#circus au

The circus smells like sawdust, popcorn and caramel after midnight. Outside, you can still hear the faint sounds of the circus settling for the night—the distant trumpet of an elephant, the creak of rigging swaying in the wind, someone practicing on the trapeze to fight insomnia

You've learned the geography of Bucky's trailer in the dark—the three steps up, the door that sticks, the narrow bed that wasn't made for two people but somehow fits both of you perfectly when he pulls you against his chest. It's been two months of this. Two months of stolen moments after your father goes to sleep, of whispered confessions and desperate kisses, of pretending during the day that you're nothing more than his best friend's daughter.

The daughter he met eight years ago, when you were barely eighteen and he was thirty-one. After your mom passed way you've joined the circus, you studied college online while traveling with your dad and got your degree, but there was something that you loved about performing every night that made you stick around… and then there was James Buchanan Barnes.

"You're gonna be covered in sequins again," you murmur against his throat as he walks you backward towards the bed, his hands already finding the zipper of your costume.

"Good." His voice is rough, Brooklyn accent thicker when he's like this, and the way he says it makes heat pool low in your belly. But then, he pauses and pulls back slightly. "Wait. Is your dad—"

"Asleep." You pull him back down. "He went to bed an hour ago. We're safe."

The words taste bitter in your tongue. Like what you're doing is dangerous, which maybe it was.

Your father—the circus' ringmaster and Bucky's best friend for the past fifteen years—can never know about you and Bucky. About how his best friend, the equestrian performer he'd taken under his wing and that eventually became his right-hand, has been sneaking around with his twenty-six-year-old daughter.

But right now, with Bucky's hand on your skin and his mouth on yours, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Missed you," he growls against your lips, and even though you performed in the same show, breathed the same air under the big top, you know exactly what he means.

"Yeah? Mind showing me how much?" you mumble and his eyes go dark.

He peels the costume off you with reverent hands, but there's heat underneath the tenderness. His palms map your ribs, your waist, your hips, like he's memorizing you by touch. When his mouth follows the path his hands made—hot and open against your sternum, your belly, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs—you have to bite back a moan.

"Shh," he reminds you, glancing toward the thin trailer walls. "Quiet, sweetheart. We can't let anyone hear."

The reminder should kill the mood, but somehow, it makes everything more intense. The secrecy, the forbidden nature of this, the fact that you have to be silent while he takes you apart.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs against your skin and then his fingers are hooking into your panties, dragging them down your legs. "Can't think straight when I look at you."

"Bucky—" Your hand fist in his hair as his mouth finds where you're already wet for him, and the sound he makes is pure appreciation.

"Shh," he says reaching for your mouth with one of his hands, you whimper against his hand. "Quiet."

He takes his time with you, like he always does. Builds you up slowly with his mouth and his fingers until you're trembling on the edge, thighs clamped around his head, his name spilling from your lips against his hand. When you finally come apart, he works you through it with gentle precision, not stopping until you're boneless and gasping.

"Need you," you manage, tugging at his shirt. "Please, I need you."

He strips efficiently, and then he's settling between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "Look at me," he commands softly, and when your eyes meet his, he pushes inside in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch is perfect, it's always perfect. You moan his name as he bottoms out and he kisses you to keep you quiet.

"Shit, you feel incredible," he groans quietly and then drags a finger along your slit, circling your clit. "Look how pretty she looks, taking my cock like a champ. It's like she was made for me."

He moves with controlled intensity, each thrust deliberate and deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. His hands are everywhere—cupping your breast, thumbing your nipple, gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, and the curse that tears from his throat is filthy.

"That's my girl," he rasps, picking up the pace. "You know what you do to me? How crazy you drive me?"

"Tell me," you gasp, nails raking down his back.

"Think about you all day." His voice is wrecked, hips snapping harder now. "During my act, at dinner with your dad." He groans. "Sitting across from him knowing you'll sneak into my trailer later, knowing I'm betraying my best friend every time I touch you."

The guilt in his voice should bother you, instead, it makes you clench around him.

"Don't think about him," you whisper. "Just think about me."

"Always thinking about you," he breathes, and his thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure. "Come for me, baby. Need to feel you."

The combination of his fingers and the angle of his thrusts sends you over the edge with a muffled cry. He follows moments later, burying himself deep as he groans your name against your neck. For a long moment, you just hold each other, breathing hard, hearts racing in sync.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder. "Absolutely incredible."

After, when you're curled against his side and his fingers are tracing idle patterns on your spine, you feel brave enough to say it.

"I'm really glad we're doing this." Or at least, you try.

His hand stills for just a moment, then continues its gentle path. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Really glad."

He tilts your chin up so he can see your face, and the softness in his expression makes you melt. But there's something else there too, something that looks like worry.

"Me too, sweetheart," he says quietly. "Me too."

