minutes ago, that same arm had been wrapped around her waist like a steel band, anchoring her against him as he moved inside her with enough intensity to make the bed frame knock against the wall in a rhythm that would probably have her neighbors giving her knowing looks for weeks. His mouth had been everywhere—her throat, her shoulders, that spot behind her ear that made her lose her mind—like he'd been starving for her touch for decades instead of just the few hours they'd been apart.
Now he was lounging there like some kind of satisfied cat, smug as sin, and the casual confidence of it made her want to throw something at him.
"You know exactly what I mean," she muttered, turning off the faucet and reaching for the hand towel. "This. Us. Dating. Do you ever just... stop and think about how surreal this whole thing is?"
Bucky's tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, a gesture so unconscious and yet so devastatingly attractive that she had to grip the marble countertop to keep herself steady. His gaze made a slow, deliberate journey down the length of her bare legs before traveling back up to meet her eyes in the mirror.
"Surreal?" His voice carried that rough, just-fucked quality that never failed to make her knees weak. "We've been together four months, sweetheart, and you're just now having this existential crisis?"
"Bucky," she groaned, letting her head fall back in exasperation. "Answer the damn question. None of this deflecting bullshit you pull when you don't want to have a real conversation."
The laugh that rumbled up from his chest was low and warm, the kind of sound that had become as essential to her as breathing. It was a rare gift, that laugh, something he saved only for her and the handful of people who'd earned their way past his defenses. Around the team, he was still every inch the Winter Soldier — stoic and sharp-edged. But here, in the sanctuary of her apartment, he transformed into something softer. Something infinitely more dangerous to her heart.
He was now the kind of man who teased her mercilessly and kissed her like she was solace personified, who whispered endearments in three different languages against her skin, who called her ‘baby’ when he knelt between her legs in a voice so rough with emotion it made her toes curl and her pulse stutter.
"No," he said finally, his voice gentling in that way that always managed to steal the breath from her lungs. He sat up straighter as she padded back toward the bed, the sheet pooling around his waist. His expression shifted into something tender that made her bite back a smile. "Doesn't feel weird. Not even a little bit strange."
She snorted softly, climbing onto the mattress and settling herself in his lap with practiced ease, her legs bracketing his hips. Her fingers found their way into his dark hair, still mussed from her earlier attention, and he leaned into her touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"Oh, sure," she said, unable to keep the affection out of her voice despite her attempt at sarcasm. "Inevitable, was it? You make it sound like I never stood a chance against your devastating charm."
"You didn't," he said with that wicked glint in his eyes that she'd learned meant trouble, dipping his head to press his lips against the curve of her neck. She couldn't quite suppress the giggle that bubbled up as his stubble scraped against her sensitive skin, her body automatically arching into him as his hands found their familiar place on her hips.
"Wasn't just charm, baby," he murmured against her throat, his voice dropping to that intimate register that was for her alone. "It's fate. You and me — we would find each other every time, in every universe, in every lifetime. Doesn't matter what world we're in or what circumstances try to keep us apart."
Her heart clenched tight in her chest, swelling with an emotion too big for words. He said it like gospel truth, like he would bet his soul on the certainty of it. Once, she might have rolled her eyes at the romantic optimism, especially coming from a man stalked around the Tower like he was personally offended by the existence of sunlight. But he'd worn down her cynicism with the quiet conviction behind his words, with the way he looked at her like she was something miraculous he'd never expected to find.
She'd seen that same look of resigned acceptance on Sam's face the first time Bucky had made this proclamation in front of him. Wilson had gagged dramatically and muttered something about "literal star-crossed lovers," but there had been genuine fondness in his eyes, a relief that his friend had found something worth believing in again.
She pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips, grinning when he immediately chased after it like he couldn't bear to let the contact end. "I love you too, James Barnes. Even when you're being mushier than a teenage girl."
He groaned, though the expression of mock-offense was completely undermined by the smile threatening to split his face in half. "I love you too, sweetheart. But I swear to God, if you ever call me mushy again..." His threat trailed off as his hand slid up the curve of her spine, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades to pull her impossibly closer.
"What?" she challenged, her pulse quickening as she felt him stirring to life beneath her. "What are you going to do about it?"
Instead of answering, he showed her, rolling them in one fluid, powerful motion that left her breathless and pinned beneath him. The afternoon light painted golden stripes across his skin, highlighting every ridge of muscle, every scar that she had come to love.
"We have dinner with Sam and Sarah tonight," she managed to gasp out between the kisses he was pressing to her jaw, though her resolve was already crumbling like a house of cards. "We were late last time, and Sarah will never let us hear the end of it if we're a no-show."
"Then," he whispered against her lips, his mouth moving over hers with the kind of focused intensity that made rational thought impossible, "they can wait a little longer."
His kiss swallowed whatever protest she might have made, his tongue sliding against hers with practiced ease, his hands mapping her body like he was trying to memorize every inch of her skin. Time seemed to slow and stretch, the outside world fading away until there was nothing but the taste of him, the weight of him, the way he whispered her name like a prayer against her lips.
Later, much later, as they lay tangled together in the golden aftermath, she would think about his words. About fate and inevitability and the way some people were simply meant to find each other, no matter how impossible the odds.
And she would realize that he was right. In every universe, in every timeline, in every possible version of their story, she would choose him. Again and again and again.
The thought should have terrified her, this cosmic certainty, this love that transcended reality itself. Instead, it felt like coming home. Like finding the missing piece of herself she hadn't even known was lost.
She curled closer to him, breathing in the scent of his skin, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Outside, the city hummed with life, but here in this moment, wrapped in his arms, she felt like they were the only two people in the world.
And maybe, she thought to herself, that was enough. Maybe it was everything.
Summary: After accidentally slipping through a portal into an alternate Earth, she discovers that this world’s version of herself is dead—and that version of herself had an unexpected, mysterious bond with Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 14k
Warnings: angst; angst-heavy relationship conflict (verbal fighting, yelling, unresolved anger); panic; mentions of past death; slow-burnish; cursing; introspection; bit of an age gap; variants; mentions of different universes
Author’s Note: This was entirely inspired by Peter and Gamora's relationship in GoTG3...but Bucky is Peter and the main female character is Gamora. I loved the idea of Peter loving Gamora, losing her, and still having feelings for the other version of her who had never met him. This female character is not perfect by any means - she's young, impulsive, and indecisive. But that makes her all the more human.
This takes place after the events of the Thunderbolts...for creativity's sake, let's pretend like Sam and the team get along and everything involving interdimmensional travel is up for grabs. I was a bit loose with the rules of Marvel with this one.
The crime scene had been routine—a drug deal gone wrong in the kind of alley where hope went to die. She'd been photographing evidence, documenting the scattered bullet casings and blood spatter, when reality decided to crack open like an egg.
The portal materialized without warning, a wound in the brick wall that bled golden light and hummed with impossible energy. It defied every law of physics she knew, every rational explanation her detective's mind tried to supply. But in a world where superheroes and mutants fought aliens and villains every other week, she'd developed a healthy respect for the inexplicable.
She should have called for backup. Should have cordoned off the area and waited for someone with more expertise and better equipment. Should have done a dozen things that might have saved her from what came next.
Instead, she'd stepped closer, drawn by a curiosity that had kept her alive this long and was about to be her downfall. The portal's edges rippled like water, casting shifting shadows that made her eyes water. She'd reached out—not to touch it, just to test the air around it, to see if she could feel whatever impossible force was tearing through dimensions.
The puddle was small. Insignificant. The kind of thing she'd normally step over without thinking. But positioned exactly where it was, at the precise edge of the portal's influence, it became the pivot point on which her entire world turned.
Her foot slipped. Physics took over. And suddenly she was falling forward, through liquid light and the space between heartbeats, through the golden throat of something that shouldn't exist.
The landing knocked the breath from her lungs and the sense from her head. When the world stopped spinning, she found herself sprawled on familiar concrete, staring up at the same brick walls, breathing the same stale alley air. But the portal was gone, sealed shut like it had never existed, leaving only the faintest afterimage burned into her retinas.
And somewhere in the distance, she heard the murmur of a city—familiar, but not the same. The cadence of traffic sounded off-key, like a song she knew played in the wrong tempo. The low thrum of voices carried different accents, different rhythms. Even the distant wail of a siren seemed to rise and fall in patterns her ears didn't recognize.
The wrongness revealed itself in layers, each one more unsettling than the last.
She discovered the first crack when she went to what should have been her station. At first glance, it looked identical—same brick facade weathered by decades of city grime, same cracked concrete steps where she'd sat during her lunch breaks, same scuffed double doors that stuck in humid weather. But the moment she walked inside, the air felt different. Heavier. Foreign.
The desk sergeant looked up with mild curiosity rather than the usual grunt of acknowledgment. Officer Martinez walked past without his customary nod. Detective Chen emerged from the break room with coffee and didn't so much as glance in her direction.