But he doesn't sound as sure as he did two months ago.

Outside, a train whistle sounds in the distance—the circus will be moving to the next town in three days. Inside this small trailer, surrounded by the faint smell of leather from his riding gear and the ever-present glitter that seems to get everywhere, you try to ignore the feeling that something is shifting.

You fall asleep in his arms, still covered in glitter, trying to hold onto this perfect moment. And in the ringmaster's trailer, your father sleeps, unaware that his best friend is holding his daughter.

The world starts to tilt three days later.

You notice it in small ways first, Bucky is still sweet with you, still makes you laugh during rehearsals, still watches you perform with that soft look in his eyes. But he doesn't come to your trailer as often, and when he does, he seems distracted. Guilty.

You're heading back to the dressing tent after a supply run when you hear voices behind the equipment trailer. One of them is Bucky's, and you're about to call out when you hear the other voice—your father's. You freeze.

"You've been different lately," your father says, and you can hear the concern in his voice. "Distracted, is everything okay?"

"I'm fine, William." Bucky's voice sounds strained. "Just tired."

"You sure? Because you seem…" Your father pauses. "I don't know, I feel like you've been acting evasive lately. It's almost as if you're acting guilty."

Your heart stops.

"Guilty?" Bucky laughs, but it sounds forced. "What would I have to be guilty about?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking." There's a pause. "Some of the crew have been talking, saying they've seen you around sneaking around at night. Are you into drugs again? Because if you need help with that, you know you can tell me about it. We'll deal with it again. You don't have to be alo—"

"What? Of course no!" Bucky cuts him off. "Just having some trouble sleeping, you know how it is."

"Yeah," your father doesn't sound convinced. "Well, if there's anything you need to tell me, you know you can, right? You know I've always seen you like the little brother I never had."

"I know," Bucky's voice is rough. "I know, William."

They must walk away after that, because you don't hear anything else. But you stand there, frozen, your heart pounding furiously. People are noticing, talking. Your father knows there's something wrong. And Bucky lied to him.

Because of you.

The next time you see Bucky is that evening, near the stables. You approach him, but he's not alone—he's talking to Candace, the magician's assistant.

She's beautiful in that dangerous way, all red lips and dark eyes, wearing one of her stage costumes even though it's the middle of the afternoon: a corseted bodysuit that shows miles of leg, fishnets, heels that could be weapons. Her costume makes your look like a child dress-up fit.

And Bucky is laughing in a way he hasn't with you in days.

His hand touches her shoulder—brief, casual, nothing inappropriate, but it's the ease of it that kills you. The way he's comfortable with her. The way he's not looking over his shoulder, worried about who might see.

She says something and he grins, and it hits you like a punch to the gut. With her, he doesn't have to hide. With her, there's no guilt, no betrayal, no risk.

She's confident. Sexual. Mature. Age-appropriate. Everything you're not.

You watch them for another moment before turning away, something cold settling in your chest.

That night, Bucky doesn't come to your trailer.

Or the next night.

Or the next.

On the fourth night, you wait until after the show and go to him instead. He opens the door in just his jeans, hair damp from a shower, and his eyes widen when he sees you.

"Sweetheart, what are you—"

"Why have you been avoiding me?" The words come out sharper than you intended.

He winces, glancing past you like he's checking to see if anyone saw you come here. "I wasn't avoiding you."

"You haven't come to see me in almost a week, Bucky."

"I know, I just—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I've been thinking."

Your stomach drops. "Thinking about what?"

"About us. About what we're doing." He won't meet your eyes. "About your father."

"My father doesn't have to know—"

"He already suspects something!" Bucky's voice rises, then he catches himself, lowering it again. "He asked me point-blank if something was going on… and I lied to him. To my best friend. To the man who's been like a brother to me for fifteen years."

"Bucky—"

"You're his daughter." He finally looks at you, and the anguish in his eyes makes your chest ache. "You're twenty-six years old and I'm almost forty. I met you when you were barely an adult. What we're doing— it's wrong."

"It's not wrong," you argue, but your voice shakes. "We're both adults. We both want this, please, look at me. I was eighteen when we first met, not a child—"

"That doesn't make it better!" His voice cracks."You're still his daughter, and I'm still his best friend. And I should've been strong enough to say no when you first kissed me, but I was selfish and I wanted you so fucking badly that I didn't care who I hurt."

You're crying now, you can feel the tears streaming down your face. "You're not hurting anyone."

"I'm hurting him, every day I lie to him. Every time I look him in the eye and pretend I haven't been sleeping with his daughter." He shakes his head. "This has to stop."

"What?" The word comes out broken.

"We have to end this before he finds out. Before we destroy our friendship and his relationship with you."

"No." You step toward him. "No, Bucky, please—"

"I'm sorry." But he's already pulling away. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. But this—us—it wasn't supposed to happen, and it can't continue."