"Excuse me," she said, approaching the front desk with her badge already in hand. "I need to check in with Chief Barnett."
The sergeant—Henderson, his nameplate read, though she could have sworn his name was different yesterday—looked at her like she'd asked for directions to Mars.
"Ma'am, there's no Chief Barnett at this precinct. Never has been. You might be looking for the 12th? They got a Captain Barrett over there."
Her badge felt suddenly heavy in her palm. She held it up, the shield catching the fluorescent light. "I'm Detective—"
"Ma'am." Henderson's voice sharpened, and she saw his hand drift toward his radio. "I'm going to need you to step back from the desk."
That was when things went bad. Fast.
Within minutes, she was surrounded. Familiar faces wearing unfamiliar expressions of suspicion and confusion. She knew these people—had shared coffee with them, complained about paperwork, celebrated arrests. But they looked at her like she was a stranger wearing a stolen uniform.
"I work here," she insisted, even as they guided her toward the interrogation rooms. "Check my locker—it's number 47. Check my desk. I've been here for six years."
But when they checked, locker 47 belonged to someone else. The desk she thought of as hers was occupied by a detective she'd never seen before. And when they ran her prints—her own goddamn fingerprints—the room fell silent.
"That's impossible," she heard Chen whisper to Martinez. "These prints... they match a woman who died three years ago."
The words hit her like ice water. Died. Three years ago. The version of her that had lived in this world was dead, and now they were staring at her like she was either an imposter or a ghost.
They moved her to Interview Room 2—the one with the broken chair leg that she'd always avoided. The irony wasn't lost on her. Here she was, finally sitting in the damn chair, but as a suspect instead of a detective. She tested the chair before she sat down in it. The broken leg was stable.
The one-way mirror reflected her pale face back at her, and she found herself staring at her own features as if seeing them for the first time. Same eyes, same scar on her chin from falling off her bike at age seven, same stubborn part of her hair that never stayed flat. But somehow, she looked like a stranger to herself.
Detectives came and went—Patterson, who'd taught her how to read blood spatter patterns; Rodriguez, who always brought donuts on Fridays; Williams, who'd been her partner for two years. Each one studied her with the same mixture of confusion and suspicion, as if her very existence was an insult to someone's memory.
She gave them everything—her name, badge number, social security, the names of every case she'd worked, every partner she'd had, every scar and story that made up her life. All of it true, and all of it sounding like elaborate fiction when filtered through their disbelief.
Hours passed. Or maybe days. Time felt fluid in that windowless room, marked only by the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rattle of the ancient air conditioner. She'd long since stopped pinching herself, accepting that whatever this was, it wasn't a dream.
When the door finally opened again, she expected another detective with the same tired questions and skeptical eyes. Instead, a stranger walked in.
He moved with the careful control of someone accustomed to being watched, though tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound too tight. Not a cop—his clothes were too casual, too lived-in. Civilian, but not ordinary. The way the desk sergeant had practically saluted when he'd walked past suggested someone with serious pull.
He was a handsome black man, probably mid-thirties, with intelligent eyes that seemed to catalog everything they saw. When he looked at her, those eyes went soft with something that might have been recognition, or hope, or grief. Maybe all three.
The silence stretched between them like a held breath. She watched him settle into the chair across from her with the careful movements of someone carrying invisible weight. His hands rested on the table, knuckles pale with tension, and she found herself studying the calluses on his palms—the kind that came from gripping something regularly. Reins, maybe. Or rope.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was steady but quiet, like he was afraid of the answer before he asked the question.
"Do you know who I am?"
The hope in his voice was so naked it made her chest tight. She wished she could give him what he was looking for, but honesty was all she had left.
"No," she said, then added more gently, "Should I?"
Something inside him crumbled. She saw it happen—the way his shoulders sagged, how his breath left him like he'd been punctured. The careful composure slipped, revealing grief so raw it made her want to look away. But he held her gaze, managing a smile that was equal parts bitter and fond.
"Maybe not this you," he murmured, and there was a world of loss in those four words. "Was worth a shot, though."
Her brows drew together, frustration sparking hot beneath the confusion. "What do you mean, 'this me'? Look, I don't know what kind of game this is, but I'm a detective. This is my station—or it's supposed to be. I don't know what happened, but one minute I was processing a crime scene and the next there was this... portal, or whatever the hell—"
"Portal?" He leaned forward so fast his chair creaked, urgency replacing the gentle sorrow in his voice. "What did it look like? Exactly where were you when it appeared? Did you feel anything before it opened—heat, electrical charges, any kind of distortion in the air?"
The rapid-fire questions made her head spin. "I don't know! It just... appeared. Like someone had torn a hole in reality and filled it with golden light. It was humming, vibrating the air around it." She shoved back from the table, the legs screeching against linoleum. "Look, I don't know who you are or why you're asking, but I've had enough mystery for one day. Just tell me what the hell is happening to me."
He studied her for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing on words too big to swallow. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured—the tone of someone delivering news that would change everything.
"You're not wrong. About this not being your world."
Her heart stuttered. "What?"
"You came through some kind of dimensional rift. It happens—rarely, but it happens. Sometimes the barriers between realities get thin, and things slip through the cracks." He spoke gently, but each word felt like a small betrayal of everything she thought she knew about the universe. "You've crossed into a parallel dimension. A world that's similar to yours, but not the same."
She stared at him like he'd started speaking in tongues. "Parallel dimensions? Are you out of your mind? You expect me to believe I just... fell through a crack in reality like some kind of science fiction nightmare?"
"I know it sounds impossible." His voice remained calm, patient—the way you'd talk to someone standing on a ledge. "But I've seen enough impossible things to know they're usually just improbable. And..." His eyes softened as he looked at her again, really looked, like he was trying to memorize her face. "You're not the first version of you I've met."
The room seemed to tilt. "Excuse me?"
"There was another you. Here, in this world." He paused, choosing his words with surgical precision. "She was... important. To a lot of people. To me. She was a good friend."
Something in his tone—reverent, aching, carefully controlled—made her stomach clench with dread. She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What happened to her?"
For the first time since he'd entered the room, he looked away. His hands flexed against the table, tendons standing out like bridge cables. When he spoke, his words were weighted with the kind of grief that never fully heals.
"She died. Three years ago."
The words hung in the air between them like smoke, acrid and choking. She felt the world shift beneath her feet, reality reshuffling itself into patterns she didn't recognize. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright suddenly, the air too thin.
"No." The word came out sharp, defensive. She shot to her feet so fast her chair crashed into the wall behind her. "No, that's not possible. I'm right here. Alive. Breathing. You don't just get to have another version of me conveniently die before I show up. That's—" She barked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "That's fucking insane."
He didn't flinch, didn't move, just watched her pace the small room like a caged animal. His patience only made her angrier.
"Do you hear yourself?" She spun to face him, fury and terror warring in her voice. "Parallel dimensions? Different versions of me? That's comic book bullshit. I'm a detective, not some interdimensional traveler. You think you can feed me this story and I'll just... what? Accept it? Stop asking questions?"
She slammed her palms against the table, leaning over him. "Tell me the truth!"
He met her gaze without wavering, and his voice when he spoke was rock-steady, implacable as gravity.
"I am telling you the truth."
The conviction in his tone cut through her spiraling panic like a blade. She froze, chest heaving, studying his face for any sign of deception. But there was none—just bone-deep certainty and a grief so profound it seemed to have worn grooves in his features.
He rose slowly, closing half the distance between them—close enough to be reassuring, far enough to avoid seeming threatening. "I know how insane this sounds. I know every instinct you have is screaming that it's impossible. But I've lived through stranger things than you being here right now. And I'm not trying to trick you or manipulate you. I'm trying to help."
Her jaw clenched, but some of the fight leaked out of her voice. "Why should I believe you?"
He was quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh his words. Then he extended his hand—palm up, an offering rather than a demand.
"Because my name is Sam Wilson. And if you let me, I'll do everything I can to make sure you're safe."
Something in the way he said it—solid as bedrock, unshakeable as sunrise—made her anger waver. There was a quality to his voice that spoke of promises kept, of responsibility accepted and never abandoned. Without meaning to, she found herself believing him.
Sam Wilson was clearly someone important. She could tell by the way the precinct transformed around him. Officers who'd treated her like a curiosity or a threat suddenly straightened when he appeared, their voices taking on the particular tone of respect reserved for true authority. They clapped him on the shoulder, thanked him for unspecified favors, and more than one called him "Cap" as they headed out for patrol.
She studied him as they walked to his car, noting the way he moved—confident but not cocky, alert without being paranoid. Military bearing, but softened by civilian life.
"Cap?" she asked as they settled into his black sedan. "As in Captain?"
Something flickered across his face—amusement mixed with something heavier, more complicated. His smile was warm but tinged with melancholy, like a song played in a minor key.
"Something like that."