"So that's it?" Your voice is rising and you don't care who hears anymore. "You're just going to end it? Just like that?"

"It's for the best."

"For who?" You're sobbing now. "For you? So you don't have to feel guilty anymore? So you can go back to being my dad's perfect best friend?"

"For both of us," he says quietly. "And for your father. He deserves better than this."

"And what about what I deserve?" The question hands in the air between you.

He looks at you with such pain in his eyes. "You deserve someone who doesn't make you sneak around and lie to your family. Someone your father would approve of."

"I don't want someone my father approves of." Your voice breaks. "I want you."

"I know," he reaches out, like he's going to touch you, then drops his hand. "But we can't always get what we want."

You stand there, staring at him, and the distance between you feels like miles even though he's right in front of you.

"Please don't do this, it doesn't have to end like this, please."

His jaw clenches as he looks away from you. "How is it supposed to end, then?"

"I don't know, but not like this. Not with you pushing me away because you're scared."

"I'm not scared—"

"Yes, you are!" You swipe at your tears angrily. "You're scared of what my dad will think. Scared of what people will say. Scared that maybe I'm too young or you're too old or that this is wrong. But you know what, Bucky? I'm not scared, I know what I want. And I thought you did too."

For a moment, he just looks at you. And you can see it in his eyes—he does want you. He wants this, but fear and guilt are stronger.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I'm so sorry."

And then he closes the door. You stand there in the dark, crying, and you've never felt more alone.

The meetings had always been secret. Not the romantic kind of secret—not stolen glances and hidden love letters. The shameful kind, the kind where you park your trailer at the edge of the lot so no one sees you slip into his after midnight. The kind where you wash your hair twice to get rid of the smell of is cologne before breakfast with your father. The kind where he won't hold your hand during the day, won't look at you too long, won't give anyone a reason to suspect.

You'd told yourself it was worth it. That the secrecy was temporary, that eventually you'd find a way to tell your father, to make this real.

But now, standing outside Bucky's locked door, you realize the truth: it was never going to be real. You were always going to be his secret, his shame, a mistake he made.

And you'd ruined yourself for him anyway.

The next few days are a special kind of torture.

You still perform, still smile at the crowds, still sit at breakfast with your father and pretend everything is fine. But at night, alone in your trailer, you fall apart.

You think about how it started—not eight years ago when you were eighteen years old and starry-eyed, but slowly, over the years. The way he started looking at you differently when you turned twenty-three, the way conversations lingered a little longer when you were twenty-four, the way he touched your hand helping you down from the rigging when you were twenty-five and the spark that went through both of you.

You'd been the one to make the first move. Two months ago, after a particularly good show, high on adrenaline and tired of dancing around it, you'd kissed him, and he'd kissed you back like he'd been waiting for permission.

He taught you things—about yourself, about desire, about what it meant to want someone so badly you'd destroy yourself for stolen moments. There was a secret language between the both of you that you were sure you wouldn't be able to speak it with anyone else.

And you hated him for it.

But you hate yourself more for still wanting him.

It was your father who noticed the change on your demeanor first.

"You okay, honey?" he asks one morning over coffee. "You seem… off lately."

"I'm fine, dad." The lie tastes bitter.

"You sure? Because if something's bothering you—"

"I said I'm fine." You stand up too quickly, nearly knocking over your mug. "I need to get ready for rehearsal."

You see Bucky everywhere. It's impossible not to—the circus isn't that big. You watch him during his act, standing on his back Friesian as it gallops around the ring and you remember what it felt like to have those hands on your skin. You pass him backstage and smell his cologne and fight not to cry. You sit at dinner with him and your father and have to pretend you're not dying inside when they laugh about old times.

And the worst part? He calls you 'kid' now.

"Hey kid, can you pass the salt?"

"Good job tonight, kid."

Kid. Like you didn't have his name on your lips two weeks ago while he was inside you. Like he didn't tell you that you were beautiful, perfect, everything he wanted. Like you weren't enough to fight for.

Every time he says it, something inside you crumbles a little more. You want to scream at him. But you don't. You just smile and nod and let him reduce you to nothing.

It's been two weeks when you overhear your dad and Bucky again.

You're not trying to eavesdrop this time. You're just walking past your father's trailer when you hear voices through the open window.

"She's my daughter, Buck." Your father sounds tired. "If something's going on with her, I need to know."

"I don't think anything's going on," Bucky says, but his voice is strained. "She's probably just… growing up. Mid-twenties are a weird age."

"Yeah, maybe." Your dad sighs. "I just worry about her, you know? Ever since her mom passed, I feel like I don't know how to talk to her about… woman stuff."

"She's a good kid, William. You and Connie raised her right."

There it is again. Kid.

"I know, I know." Your father sighs. "It's just— I saw her crying the other night, and when I asked her about it, she said it was nothing. But it didn't look like nothing."

You were crying because of Bucky. Because you'd seen him laughing with Candace again, so easy ad light, while you felt like you were drowning.

"She's probably just got some crush or something," Bucky says, and you can hear him trying to sound casual. "You know how it is at that age, everything feels like the end of the world."

"Yeah, probably." Your father laughs softly. "Remember when you had that crush on the trapeze artist? What was her name?"

"Don't remind me," Bucky groans. "I made a complete fool of myself."

They laugh together and something cracks open in your chest. That's all you are to him. A foolish mistake. Something he can laugh about with your father while you're falling apart.

You walk away before you can hear more, but the damage is done.

That night, you make a decision.

If Bucky thinks you're just a kid with a crush, you'll show him exactly what he's missing. You'll show him—show everyone—that you're not some silly girl, that you're a woman. That you're worth the risk, worth the scandal, worth fighting for… even if you have to ruin yourself to prove it.

You start with your costume.

The pink tutu has always made you feel pretty, but pretty isn't enough anymore. You need to be devastating. Unforgettable. Impossible to ignore.

You find one of the backup costumes—black and silver, cut high on the thighs and low on the chest. More straps than fabric. The kind of thing that makes men stare and women whisper. You add heavier makeup, dark, smoky eyes. Deep red lips. Sharper contour. You look older, harder. Nothing like the girl Bucky called 'kid'.

When you step out for the opening number that night, you feel every eye on you. The crowd goes wild. The other girls stare. The stage hand whistle.

And Bucky— Bucky looks at you like you've punched him in the gut. Good.

It becomes a pattern.

Each night, your costume get smaller and your makeup darker. Your choreography gets more provocative—more hip rolls, more floor work, more everything.

The attention is immediate and uncomfortable. Men linger after shows, asking for autographs with hungry eyes, someone sends flowers wit a note that makes your skin crawl. The ringmaster—your father—mentions it during notes.

"Great energy from the opening girls," he says, but his eyes linger on you a little too long. "Crowd loved it, but maybe we dial it back just a touch? We're a family show."

You see Bucky's jaw clench from across stage, but he doesn't say anything.

Later, he corners you behind the big top.

"What are you doing?" His voice is low, dangerous.

"Performing." You don't look at him. "Isn't that what I'm here for?"

"You know what I mean." He steps closer, and you can smell his cologne. It makes you dizzy and you hate yourself for being weak. "The costumes, the makeup… this isn't you."

"How would you know what I am?" You finally look at him flinch at the hardness in your eyes. "Maybe this is who I want to be. Maybe I'm tired of being a good kid with a stupid crush."

His face goes pale. "You heard that."

"Yes, I heard." You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly aware of how exposed you are in this costume. "I heard you and my dad laughing about how foolish young crushes are. How everything feels like the end of the world at my age."

"I didn't mean—"

"Yes you did," you're crying now and you hate yourself for it. "You meant every word. I'm just a kid to you. A mistake. Something you're ashamed of."

"That's not true—"

"Then why won't you fight for me?!" The words explode out of you. "Why won't you tell my dad the truth? Why won't you choose me?"

He looks at you with such anguish that for a moment, you think he's going to say it. Going to tell you he loves you, that he'll fight for you, that he'll risk everything. But he doesn't.

"You think your father would appreciate me taking advantage of his daughter? After he gave me everything? I owe him my fucking life, how do you think he would take the fact I betrayed him?"

Your throat hurts so bad, but you force yourself to swallow down the knot on your throat and shook your head. "So you rather keep your debt paid that being with me."

He flinches. "It's not about debt."

"Yes it is!" You wipe your tears with anger. "You feel like you owe him everything, and you think being with me would make you ungrateful. For once I thought you loved me, but now I know what it really meant to you."

"Sweetheart—"

"You're a fucking coward."

You walk away before he can respond, and you don't look back.

The next few weeks blur together.

You keep transforming, keep pushing, keep trying to be someone worthy of the scandal, worthy of the risk. Bucky watches from the shadows, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides. But he doesn't come to you. Doesn't try to stop you. Just watches while you destroy yourself to prove a point.

Your father notices, of course he does.

"Honey, are you sure you're okay?" he asks one night after a show. "You just seem… different lately."

"I'm fine, Dad." The lie comes easily now. You've had practice.

"It's just— I've heard some guys making comments about your costumes, and I just want to make sure you're sure about what you're doing. That you're doing this for the right reasons."

"I'm doing this for myself," you tell your father.

It's the biggest lie of all.

It happens on a rainy Tuesday night, three weeks after the breakup.

You're walking back to your trailer after the show, still in your costume—the tiny one that makes your father frown and Bucky clench his jaw. The rain is coming down hard, and you're soaked by the time you reach the trailers. You're not paying attention, head down against the rain, so you don't see Bucky until you literally run into him.