She didn't press, but the title lodged itself in her mind like a splinter. Captain. The kind of rank that came with weight, with responsibility, with the expectation that you'd carry other people's burdens as easily as your own.
He drove her through the restless pulse of New York, and she found herself cataloging the differences. The skyline was almost identical, but not quite. A building here that shouldn't exist, a street there that curved the wrong way. Like someone had rebuilt her city from memory but gotten some of the details wrong.
They stopped at a building that seemed to hum with unseen energy, its architecture somehow more alive than the structures around it. The man waiting inside introduced himself as Doctor Stephen Strange, the air around him shimmered with barely contained power.
Strange studied her with eyes that had seen too much, and she caught the flicker of recognition—and pain—when his gaze met hers. Another person haunted by a ghost she was apparently wearing the face of.
His examination was thorough, involving incantations in languages that hurt her ears to hear and geometric patterns of light that made her vision water. When he finally delivered his verdict, his voice carried the weight of cosmic authority.
"She's a dimensional variant. Another world's version of the woman you knew." He paused, his expression growing grave. "And the portal that brought her here... it wasn't random. She was meant to come through. Meant to stay."
The words hit her like a physical blow. "What?" She lurched to her feet, the chair scraping against polished marble. "No. No, I don't belong here! This isn't my world, my life. That portal was an accident. You have to send me back."
Her voice cracked on the last word, desperation bleeding through the careful control she'd maintained all day. She turned to Sam, searching his face for any sign that Strange was wrong.
"You said the other me is dead. But I'm not her. I have my own life, my own world. People who'll miss me. You can't just... you can't just expect me to replace her."
Sam flinched like she'd struck him, his gaze dropping to the floor. The grief carved into his features was so raw it made her chest ache with sympathy she didn't understand.
Strange's voice softened, but his words remained uncompromising. "I'm sorry. If there were a way to send you home, I would. But the forces that brought you here... they don't make mistakes. You're here because this is where you belong now."
The pronouncement settled over her like a funeral shroud. She stood frozen for a moment, every muscle tense with the urge to run, to fight, to somehow undo the cosmic joke that had torn her from everything she knew. Instead, she forced herself to breathe, to think, to survive this moment the way she'd survived every other impossible thing life had thrown at her.
"I need air," she managed, and walked out before either of them could respond.
The hallway beyond was lined with artifacts that seemed to hum with their own inner light. Ancient books, crystalline sculptures, weapons that looked like they'd been forged in other dimensions. She leaned against the cool stone wall, closing her eyes and trying to find her center.
That's when she heard their voices drifting from the chamber she'd just left.
"Have you told Barnes yet?" Strange's voice carried clearly in the empty corridor.
A long pause, then Sam's reply, heavy with reluctance. "No. Not yet. I don't even know how to begin that conversation."
"She's here for a reason," Strange said firmly. "The universe doesn't place people where they don't belong. He'll need to know. The sooner the better."
Another silence, longer this time. When Sam spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Yeah. I just don't know how either of them will handle it."
The conversation ended with the sound of chairs scraping, footsteps moving. She pushed herself off the wall and composed her face just as Sam emerged, looking like he was carrying the weight of the world.
"Let's get out of here," he said gently, as if she hadn't overheard every word.
His brownstone was a refuge from the chaos of the day. Warm wood floors, lived-in furniture, bookshelves that actually held books instead of just decoration. Photographs covered the mantle and side tables: Sam with various people she didn't recognize, group shots that looked like they'd been taken after successful missions, candid moments of laughter and camaraderie.
She sank into his couch, exhaustion finally catching up with her. The adrenaline that had carried her through the day was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that went beyond physical fatigue.
Sam settled across from her, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. He studied her for a long moment before speaking.
"I guess it's time I told you who I am. My full story." He took a breath, as if steeling himself. "My name is Sam Wilson. I used to go by the Falcon—had a pair of mechanical wings, worked with the Avengers. But a few years back, Steve Rogers, Captain America, passed the shield to me. So now people call me Captain America."
The revelation should have shocked her, but somehow it fit. The deference at the station, the way Strange had treated him as an equal, the weight he seemed to carry…it all made sense now.
“Yeah, we…had a Steve Rogers in my world,” she murmured, playing with some loose threads between the cushions of the couch. “Had the Avengers. Mutants, too.”
"The version of you that lived here," he continued, his voice growing softer, more careful, "she was part of that world too. An intelligence specialist who helped us track down dangerous people. She fought beside us, bled with us. She was..." He paused, searching for words. "She was family."
Family. The word hung in the air between them, loaded with implications she wasn't ready to unpack.
"And she's gone," she said quietly.
Sam's nod was barely perceptible. "Yeah. She's gone. But you're here now. And maybe—"
"There's no maybe." The words came out harder than she'd intended, sharp with frustration and fear. "There's no cosmic plan or grand design. Sometimes shit just happens. Bad luck, wrong place, wrong time. You're telling me that if you suddenly woke up in a different reality where everyone expected you to be someone else, someone dead, you'd just accept it? Roll over and play the part because strangers called it fate?"
Sam's expression hardened, but not with anger. With understanding that cut too deep. "You think I don't know what it's like to have everything you thought you knew about the world get turned upside down? To lose people who mattered more than your own life?" His voice carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "I've wanted to wake up in a different world more times than I can count. One where the people I've lost are still alive, where the choices I made turned out different."
He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "But that's not how it works. We don't get to pick the reality we land in. We just get to decide what we do once we're there. And right now, you're here. That's not negotiable. The only question is what you're going to do about it."
His words hit harder than she'd expected, cutting through her anger to something more vulnerable underneath. She wanted to argue, to maintain her fury because it felt safer than the alternative. Accepting that her old life was truly gone.
"So what, you expect me to just slide into her place? Live in some dead woman's shadow?"
"No one's asking you to replace her." Sam's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "You're not her, and we both know that. But like it or not, you're here now. And pretending this isn't happening won't change that fact."
"I don't belong here," she said, but the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.
"You don't belong there anymore either." The gentleness in his voice made it worse somehow. "If that portal brought you here, maybe it was because this is where you need to be. You can be angry about it—hell, you should be. But anger won't change reality."
The fight drained out of her slowly, like air from a punctured tire. She turned to stare out the front window at the head of the room at the unfamiliar-familiar city beyond, her reflection ghostlike in the glass.
Sam showed her to a small guest room with the same quiet efficiency he'd displayed all day. It was simple but comfortable. Clean sheets, soft pillows, and a window that looked out on a tree-lined street that could have been from her world.
"You can stay here as long as you need," he said, lingering in the doorway. "I'll work on getting you set up with your own place, new identity, whatever you need to build a life here."
The casual way he mentioned building a life here made the reality of the situation crash over her again. This wasn't temporary. This was her new existence, whether she wanted it or not.
"Sam?" Her voice was smaller than she'd intended. "Tell me about her. About... me. The one you knew."
Something in his expression shifted, pain flickering across his features like shadows cast by firelight. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze growing distant.
"She was brilliant," he said finally. "Sharp as hell, with instincts that could cut through any lie or deception. She specialized in intelligence work—tracking people who didn't want to be found, uncovering connections others missed. She came into our world during the hunt for the Winter Soldier, back when he was still... when he was still HYDRA's weapon."
Her stomach clenched at the mention of the Winter Soldier. A killer in her world, same as in this one, it seemed.
"She was the one who helped Steve and Natasha track him down," Sam continued, his voice growing softer. "And when we finally found him, when we realized he could be saved instead of just stopped... she fought for that. Fought to bring him back from the darkness."
The name hit her like a physical blow. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier had a real name, a real identity.
"After that, she stayed close to the team," Sam went on. "Worked missions with us, became part of the family. She was brave, loyal, never hesitated to put herself in harm's way if it meant protecting innocent people or helping the team." His voice caught slightly. "She saved my life more than once. Saved all our lives."
The grief in his voice was palpable, a living thing that filled the space between them. She found herself holding her breath, afraid to disturb the weight of his memories but wanting him to continue.
"She mattered," he said simply. And yet, the effect — the emotion on his face — was devastating.
She didn't ask how the other version of her had died. The pain etched into every line of Sam's expression was answer enough. Some wounds were too fresh to probe, even three years later.
Sam moved to leave, but her voice stopped him at the threshold.
"The Winter Soldier... that's Bucky Barnes, isn't it?"
He went absolutely still, tension radiating from his frame like heat from a furnace.
"In my world," she continued, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat, "the Winter Soldier died. Steve Rogers killed him during the fall of SHIELD. It was the only way to stop him." She hesitated, then added, "I heard you and Strange talking earlier. About... him."
Sam turned slowly, his expression carefully controlled but his eyes dark with something that might have been worry or fear or protective instinct. Maybe all three.
"It's better if you don't know," he said quietly, each word chosen with surgical precision. "Not yet."
The finality in his voice left no room for argument. He left her alone with her questions and the growing certainty that whatever connection existed between her and this world's version of the Winter Soldier, it was going to change everything.