"Sorry, I—" You look up, and the words die in your throat.

He's standing in the rain, already soaked, and the look on his face is wild and desperate.

"We need to talk," he says.

"We have nothing to talk about." You try to step around him, but he catches your arm.

"Please," his voice breaks. "Please, just give me five minutes.

You should say no and walk away. But you're so tired of hurting and he looks as broken as you feel.

"Five minutes," you say.

He pulls you toward his trailer, out of the rain. Once inside, you stand dripping on his floor, arms crossed, waiting.

"I can't do this anymore," he says.

"Do what?"

"This," he gestures between you. "Pretending I don't love you. Pretending I don't think about you every second. Watching you destroy yourself and not being able to stop it."

Your heart is pounding. "You ended it. You chose—"

"I know what I chose!" He runs hand through his wet hair. "And I was wrong. I've been wrong about everything, I thought I was protecting you, protecting your relationship with your dad, but all I did was hurt you. Hurt us both."

"Bucky—"

"You were right, I'm a coward. But I was terrified of how much I love you, of what it means that I can't stop thinking about my best friend's daughter. Of how badly I want you even though I shouldn't."

"You love me?" your voice is barely a whisper.

"I'm in love with you." The words come out raw, desperate. "I have been since the first time you kissed me, maybe even before that. And it's killing me to see you like this and not be able to fix it."

"Then why—"

"Because I'm an idiot," he says, voice breaking. "Because I thought I owed your father more than I loved you because he saved my life and I convinced myself that being with you would somehow negate all that. Make me ungrateful, disloyal…"

His hands cup your face, forcing you to look at him. "But loving you isn't a betrayal. I was so focused on the debt I owed him that I forgot what actually matters. You. And I'm done letting guilt destroy the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You're crying now. "You can't just— you can't just say that now. After everything…"

"I know, I know… and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." He cups your face, thumbs wiping at your tears even though his hands are shaking. "But I can't watch you hurt yourself anymore. I can't pretend I don't want you, I can't—"

You don't let him finish. You grab his shirt and pull him down into a kiss.

It's desperate and messy, and three weeks of pin and longing all at once. He kisses you back like a drowning man finding air, his hands in your wet hair, pulling you closer until there is no space between you.

"I love you," you gasp against his mouth. "I love you so much and I hate you for leaving me—"

"I know baby, I'm sorry—" He's kissing your jaw, your neck, his hands already finding the clasps of your costume. "Let me make it up to you. Let me—"

The door slams open and you both freeze.

Your father is standing in the doorway, rain pouring behind him, and the look on his face is something you've never seen before.

"Dad—" you start, but he holds up a hand.

"Get the fuck away from my daughter." His voice is low, dangerous and directed at Bucky.

"William—" Bucky steps back, but keeps himself between you and your father. "Let me explain."

"Explain?" Your father laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Explain what, exactly? How you've been fucking my daughter? How you've been lying to my face for— how long. Buck? How long has this been going on?"

"Dad please—" You try to step forward, but Bucky puts hand out to stop you.

"Two months," Bucky says quietly. "It's ben two months. But it's not— it's not what you think."

"Really?" Your father's voice raises. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my best friend—the man I trusted with my life—has been sneaking around with my daughter behind my back. Tell me how that's not what I think, Buck."

"I love her." Bucky's voice is steady now, even though you can feel him trembling. "I'm in love with her, William. And she loves me, it's not— this isn't some cheap affair. This is real."

"Real?!" Your father's face goes red. "She's twenty-six! You're thirty-nine! I brought you into this circus, into our family. I trusted you with everything, and this is how you repay me?"

And then he lunges. Your father crosses the distance in two strides and swings, his fist aimed straight at Bucky's face. Bucky doesn't move, but you throw yourself between them, and your father's fist stops inches from your face.

For a moment, everything freezes.

Your father is staring at you, breathing hard, his fist still raised. Bucky has his hands on your shoulders, trying to pull you back behind him. You're standing your ground, arms spread, protecting Bucky with your body.

"Move," your father says, his voice shaking. "This is between me and him."

"No." Your voice is firm even though you're terrified. "If you want to hit him, you'll have to go through me."

Your father looks at you like he doesn't recognize you. "You're defending him? After what he did?"

"He didn't do anything to me, dad. We did this together, I kissed him first, I pursued him. I—"

"For god's sake, you're twenty-six year old!" Your father's voice cracks. "You don't understand what you're doing, he's manipulated you—"

"It wasn't like that," Bucky says quietly. "William, I swear to you, I never—"

"I don't care what you swear or not. Your words mean nothing to me now." Your father's voice sounds cold and you flinch. You've never heard your father like this. "You don't get to speak. You don't get to—" He takes a shaking breath. "I want you gone."

The words drop like stones.

"What?" Bucky's voice is barely a whisper.