Why did the other version of her help him? What was different about their relationship that Sam seemed so on edge about?
She sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room, staring out at the unfamiliar-familiar street, and wondered if there was any such thing as fate. Or if the universe was just crueler than she'd ever imagined.
Sam was a good man, that became clear within hours of meeting him. The kind of good that ran bone-deep, expressed not in grand gestures but in small consistencies. He checked in without hovering, offered help without condescension, and by the third day had somehow managed to secure her an apartment only six blocks from his brownstone. When she'd asked how he'd pulled that off so quickly in New York's brutal housing market, he'd just smiled and said he knew people.
She could see why they'd chosen him to carry the shield. His moral compass alone was seemingly larger than life.
Still, living under his roof felt like wearing clothes that didn't quite fit. Not because Sam was unkind. If anything, he was almost painfully considerate, the way people are when they're afraid of breaking something fragile. It was the weight of expectation that pressed against her shoulders, the careful way he sometimes caught himself mid-sentence, as if he'd been about to say something meant for someone else.
Someone who looked exactly like her. Someone who was dead.
She threw herself into research with the desperate focus of someone trying to solve her own existence. Hunched over her laptop at Sam's kitchen table, she devoured everything she could find about this world's history. The Avengers Initiative. The Chitauri invasion. The fall of SHIELD and rise of HYDRA. The Sokovia Accords. Thanos and the Blip—five years when half of all life simply ceased to exist, then returned as suddenly as it had vanished.
The broad strokes matched her world's timeline, but the details were all wrong. Like looking at a painting that had been copied by someone with imperfect memory. Close enough to be familiar, different enough to be deeply unsettling.
What disturbed her most wasn't the differences themselves, but the growing realization that she wore the face of a woman who had lived through these events, who had bled and fought and sacrificed alongside Earth's mightiest heroes. Every record she found mentioned her. Intelligence reports signed with her name, mission debriefs that referenced her tactical assessments, personnel files that listed her as an active associate of the Avengers until three years ago.
And then, abruptly, the records stopped.
Sam's grief haunted the spaces between them like smoke. She'd catch him looking at her sometimes, as if he could will her to be someone else through sheer force of longing. When their eyes met, he'd remember himself and look away, but not before she glimpsed the disappointment that flickered across his features. Brief as lightning, but it left its mark.
She understood. But that didn't make it hurt less.
The day after she'd arrived, Sam's friend Joaquin Torres had shown up with a laptop bag and an easy grin that transformed the heavy atmosphere in the brownstone. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of boyish charm that made people trust him instinctively. More importantly, he looked at her without the weight of recognition, treating her like a person instead of a ghost wearing familiar skin. He hadn’t known her, the other version of her, Sam had told her. Much to her silent relief — a fresh human interaction was much needed.
"Alright," he'd said, settling at the kitchen table and cracking open his laptop. "Let's get you a new identity. Technically, the old you is listed as deceased, which creates some interesting paperwork challenges. But nothing we can't handle."
His fingers flew across the keyboard with practiced ease, pulling up forms and databases with the casual expertise of someone who'd done this before. She found herself relaxing for the first time since falling through that portal, grateful to be treated like herself…whoever that was now.
By the second day, curiosity got the better of her.
"Did she, the other me, have any family?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual while her hands twisted together under the table. "Husband, boyfriend, anyone who might be looking for me?"
Joaquin glanced up from his screen, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Let me check... okay, parents died when she was eleven—" Her stomach clenched. Her parents, the ones in her world, had died around the same time. "—grandparents took her in but passed right before the Blip. No siblings listed." He scrolled further, eyebrows rising. "But damn, look at these connections. Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Sam obviously. Tony Stark had you on his personal payroll after the whole SHIELD thing went sideways in 2014. You ran in some serious circles."
He leaned back, scanning the screen with obvious admiration. "No marriage records, no registered domestic partnerships. But there's some interesting cross-references here..." His grin faltered slightly as his eyes focused on something specific. "Hey, did Sam mention Bucky? Because there's quite a bit of documentation linking you two, and I'm talking—"
He stopped. The words died in his throat as he looked up and saw her expression.
The confusion must have been written across her face in bold letters, because Joaquin's boyish enthusiasm dimmed like someone had turned down his brightness settings. His gaze flicked from her to the laptop screen and back again, and she watched understanding dawn in his eyes with all the subtlety of a freight train.
"Oh." The word came out small, uncertain. "Judging by the look on your face... Sam hasn't talked to you about this yet."
"No," she said carefully, studying his suddenly nervous posture. "He hasn't."
Joaquin shifted in his chair, angling the laptop away from her line of sight with movements that screamed guilt. His cheeks flushed pink, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost all its earlier confidence.
"Listen, if Sam hasn't brought it up, there's probably a good reason. Maybe it's... maybe it's not important right now."
The lie was so transparent she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
"Something on that screen you don't want me to see, Joaquin?"
"No! Nothing like that," he said too quickly, his voice cracking on the denial. He clutched the laptop closer to his chest like a shield. "It's just... if Sam thinks you're not ready to hear about it yet, then maybe..."
He trailed off, realizing he was only making it worse. She let the silence stretch, watching him squirm, filing away every nervous tic and unconscious gesture. In her experience, people revealed more in their attempts to hide things than they ever did when trying to be honest.
Finally, she nodded slowly, as if accepting his non-explanation. "Okay."
But the damage was done. This was the third time Bucky Barnes's name had surfaced in conversation, always followed by the same pattern—hesitation, deflection, someone changing the subject or ending the conversation entirely. Whatever connection had existed between her dimensional twin and this man, it was significant enough that Sam couldn't even bring himself to discuss it.
The questions multiplied like cancer cells in her mind. Who had Bucky Barnes been to her? An ally? An enemy? Had they worked together, or had she been hunting him? Was he the reason she'd died, or was there something else she wasn’t seeing?
The not-knowing was worse than any answer could be.
When Joaquin packed up his laptop that evening, giving her an awkward yet genuine goodbye, she remained at the kitchen table staring at the stack of files and printouts she'd accumulated. The apartment Sam had found for her was ready—bare bones, but functional. She could move out tomorrow, start building something that resembled a life.
But first, she had research to do.
She waited until she heard Sam's bedroom door close, then fired up her own laptop and got to work. If no one would tell her about Bucky Barnes, she'd find out for herself.
The internet was a treasure trove of declassified documents, survivor testimonies, and conspiracy theories that turned out to be disturbingly accurate. She cross-referenced names, dates, and events, building a timeline that slowly painted a picture of James Buchanan Barnes—friend of Steve Rogers, sergeant in the 107th Infantry, presumed dead in 1945.
Except he hadn't died. HYDRA had found him, broken him, turned him into their perfect weapon. The Winter Soldier had been a man stolen from time and stripped of his identity, programmed to kill without question or memory.
Her hands trembled as she read mission reports that detailed his crimes. Political assassinations spanning decades. Scientists who'd gotten too close to inconvenient truths. Whistleblowers who'd tried to expose corruption. All of them silenced by a ghost with a metal arm and empty eyes.
But the story didn't end there. In 2014, Steve Rogers had found his childhood friend buried beneath layers of programming and torture. Had fought to bring him back, to restore the man HYDRA had tried to erase. The process had taken years of therapy, rehabilitation, deprogramming. But it worked.
Bucky Barnes was no longer the Winter Soldier. He was an Avenger. A former Congressman. He had rewritten his own story.
Her breath caught as she found what she'd been looking for: a digital roster buried in the aftermath of the Sokovia Accords. James Buchanan Barnes – Status: Active. Affiliation: New Avengers Initiative.
He was alive. Reformed. Fighting for the good guys now, apparently.
The knowledge sat in her stomach like a stone. Here, according to Joaquin's nervous reaction, he'd been connected to her in some significant way.
The irony was so sharp it could cut. A brainwashed assassin from the 1940’s connected to her? Were they friends? Had he killed someone she knew? She had no idea. There were no records about his personal life online.
She stared at the screen until her eyes burned, then made a decision that felt both inevitable and insane. If Sam wouldn't tell her the truth, if Joaquin was too loyal or too scared to fill in the gaps, then she'd get her answers from the source.
Her new apartment felt like a train station, a place to exist rather than live between stops. The walls were still institutional white, the floors bare hardwood that echoed with every step. Sam had helped her haul in the essentials: a mattress, a couch from a secondhand store, a small table that wobbled when she put weight on it.
It should have felt like freedom. Instead, it felt like exile.
She didn't linger. Twenty minutes after Sam left, promising to check in tomorrow, she was studying transit maps and plotting her route to the New Avengers facility. The original Stark Tower had been sold, but the team had established a new base of operations in the same building, now deemed as the Watchtower.
The evening commute provided perfect cover. Thousands of people moving with purpose, no one paying attention to one more face in the crowd. She joined the stream of humanity flowing toward the subway, her heart rate steady despite the magnitude of what she was planning.
Breaking into a superhero stronghold probably wasn't her smartest decision, but she'd made a career out of risky choices. This felt like just another case to crack, another locked door that needed opening.
The Watchtower rose thirty stories into the Manhattan sky, its glass facade reflecting the dying light of sunset. Even from the sidewalk, she could see the security measures. Cameras at every angle, discrete guards positioned at key points, biometric scanners flanking the main entrance.
She approached with the confidence of someone who belonged, shoulders back, stride purposeful. Sometimes the best disguise was attitude.
"Ma'am." A security guard stepped into her path before she'd made it halfway to the door. Young, alert, with the kind of bearing that screamed military background. His partner moved to flank her, casual but deliberate. "I'll need to see some identification."
She reached for her wallet, movements slow and non-threatening. "I'm here to see James Barnes. He's expecting me."
That got their attention. Too much attention. She saw the micro-expressions that flashed between them: surprise, confusion. The lead guard's hand drifted toward the radio clipped to his vest.
"You'll need clearance for that, ma'am. And I don't see you on any authorized visitor lists."
Behind them, the building's main doors hissed shut with hydraulic finality. The message was clear — she wasn’t getting in.
She maintained her smile, friendly and understanding. "Of course. My mistake. I'll just call ahead next time."
She turned and walked away, feeling their eyes on her back until she disappeared into the evening crowd.
An hour later, she was back.
The Tower looked different at night. Imposing, fortress-like, its upper floors glowing against the darkness. She'd spent the time walking the perimeter, mapping service entrances and delivery bays, timing guard rotations and identifying blind spots in the surveillance coverage.
The rear of the building faced a narrow alley used for deliveries and maintenance. Less glamorous than the front entrance, but infinitely more accessible. She positioned herself in the shadows between two dumpsters and waited.
Patience was a detective's best friend. After twenty minutes, a catering van rumbled into the alley, its headlights cutting through the gloom. She watched the driver show his credentials to the guard, saw the heavy security door roll up to reveal a loading dock beyond.
As the van backed up to the platform, she moved.
She slipped alongside the van as the driver climbed out, using it as cover while boxes and trays were unloaded. The guard's attention was focused on his clipboard, checking items off a list with mechanical precision.
When he turned to examine a particularly large crate, she made her move. Three quick steps took her to the door, another two got her inside. The loading bay was cavernous and dimly lit, filled with the hum of machinery and the distant echo of voices.
She pressed herself against a concrete pillar, heart hammering as footsteps approached. A maintenance worker in coveralls walked past, whistling tunelessly, his footsteps fading as he disappeared around a corner.
She was in.
The Tower's interior was a maze of corridors and security checkpoints, but she'd navigated worse. She found a service stairwell — no cameras, minimal foot traffic—and began to climb. By the fifteenth floor, her legs burned and her lungs worked like bellows, but she pressed on.
The residential levels had to be near the top. That's where she'd find him.
Twenty-eighth floor. Twenty-ninth. Thirtieth.
The final door was different from the others. Heavier, with a biometric scanner and keypad that spoke of serious security measures. This had to be it. The private residential area where the Avengers lived when they weren't saving the world.
She stood before the scanner, knowing she had no way past it, knowing this was where her amateur breaking-and-entering skills reached their limit. But she'd come too far to turn back now.
"Who are you?"
The voice came from behind her, low and accented and sharp as a blade.
She spun, instinct driving her hand toward a weapon she didn't carry, muscles coiling for a fight that might be her last.
A woman stood at the mouth of the stairwell. Small, compact, with platinum blonde hair that caught the corridor's LED lighting. But it was her eyes that made the breath stick in her throat. Dark, calculating. This wasn't building security. This was someone far more dangerous.
The woman moved with liquid grace, each step deliberate and controlled. She wore dark tactical clothing that seemed to absorb light, and something about her posture—coiled, ready, predatory—set off every alarm bell in her brain.
"I asked you a question," the woman said, stepping closer. "How did you get past security?"
Her mouth had gone desert-dry, but she forced her voice to remain steady. "I could ask you the same thing."
The woman's lips curved in what might charitably be called a smile. It didn't reach her eyes. "Cute. Very cute. But I live here. You, on the other hand, definitely do not." Another step closer. "So let's try this again. Who are you, and what are you doing on a restricted floor?"
The accent was unmistakably Russian now that she heard more of it. Sharp consonants softened by years of speaking English, but the underlying cadence still there. The woman's stance was that of a trained fighter. She was balanced on the balls of her feet, hands loose at her sides but ready to move in any direction. Everything about her screamed potential danger.
"Look," she said, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender, "I'm just trying to find someone. I don't want any trouble."
"Then you came to the wrong place." The woman tilted her head, studying her with a vague intensity. "You look familiar. Have we met?"
The question sent ice through her veins. Another person who might recognize her face, who knew the woman she'd replaced. But this one's recognition carried a different quality. Not grief or longing, but something sharper. More analytical.
She didn’t know her. The old her. Not directly, at least.
"I don't think so," she said carefully.
The blonde's sharp eyes never left her face, cataloging every feature with unsettling precision. "Hmm. You remind me of someone. I cannot place it exactly, but you have a very familiar face." She paused, head tilting further. "Are you a reporter?"
The question was so unexpected she almost laughed. "Do I look like a reporter to you?"
"Yes," the woman answered with complete seriousness. "Actually, you do. You have excellent bone structure. Very photogenic. Strong jawline, well-shaped eyebrows. The kind of face they put on Channel 9 news, no?" She gestured vaguely at her features. "Really quite striking, actually. And we get reporters trying to sneak in here all the time. You would not believe the lengths they go to. But none have made it this far before, which makes you either very skilled or very stupid."
Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Was this woman seriously critiquing her facial symmetry in the middle of what felt like a life-or-death situation? "...Thank you? I think? But I'm not a reporter."
The blonde hummed thoughtfully, those dark eyes scanning her from head to toe and back again with predatory interest. "I believe you, strange woman. Somehow, I do. But that makes this worse, doesn't it? Because if you are not a reporter, then why break into a tower full of superhumans and trained killers? Seems very..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Stupid. Or very desperate."
The weight of the moment pressed down on her shoulders. She could lie—make up some story about being lost, about mistaking this for a different building. But something about this woman's piercing gaze told her lies would be spotted immediately and punished accordingly.
So she chose the truth. Raw, unfiltered, desperate truth.
"Because I'm not from this world." The words tumbled out faster than she could stop them. "I know how insane that sounds, but apparently I'm from a parallel dimension—almost identical to this one—and a week ago I fell through some kind of glowing portal that spat me out here in New York. Sam Wilson found me, helped me out, told me I can't go home."
She ran a hand through her hair, exhaustion and frustration bleeding into her voice. "But the version of me that lived here? She's dead. Has been for three years. And everyone keeps looking at me like I'm her ghost, keeps mentioning James Barnes like I should understand what he meant to her. So yeah, I broke in here to find him. To get some goddamn answers about who I was supposed to be."
The confession left her feeling hollow, stripped bare. She'd laid all her cards on the table for a complete stranger who could probably kill her seventeen different ways without breaking a sweat.
Not one of her brightest moments. But somehow, it had felt right.
The woman stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then something shifted in her features. A flicker of recognition, quickly suppressed but not fast enough.
"What is your name?" she asked softly, and there was something almost gentle in her tone now.
She hesitated for just a beat before giving her real name. Not the fabricated identity Joaquin had helped create, but the name she'd been born with.
The effect was instantaneous. The woman's carefully neutral expression crumbled, revealing shock, disbelief, and something deeper. A profound sadness that seemed to age her years in seconds.
"Bozhe moy," she whispered, the Russian slipping out unbidden. Her shoulders sagged as if an invisible weight had settled on them. "Yes... I know your story. All of it. Oh….this will not be easy. But he needs to know you are here."
She stepped closer, extending her hand with careful deliberation. "My name is Yelena Belova. I am... an associate of Bucky's. A friend. I can take you to him now, if that is what you truly want."
Her throat constricted as she stared at the offered hand. Every instinct screamed warnings, but she'd come too far to turn back now. She reached out, gripping Yelena's fingers.
"It's nice to meet you," she said, her voice barely steady. "Did you... did you know her? The other me?"
Yelena's smile was hollow, haunted. "No. But I know of you. We all do." The words carried the weight of a funeral dirge. "Come. I will take you to him. You’re on the wrong floor."
The elevator ride felt endless, each floor they passed stretching the silence tighter between them. Yelena stood with her arms crossed, staring at her boots with the intensity of someone trying to solve the world's most complex equation. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, brow furrowed in deep concentration.
The quiet became unbearable.
"You know," she said, clearing her throat, "everyone who seems to know about this other version of me... you all look at me like I'm some kind of ghost."