"You heard me." Your father's face is hard. "I want you out of this circus. Out of our lives. I'll give you until morning to pack your things."

"Dad you can't—" You start, but he cuts you off.

"I can and I will. This is my circus and I won't have him here. Not after this."

"Then I'm leaving too," you say, and both men turn to stare at you.

"What?" Your father looks stricken.

"If Bucky goes, I go." Your voice is shaking but determined. "I love him, Dad. I love him, and I'm not letting him walk away again."

"You don't have any idea of what you're saying—"

"Yes, I do." Tears are streaming down your face. "I know exactly what I'm saying. I love him. And if you make him leave, you'll lose me too."

Your father looks between you and Bucky, and for a moment you think you see his resolve waver. But his face hardens again.

"Fine," the word is bitter. "If that's your choice."

"Sweetheart, no." Bucky's hands tightens on your shoulders. "This is your home, you can't leave your father—"

"You're my home," you say, turning to look at him. "Wherever you are, that's home."

"William, please." Bucky looks past you to your father. "Don't do this, be angry at me. Hate me. Hit me if you need to, but don't make her choose. Don't make her leave everything she knows because of my mistakes."

"Your mistakes?!" Your father laughs bitterly. "You think this is your mistake? You think I don't see what's happening here?" He looks at you. "She's willing to throw away everything for you. Her family, her home. The circus she grew up in, and you're going to let her?"

"I don't want her to," Bucky says, and his voice is breaking. "William, I never wanted any of this—"

"But you did it anyway." Your father shakes his head. "You saw my daughter, and you took her, and you didn't think about the consequences."

"I thought about it every single day!" Bucky's voice raises. "Every time I was with her, every time I lied to you, I thought about what I was doing, and I hated myself for it. But I love her, William. I love her more than I've ever loved anyone, and I can't—I won't give her up again."

The trailer is silent, except for the rain drumming on the roof. Your father looks at you both, and you can see the grief in his eyes. The betrayal and the pain.

"I want you gone," he says quietly. "Both of you. I can't look at either of you right now."

He leaves, slamming the door behind him so hard the whole trailer shakes. You stand there, still in Bucky's arms, both of you trembling.

"It's going to be okay," Bucky murmurs into your hair, but he doesn't sound convinced. "We'll figure this out."

But you both know that some things, once broken, can never be the same.

You don't go back to your trailer that night. You stay with Bucky, curled up in his bed, both of you are awake, staring at the ceiling.

"You can't leave the circus," he says in the darkness. "This is your whole life."

"You're my whole life," you whisper back.

"Sweetheart—"

"I mean it, Bucky. If you go, I go. I'm not staying here without you."

He pulls you closer, and you can feel his heart racing. "Your father will come around, he has to. And when he does—"

"And if he doesn't?"

The question hangs in the air between you.

"Then we'll leave together," he says finally. "We'll find different jobs. We'll figure it out."

"Together?"

"Together," he kisses your temple. "I'm not letting you go again, no matter what."

You fall asleep in his arms, not knowing what tomorrow will bring, but knowing that wherever you go, you'll go together.

Morning comes too soon.

You wake up to gray light filtering through the trailer windows and the sound of rain still pattering on the roof. Bucky is already awake, staring at the ceiling.

"We should start packing," he says quietly.

The words make it real.

You sit up, looking around the trailer that's been home for over a decade for him. His riding gear hanging by the door, photos pinned to the walls. The small life both of you've built here, about to be dismantled.

"Okay," you whisper.

You go back to your own trailer to pack your things. The other showgirls are already up, and the whispers start the moment you appear.

Candace catches your arm as you pass. "Is it true? You and Barnes? Your dad found out?"

You nod, not trusting your own voice.

"And he's making him leave?"

"We're both leaving." Your voice cracks on the words. "If Bucky goes, I go."

Candace pulls you into a tight hug. "Oh honey, I'm so sorry."

"No…" You pull back, wiping at your eyes. "I knew what I was risking."

"But you love him."

"Yeah," you manage a weak smile. "I really do."

Inside your trailer, you start pulling clothes from the closet, folding them mechanically. Your costumes—the pink one, the black one, all of them— each one holds a memory: your first performance, the night you kissed Bucky for the first time, the weeks you spent destroying yourself trying to get his attention.

You're packing them into your suitcase when there's a knock at the door.

For a moment, hope flares. Maybe it's your father. Maybe he's come to say—

But it's just Rose, one of the other performers, with a sad smile and a cup of coffee. "Heard you might need this," she says.

Word has spread. Of course it has. In a circus, there are no secrets for long.

By noon, both trailers are mostly packed. The rain has stopped, but the sky is still gray and heavy. You and Bucky work in silence, loading boxes into his truck.

The circus grounds feel different. People are watching—trying to not be obvious about it, but watching nonetheless. Some look sympathetic, others judgmental. Your father is nowhere to be seen.