That pulled Yelena's gaze up, one eyebrow arching with sharp precision. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "That is because you are a ghost. You are supposed to be dead here. Did you forget that small detail?"
The bluntness hit harder than expected, making her chest tight. "No, I remember. But it feels like more than that. You don't just look at me like I don't belong. You look at me like you're afraid."
Yelena's exhale was long and weary, her shoulders dropping as if she'd been carrying an invisible burden. When she spoke again, her accent thickened with emotion. "We are not afraid of you. We are afraid of what your being here will do to the people we care about."
"What do you—"
"You will see soon enough." Yelena's tone brooked no argument, but her expression softened slightly. She reached out, resting a careful hand on her arm, the touch cautious. "Just... be gentle with him. Please. He has been through enough."
The plea left her speechless, questions multiplying like cancer cells in her mind. All she could manage was a stiff nod.
The elevator chimed softly, doors sliding open with a whisper of hydraulics.
She followed Yelena into what was clearly a common area, all gleaming surfaces and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered breathtaking views of Manhattan. The space was dotted with comfortable seating, state-of-the-art monitors, and a conference table that could seat a dozen people.
Four figures stood around that table, all wearing matching tactical uniforms with red "A" emblems on their chests. Their conversation died the moment they noticed the newcomers.
The tallest of them—a blonde man with the kind of square jaw that belonged on recruitment posters—straightened immediately. His blue eyes narrowed with suspicion as they fixed on her. "Yelena," he said, his voice carrying authority and wariness in equal measure. "Who the hell is this?"
Before Yelena could answer, the large bearded man beside him stepped forward with a booming laugh that filled the entire space. His presence was overwhelming. all warmth and barely contained energy, like a bear-sized golden retriever.
"Ah, look at this! A new face, and such a lovely one!" He spread his arms wide as if preparing to envelope her in a bear hug, his voice thick with Russian accent and unmistakable joy. "Finally, some beauty around here to balance out all these ugly faces. You are... how do Americans say... a sight for sore eyes, da?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. She stood frozen, caught between mortification and the strange urge to smile despite everything.
Yelena groaned audibly, dragging a hand down her face. "Dad, stop."
"What?" The older man looked genuinely confused, then winked at her with shameless charm. "I only speak truth. Your mother, if she were here, she would agree—this one has excellent genetics. Very fine bone structure."
"Stop talking, Alexei," Yelena snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. She turned back to the group, exhaling through her nose like wrangling her father was a full-time occupation. "This is—" She glanced back, seeking silent permission, then said the name quietly, as if she knew what was about to happen.
The effect was immediate and devastating.
The brunette woman—young, maybe mid-twenties, with energy crackling faintly around her fingers—went completely still. The shaggy-haired man in civilian clothes muttered something under his breath and took an unconscious step backward. Even Yelena's father sobered, his jovial expression fading into something more complex.
But it was the blonde man's reaction that made her stomach plummet.
His entire demeanor shifted, professionalism giving way to something colder, more calculating. He stepped closer, hands settling on his hips as he studied her like she was evidence at a crime scene.
Recognition flickered across his features as he processed her name, cross-referencing it with files in his memory. His expression shifted into something caught between a smirk and a sneer—the look of someone who'd just solved an unpleasant puzzle.
"I know that name," he said, his voice taking on a mocking edge. "Wasn't that the name of Barnes' dead girlfriend?"
The revelation hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Dead girlfriend.
The words ricocheted through her skull, each repetition more devastating than the last. Not partner. Not colleague. Not enemy. Girlfriend. The other version of her, the woman whose shadow she was apparently condemned to live in, had been dating James Buchanan Barnes.
The Winter Soldier.
With a known killer.
The irony was so vicious it threatened to tear her apart from the inside. In her world, she'd spent years hunting down monsters, bringing justice to families destroyed by violence. Here, apparently, she'd been sharing a bed with one of the worst monsters of all.
Her vision began to tunnel, darkness creeping in at the edges like spilled ink. Her lungs had forgotten how to function, each breath coming in short, desperate gasps that never seemed to bring enough oxygen. The panic attack was inevitable now—her body's revolt against information too massive, too impossible to process.
Heat flooded her face, a burning flush of shock and shame and something else she couldn't name. Her hands began to shake, trembling at her sides as if her entire nervous system was short-circuiting.
"Hey." Yelena's voice cut through the static filling her head, firm but gentle. Warm fingers wrapped around her arm, anchoring her to reality when everything else felt like it was spinning away. "Breathe with me. Just breathe. In and out."
She shot a murderous glare at Walker, her voice cracking with fury. "Excellent timing, you absolute moron. Really thoughtful approach there."
Walker raised his hands in mock surrender, but his expression remained coldly entertained, like he was watching a fascinating psychological experiment unfold. "What? I figured she already knew! Isn't that the whole reason she's here?"
Alexei, blissfully oblivious to the emotional carnage unfolding around him, chimed in with maddening cheerfulness. "Of course she is the girlfriend! Look at her—she is exact copy of girl in photographs on Winter Soldier's nightstand. Very beautiful, very tragic, like heroine from Dostoyevsky novel." He beamed at her with paternal pride that made her want to scream. "You loved him deeply, da? Was passionate romance? He was good lover?"
"Dad!" Yelena's voice cracked like a whip, her glare hot enough to melt steel. "You are making everything worse!"
But Alexei only shrugged, completely immune to his daughter's homicidal expression. "What? I only speak truth everyone is thinking. And besides, is much better to be remembered as someone's great love than to be forgotten completely, no? It is romantic tragedy, like in great Russian stories."
The words were meant to comfort, but they only drove the knife deeper. Great love. Romantic tragedy. She was standing in a room full of people who remembered a version of her that had been intimately, desperately connected to a man who represented everything she'd spent her life fighting against.
Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting crescents into her palms as she fought to stay upright. The walls seemed to press closer, the ceiling lower, the air thicker. Everyone's stares felt like physical weight pressing down on her shoulders until she thought her knees might buckle.
This was wrong. Fundamentally, cosmically wrong. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't be wearing this face, shouldn't be expected to carry the emotional baggage of a woman who'd made choices that defied everything she believed in.
But she was trapped. Caught between worlds, between identities, between a past that wasn't hers and a future that terrified her beyond reason.
"What the hell are you people talking about?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the thundering of her own pulse. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"
The pity in their faces was worse than cruelty would have been. At least cruelty would have given her something to fight against. This careful sympathy, these cautious expressions—they made her feel like a wild animal everyone was afraid might bolt or attack without warning.
Everyone except Walker, who continued studying her with clinical detachment, and Alexei, who kept rambling about the beauty of doomed love.
"You need to slow down your breathing," Yelena urged, gripping her shoulders with steady hands and forcing eye contact. "Focus on my voice. Just breathe."
But the command fell flat. The air had turned to concrete in her lungs. The room spun around her like a carnival ride gone wrong, and she could feel herself fragmenting, splitting apart at invisible seams.
She tore herself free from Yelena's grip and stumbled backward, her body moving toward the elevator of its own accord. Her chest heaved with each stuttering breath, vision blurring as tears she refused to acknowledge burned behind her eyes.
"Listen to me," she managed to choke out, every word sharp and desperate. "I don't know what twisted game you think you're playing, but whoever you think I am, I can't be her. I won't be her. I'm my own person, and I'm not from this world, and I've never even met James Barnes—"
Walker's eyebrow arched with infuriating calm. "Well, sweetheart," he drawled, "you're about to."
Behind her, the elevator gave a soft mechanical hiss.
The doors slid open.
She turned, ready to throw herself into whatever escape the elevator offered, ready to run until her legs gave out or her heart exploded—
And froze.
James Barnes stood there.
To her, he should have been nothing more than a name in old files, a face in grainy photographs, a shadow from history books. But in the flesh, he was devastatingly, undeniably real. Taller than she'd expected, broader through the shoulders. Dark hair fell in waves past his collar, shot through with faint silver that caught the light. His beard was neatly trimmed, dusted with gray that spoke of years and battles and sleepless nights. And his eyes — pale blue like a winter sky, sharp and intelligent. And currently wide with shock.
But it wasn't his appearance that stole her breath and left her feeling like she'd been struck by lightning.
It was the way he looked at her.
He'd been stepping out of the elevator, probably heading to some routine meeting or training session, and he'd frozen mid-stride. His hand was still braced against the elevator frame, knuckles white with tension. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, like someone had just punched all the air out of his lungs.
Those ice-blue eyes locked onto her face with an intensity that felt like being dissected, like he was looking straight through time and death and impossibility to see something that shouldn't exist. The expression on his face — raw disbelief warring with desperate hope, grief colliding with wonder—made something twist violently in her chest.
To her, he was a stranger. A name from her nightmares made flesh.
To him, she must be resurrection walking.
Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, broken and reverent and so full of longing it made her want to run screaming. His voice cracked under the weight of that single word, and his entire body seemed to lean forward, drawn by invisible strings.
He moved toward her slowly, as if afraid she might vanish if he startled her. Every step was careful, measured, like he was approaching something that might disappear any second. She wished she could right now.
His expression was torn wide open, every emotion playing across his features without filter or pretense.
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. For one suspended moment, she was caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, trapped in the way he looked at her like she was the answer to prayers he'd stopped believing would be answered.
His hand twitched at his side, fingers flexing like he wanted to reach for her, to touch her face and confirm she was real and not just another cruel dream.
And then reality crashed back down on her like a tidal wave.
Her chest seized with pure, primal panic. Ice flooded her veins, her body's fight-or-flight response kicking into overdrive. She stumbled backward, shaking her head violently, trying to break whatever invisible connection had snapped taut between them.
"Don't—" Her voice shattered on the word. "Don't come near me."
He stopped immediately, but the damage was done. The anguish that flooded his features was unbearable, like she'd physically struck him. His lips parted, words trembling on his tongue, confusion bleeding through the desperate hope.
"It's okay," he said softly, his voice gentle in a way that made her want to scream. "It's me. It's Bucky. I don't understand what happened, how you're here, but it's going to be okay—"
"I don't know you!" The words exploded out of her, sharp and laced with mounting hysteria. She wrapped her arms around herself like armor, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding herself together. "I don't know who the hell you think I am, but I'm not her!"
He said her name again, softer this time, like he was trying to gentle a frightened animal. The sound of it in his voice, so full of history and intimacy, made her feel like her skin was crawling.
Before she could respond, before she could scream or run or collapse entirely, Yelena stepped forward. She positioned herself subtly between them, one hand raised in a calming gesture that encompassed both of them.
"She's not who you think," Yelena said quietly, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her gaze flicked between Bucky's devastated expression and her trembling form. "She's not the woman you knew, Bucky. She's a variant. From another world, another timeline. She's not... she's not her."
The words landed like physical blows. Bucky staggered backward, his face cycling through disbelief, understanding, and a grief so profound it seemed to hollow him out from the inside.
But his eyes never left her face. Never stopped drinking her in like she might disappear at any moment.
She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Wanted to wake up from this nightmare and find herself back in her own world, her own life, where none of this impossible situation existed.
"This is getting incredibly uncomfortable," the young man with shaggy hair muttered from somewhere behind the group.
And it was. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. The weight of everyone's stares, the pity and confusion and worry—it was suffocating. Worst of all was the way Bucky kept looking at her, like the sight of her was simultaneously healing and destroying him.
She hated it. Hated this twisted version of fate that had dropped her into someone else's tragedy. Hated being expected to carry someone else's love, someone else's loss. Hated the way this man, this killer she was supposed to believe had been redeemed, was looking at her like she held his heart in her hands.
She'd come here for answers, but the truth was worse than any mystery could have been.
So she did the only thing that made sense anymore.
She ran.
Her detective training had kept her in good shape, years of chasing suspects through back alleys and up fire escapes had given her speed and endurance. She used all of it now, lunging toward the elevator with desperate urgency.
Behind her, she heard voices calling out—Yelena shouting her name, someone cursing in Russian, the sound of movement as superhuman reflexes kicked into gear.
But she was already inside, her finger jabbing frantically at the door close button as if her life depended on it.
The last thing she saw before the doors slid shut was Bucky's face—devastated, lost, reaching a hand out toward her like he was trying to stop her from disappearing all over again.
The moment she was alone, the adrenaline that had been holding her together evaporated. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the elevator wall until she was sitting on the cold metal floor, her head buried in her hands.
And for the first time since that portal had ripped her away from everything she knew, she broke.
The sobs came in waves, ugly and harsh and desperate. They tore out of her chest like they'd been trapped there for days, weeks, a lifetime. She cried for the life she'd lost, for the world she'd never see again, for the impossible situation she'd been thrust into without her consent.
She cried for the woman who'd worn her face and made choices she couldn't understand.
She cried for the man upstairs who'd looked at her like she was his whole world coming back from the dead.
Most of all, she cried because somewhere deep down, in a place she didn't want to acknowledge, she'd felt something when their eyes met. Something that terrified her more than any truth she'd uncovered.
Recognition.
Not of him, but of the way he'd looked at her. Like she was home.
And she had no idea what that meant, or what she was supposed to do with the guilt that had made a home in her heart.
Sam showed up at her apartment a few hours later, and for the first time since she'd met him, he was furious.
"What the hell were you thinking?" The door had barely clicked shut before his voice cracked across the room like a whip, sharp enough to make her spine straighten reflexively. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, his shoulders squared and rigid like he'd been holding onto that rage through the entire drive over. She didn’t doubt it. "Sneaking into the Watchtower like that? I told you—I told you—to keep a low profile."
"Oh, so now this is all my fault?" The words launched out of her before she could stop them, her finger jabbing toward his chest like a weapon. Heat flooded her veins, her pulse already wild and erratic, her voice shaking with something deeper than just rage. Desperation, maybe, or the kind of fear that could only be fought with fury. "You expect me to sit here, smile, and nod at every half-assed, vague non-answer you people throw at me? Just twiddle my damn thumbs in a world where the other me is dead?" Her voice cracked on the last word, raw and jagged. "I'm a detective, Sam, not some helpless civilian you can placate with scraps."
For a moment, Sam blinked like she'd blindsided him with a truth he hadn't bothered to consider. The fire in his eyes flickered, uncertainty creeping in around the edges. "Okay. I didn't…" He exhaled slowly, his anger deflating slightly as understanding dawned. "I didn't think about it like that. But when you put it that way, yeah, it makes sense, but—"
"Oh, for God's sake." She groaned, both hands flying to her hair, fingers tangling in the strands and tugging until her scalp burned with the sharp bite of pain. It grounded her, kept her from flying apart completely. Her chest was heaving now, words tearing out faster than she could filter them, like a dam had burst. "Were you seriously not going to tell me that your version of me, that she…was with the Winter Soldier?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Sam's gaze locked on hers, heavy and unblinking, his expression shifting into something guarded and final.
"No," he said finally, the word flat and unyielding as stone. "I wasn't planning on it."
Her stomach plummeted, a cold wash of betrayal flooding through her. Her throat constricted. "What the fuck, Sam? Why wouldn't you tell me that?"
He threw his hands up in exasperation, the sound of his sigh filling the cramped space between them like a punctured tire. "Why would I? What possible good would that do you?" His voice climbed, defensive and sharp. "You never knew him in your world. All it would do is create exactly what's happening now. Chaos, confusion. Pain for everyone involved."
She felt her mouth fall open, the words catching like glass shards on her tongue, but he barreled forward before she could speak.
"And how would it help him?" His voice cracked this time, a raw edge breaking through the frustration like a fault line splitting open. His hands fell back to his sides, limp and defeated, like the weight of everything had finally dragged him down. "It would just rip him apart all over again. You don't understand…he never recovered from losing her. From losing you." Sam shook his head, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort. "And now? Seeing your face again, hearing your voice, watching you move like her but not being her…" His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I can't even imagine what that did to him."
Her breath caught, sharp and ragged, like she'd just taken a sucker punch to the throat. Her anger stuttered and died for one disorienting second, replaced by something she couldn't name. Guilt? Sympathy? The strange, hollow ache of mourning someone she'd never been?
Her voice dropped, barely more than a whisper, fragile as spun glass. "Was he the one who called you? Told you I came to the Tower?"
Sam looked at her then, and there was no anger left in his face. Just a deep tiredness and something that looked disturbingly like pity.
"Of course it was him," he said softly, each word deliberate and weighted. "He's my best friend."
He let that hang in the air between them, heavy and damning, like a confession.
"And I know you didn't know," Sam added, his voice quieter still, almost gentle. "But I was just trying to protect him. I've watched him put himself back together piece by piece, and I couldn't…I won't let him fall apart again."
The fight drained out of her like water through a sieve. All the yelling, the accusations, the righteous fury, it all seemed suddenly hollow and pointless as Sam's words echoed inside her skull like a death knell. She collapsed onto the couch, her knees giving out beneath her, elbows braced on her thighs, hands pressing hard against her forehead as if she could physically hold the spiraling pieces of herself together.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
"Okay," she finally whispered, the word trembling out of her like a prayer or a surrender. "Fine. You didn't tell me before. But you can tell me now." She lifted her eyes to Sam, and the weight of the question sitting heavy in her chest felt like it might crush her ribs. "What happened to her? The… me from here. How did she die?"
Sam froze, his mouth opening like he was going to speak, but no sound came out. His gaze flickered away from hers, darting toward the window, the floor, anywhere but her face. Like the answer was a wound he couldn't bring himself to reopen, a scab he refused to pick.
The silence stretched taut and unbearable, elastic and ready to snap, until a low voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"She died right after the fight against Thanos."
Her head snapped toward the door so fast her neck protested.