"That's the last of it," Bucky says, closing the truck bed. He looks exhausted. Defeated.

You're about to respond when you see movement from your father's trailer. The door opens, and he steps out. He stands there, watching you both.

For a long moment, nobody moves.

You wait for him to say something, to stop you, to change his mind… but he doesn't. He just stands there, watching, as you climb into the passenger seat of Bucky's truck.

Bucky hesitates, hand on the driver's door. "William—"

Your father turns and walks back into his trailer. The door closes with a finality that makes your chest ache.

"We should go," you say quietly, even though a part of you wants to run after him.

Bucky nods as he gets in the truck. As you drive away from the circus grounds, you watch in the side mirror. The big top gets smaller, the trailers fade into the distance. Everything you've ever known disappearing behind you.

You don't let yourself cry until you can't see it anymore.

Five days later

You're somewhere in Oklahoma, or maybe it's Kansas. The days blur together when you're living out of a truck, sleeping in cheap motels, eating diner food because it's all you can afford.

Bucky got a job at a small rodeo show two towns over. It's not the circus—it's rough and dirty and the pay is terrible—but it's something. You've been helping set up, selling tickets, doing whatever needs doing.

But at night, you lie awake in whatever motel room you've scraped together money for, and you miss home so badly it physically hurts. You miss Candace's laugh, Rose's terrible jokes. You miss the smell of sawdust and popcorn and the sound of the crowd cheering.

You miss your father.

Bucky doesn't say it, but you know he's barely holding it together. He wakes up with nightmares, calling out for him. During the day, he's quiet, withdrawn.

By the six night, you wake up in another motel room that smells like mildew and cigarettes. The wallpaper is peeling, there's a suspicious stain on the ceiling, and you can hear the people in the next room, arguing through the paper-thin walls. Bucky's already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone.

"Morning," you say, your voice hoarse from the cold air from yesterday. The heating didn't work at all.

"Morning, sweetheart." He tries to smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

You sit up, wrapping the scratchy motel blanket around yourself. "What time do you have to be at the rodeo?"

"Noon." He runs a hand through his hair. "They said they might have more work next week if I do well today."

"That's good."

"Yeah." But his voice is hollow.

You look at the room—at the sagging mattress, the broken TV, the coffee maker that doesn't work. This is the fourth motel in six days. Each one worse than the last one because you're running our of money. Yesterday, you'd split a single burger for dinner because that's all you could afford.

"I'm going to get coffee," Bucky says, standing up. "There's a gas station down the street. You want anything?"

"I'm okay."

Bucky doesn't go to the gas station.

He walks three blocks in the opposite direction, phone clutched in his hand, until he finds a quiet spot behind an abandoned building. He's been carrying William's number in his phone for six days, looking at it, thinking about calling. Talking himself out of it.

But this morning, when he woke up and saw you curled up on that stained mattress, wearing the same clothes you've been wearing for three days because you can't afford a laundromat, when he heard your stomach growl because you gave him most of the burger last night—

He can't do this anymore.

His hands shake as he dials, and your father answers on the second ring. "Buck?"

The sound of his voice—rough with emotion, desperate— almost breaks Bucky completely.

"William," he manages.

"Where are you? Are you guys okay? Is she— is she okay?"

"We're in Tulsa." Bucky's throat is tight. "There's a motel on Route 66, the Starlight Motor Inn. We're in room 12."

"Tulsa, okay… Okay. I'm about an hour away. I can be there—"

"Don't come to the motel," Bucky says quickly. "She can't know I called you."

"What?"

"There's a diner. Ruby's, two blocks from the motel. We'll be there around six, for dinner." He laughs bitterly. "Or what passes for dinner these days."

"Buck—"

"She's not okay, William." The words come out broken. "She's pretending to be, she keeps saying she's fine, that we'll figure it out, but she's not fine. We're staying in awful places, we're eating one meal a day. I'm working at a rodeo that pays shit… and I can see it wearing her down."

"Jesus Christ—"

"I can't—" Bucky's voice breaks completely. "I can't watch her live like this. Can't watch her try to hid that she's crying in the shower." He's crying now, not bothering to hide it. "I'd rather lose her and know she's safe and happy than keep her and watch her struggling for me. So I'm telling you where we are. But William— she can't know I called you. She needs to think you found us on your own. That you came looking. Can you do that?"

There's a long silence on the other end.

"You really love her," he says quietly.

"More than my own life." Bucky wipes at his eyes. "More than my pride, more than anything. That's why I'm calling you."

"I'll be there at six," William says. "At the diner… and Buck—"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for taking care of her, even like this."

Bucky hangs up before he starts sobbing. He buys two coffees at the gas station—letting them get cold while he sits in the parking lot and tries to pull himself together before going back to the motel. When he walks in, you're up, trying to make the broken coffee maker work.