Bucky stood there, framed in the dim amber light from the hallway, his broad shoulders rigid as steel beams, his vibranium hand clenched around the doorframe with enough force that she could hear the wood creaking under the pressure. He looked like he was using it as an anchor, the only thing keeping him upright and steady. His eyes were locked on her, storm-blue and unflinching. So intense it felt like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face, as though looking away would destroy him all over again.
"Bucky—" Sam shot to his feet, tension coiling through his frame like a spring wound too tight. "I told you to wait in the car—"
Bucky didn't look at Sam. Didn't even acknowledge he'd spoken at all.
His gaze remained fixed on her, unblinking, burning through her like he could pin her to the floor with nothing but the weight of his stare. His voice, when it finally came, was steady but saturated with grief so thick and suffocating it seemed to bend the very air around them. He was still looking at her like she was a ghost made flesh, a cruel trick of light and shadow.
He stepped further into the apartment—one deliberate step, no more—like crossing that invisible threshold would mean too much, would shatter some fragile equilibrium he'd spent years building. Even this much proximity felt dangerous, charged with electricity that made her skin prickle. His eyes were sharp and hard as cut glass, but she could see the faint tremor of a storm barely restrained beneath the surface.
"It happened after we all came back. From the Blip. Fifteen days later, to be exact. Some nutjob — mad about the Blip and trying to take it out on the Avengers — broke into her apartment and…killed her. But you don't need to know the details," he said finally, his voice clipped and final. His eyes were damn near black. Hollowed out with grief.
The weight of his words hit her chest like a stone dropped from a great height. She stared back at him, her own words tangled in her throat like barbed wire. Sam shifted awkwardly between them, his expression tight and pale, like he was watching history about to repeat itself in the worst possible way. Maybe he was.
Her jaw clenched, forcing her voice out through the sudden tightness in her throat. "So now you get to decide for me?" The quiet venom in her tone surprised even her, cutting and precise. "You don't get to do that. Just because you knew me in another life doesn't give you the right to—"
"Stop." His voice cracked through hers like a whip, cold and brutal and absolutely final. It froze her mid-sentence, the words dying on her tongue. "I didn't know you. You're not her. You're just a woman wearing her face, carrying her voice, moving through the world like some cosmic joke." Each word was delivered like a physical blow, precise and merciless. "So no, you don't get the right to know how she died. You don't get to carry her memories or her pain or her love. All you should be doing is staying the hell away from anything that has to do with her."
Her stomach dropped to her feet, a cold wave of shock and hurt washing over her. She wasn't sure why his words sliced so deep—this man was a stranger, wasn't he? But the raw, bleeding wounds in his voice told her otherwise. Every syllable sounded like it cost him blood to speak.
Her chest burned with indignation and something sharper. Rejection, maybe, or the sting of being reduced to nothing more than a cruel facsimile. "I don't want any part of this world, Barnes," she shot back, watching him flinch—that subtle, involuntary recoil—when his last name hit the air like a curse. "But I'm not wearing anyone's face. This is me. My identity. My body. My life." Her voice rose, shaking with emotion she couldn't contain. "So I'm sorry your girlfriend died, but it's not fair for you to tell me I don't have the right to know what happened when I'm the one who has to live with everyone looking at me like I'm her ghost—"
"Shut up."
The words were a snarl, torn from his throat with a fury so raw and primal it made even Sam take a step back. His voice cracked like thunder, filling every corner of the small room. "Don't fucking say you're sorry. You have no idea who she was…what she meant, what she gave, what she sacrificed. You have no right to even speak her name, let alone wear her face and pretend you understand what any of us lost when she died."
Her chest heaved as white-hot anger surged through her veins like molten metal. "Why are you being such a complete jackass?" she snapped, her voice rising to match his, all pretense of composure abandoned. "You can't take this out on me! This isn't my fault! I didn't ask to be here, I didn't know what I was walking into, I didn't choose to look like her!" The words poured out of her in a torrent, years of frustration and confusion and fear crystallizing into pure rage. "You think I wanted to land in a world where I find out I was apparently dating a mass murderer? In my world, you're a war criminal! A terrorist!"
Something fundamental broke in him then. She could see it happen, the exact moment his carefully constructed composure shattered like glass.
Before she could even draw her next breath, he was there. Impossibly fast, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat. His face was just inches from hers, close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, could feel the heat radiating off his skin. The air between them vibrated with the force of his fury, electric and dangerous. His eyes had gone nearly black, bottomless and wild, and when he spoke, his voice was molten steel poured over broken glass.
"You need to stop talking. Right now."
But her heart was hammering against her ribs like a caged bird, her throat raw with fury and fear and something else she couldn't name, and she couldn't stop. The words kept coming, sharp and cutting and designed to hurt. "What, does the Winter Soldier not like being reminded of the blood on his hands?" she spat, each word hitting its mark with surgical precision. "You think you get to stand there and act like I'm the monster when it was you? You killed for decades, Barnes. Innocent people. Children, probably. And now you want to be the judge of who deserves answers? That's rich."
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, his metal hand curling into a fist at his side with a soft mechanical whir.
"You ruined lives," she pressed on relentlessly, her voice shaking with anger and hurt and the desperate need to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he'd inflicted on her. She didn’t know why. She felt horrible doing it, knew it would solve nothing but create more pain. But she was so mad. So frustrated that everyone was treating her like a scar that hadn’t gone away. Couldn’t they see how alone she felt like this? "Entire families. Hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people who never even knew your name."
She laughed, but it was sharp and bitter, more like a sob than anything resembling humor. "But I'm the problem here? Because I look like some woman you couldn't save? Because I'm a reminder that you failed to protect the one thing that mattered to you?"
"Stop." The word broke from him like something vital tearing, guttural and desperate, but she was too far gone to hear it.
"—at least I never became the boogeyman little kids had nightmares about. At least I never let myself become a weapon pointed at the innocent. You're a murderer, Barnes. A murderer trying to play saint, and you have the audacity to act like—"
"Stop it, babe —"
The word slipped out before he could catch it, automatic and devastating. His face changed instantly—shock and raw, bleeding pain flickering across his features like he'd just ripped open a wound that had barely begun to heal. His lips pressed together hard, his eyes wide with something that looked like horror at his own slip, but it was too late. The word was hanging in the air between them, heavy and intimate and absolutely forbidden.
Her stomach lurched violently. The sound of it hit her like a physical blow. Unfamiliar to her but weighted with an intimacy she didn't share, couldn't claim, had no right to. It was a glimpse into someone else's love story, someone else's heart, and she was nothing but an unwelcome intruder. She stepped back sharply, stumbling slightly, as if the word had burned her.
"Don't," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Don't call me that. I'm not her. I'm not—" But she couldn't finish, couldn't voice what they both knew: that she was a pale imitation, a cosmic mistake like he had said. A walking reminder of everything he'd lost.
Sam was there in a flash, planting a firm hand against Bucky's chest, shoving him back a step before things could escalate further. "That's enough," Sam barked, his voice sharp with authority, his eyes darting between them like he was trying to defuse a bomb. "Both of you. Stop this right now."
Bucky froze, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, but his eyes never left her face. He looked utterly shattered, like he wanted to reach for her. Or maybe like he wanted to run as far away as possible. She couldn't tell which, and that uncertainty made everything worse.
Sam's hand stayed firm against Bucky's chest, even as the soldier's breathing began to even out into something resembling normal. His gaze flicked to her — still standing there rigid and trembling, staring at Bucky like she didn't even know what she was looking at anymore, like he was some dangerous animal that might strike at any moment.
Sam made the executive decision first. "We're leaving," he said flatly, not taking his eyes off Bucky. He gave him a sharp nudge toward the door, and Bucky went without protest, his shoulders tense as steel cables, his jaw locked like stone. He moved like a man in a trance, hollow and mechanical.
Before following, Sam turned back to her one last time. His expression softened fractionally, regret shadowing his dark eyes like storm clouds. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, and she could hear that he meant it. Sorry for bringing Bucky here, sorry for the pain they'd both inflicted, sorry that any of this had to happen at all.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her throat was too tight, her chest too full of emotions she didn't have names for. She just stood there, arms wrapped around herself like armor, eyes burning holes in the floor as silence pressed in from all sides.
Sam lingered for a heartbeat longer, waiting for something, anything, from her. Some sign that she was okay, that they could salvage this situation, that the damage wasn't irreparable. But when nothing came, when she remained frozen in her protective shell, he nodded once—heavy and resigned and infinitely tired—and followed Bucky out.
She watched them go through the blur of unshed tears. The door closed behind them with a soft click that echoed louder than it had any right to, final and absolute. Bucky never looked back.
The apartment was suddenly too big and too empty, the silence pressing against her eardrums like deep water. And all she could hear was that single word still echoing in her head carrying a weight that wasn't hers to bear, a love that would never belong to her, and the devastating knowledge that she was nothing more than a cruel reminder of everything this world had lost.