"Got your coffee," he says, handing you the cup.

"You're the best." You kiss his cheek, and the simple affection almost breaks him again.

That evening, you and Bucky walk to Ruby's Diner.

The diner is one of those old-fashioned places with cracked vinyl booths and a jukebox that probably hasn't worked since 1985. You slide into a booth by the window, and Bucky orders coffee for both of you. He watches you stare at the menu, doing the math in your head—calculating what you can afford, what you should order to make sure he gets enough to eat.

It kills him.

He's about to say something when the bell above the door chimes. You look up and your heart stops.

Bucky doesn't turn around, he doesn't have to. He knows who it is.

"Dad," you whisper.

William is standing in the doorway, looking exactly like Bucky knew he would—exhausted, disheveled. Bucky watches as your father crosses the diner and pulls you out of the booth into a crushing hug. Watches you cry into your father's shoulder while your father apologizes over and over.

"I've been looking for you for three days," he says, and technically it's true. He has been looking, he just had help finding you.

Bucky meets your father's eyes over your shoulder and there's a moment of understanding between them.

"Thank you", your father mouths.

Bucky just nods.

Later, after the tears and apologies and promises to come home, after you've gone to the bathroom to wash your face, your father sits down across from Bucky.

"She can't know about this… ever." Bucky says quietly. "She needs to think you found us, that you came looking because you couldn't stand to lose her."

"I did come looking," William replies. "You just… helped me find you."

"She'd see it as me giving up on us," Bucky says. "As me sending her back to you because I couldn't handle taking care of her. And that's not—" His voice cracks. "That's not what this is."

"I know what this is. This is you loving my daughter more than your own pride… more than your own happiness."

"I just want her to be safe," Bucky says. "To eat real food, to sleep in a real bed, to not have to worry about money or safety or—" He can't finish.

"She will be," your father promises. "You both will be… because you're coming home too."

"William—"

"You think I'm going to let you stay here? Working yourself to death at some shit rodeo while she goes home?" Your father shakes his head. "You're coming home, Buck. Both of you. And we're going to figure this out."

"Why?" Bucky's voice is barely a whisper. "After everything I've done."

"Because you just sacrificed your pride to make sure my daughter was safe. That's not the action of a man I should hate. That's the action of a man who truly loves my daughter. And because I spent the last three days driving around looking for you both. And I realized that I'd rather have you both in my life together than lose you both."

You come back from the bathroom, and both men quickly wipe their eyes.

"Ready to go home?" Your father asks you, standing.

"Yeah," you say, looking at Bucky. "We're ready."

Bucky stands and your father pulls him into a hug.

"Thank you," he whispers, so quietly only Bucky can hear. "For calling me, for loving her enough to be willing to let her go."

"Thank you for coming," Bucky whispers back. "For giving me another chance."

"That's what family does."

You're back at the circus, unpacking your things in Bucky's trailer, when you notice him staring at his phone.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Yeah." He sets his phone down. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

He's quiet for a long moment, then: "About how lucky I am. That your father came looking for us."

"Yeah," you say, smiling. "Me too, I can't believe he found us… what were the odds, right?"

Bucky just nods, the secret sitting heavy in his chest. He'll never tell you. Never let you know that he was the one who called, who gave up, who couldn't stand to watch you suffer anymore.

Because you need to believe that your father came for you. That love won. And maybe, in a way, it did.

Later when you're asleep in his arms, safe and fed, Bucky pulls out his phone one more time.

There's a text from your dad, sent an hour ago.

Thank you for calling me, Buck. You did the right thing. And just so you know, I would've come anyway. I was already looking, you just helped me find you faster… that's what family does for each other. We still need to figure things out, but welcome home brother.

One week later

The circus was in full swing again. Your father and Bucky were working on rebuilding their friendship, it was careful and tentative, but it's progress. You and Bucky were together openly now, and while some people still whisper, most have accepted it.

Tonight, after the evening show, you're in Bucky's trailer. The lights are low, and you're kissing on his bed, hands starting to wander, clothes starting to come off.

"I've missed this," you murmur against his mouth. "Being able to just… be with you. Without worrying."

"Me too," he says, but his voice sounds strained.

You pull back slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He kisses you again, deeper this time, and his hands slide under your shirt. But then he stops.

"Bucky?" You cup his face. "What's wrong?"

He sits up, running both hands through his hair, and you can see his jaw clenching.

"I need to tell you something," he says quietly.

Your stomach drops. "Okay…"

"Before we—" He gestures vaguely at the bed. "I can't do this with you. Can't be with you like this… not with this between us."

"With what between us?" You're pulling your shirt back down, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

He takes a deep breath, and when he looks at you, there are tears in his eyes.

"The diner," he says. "Your father finding us… that wasn't luck. I called him that morning and told him where we were."

The words hang in the air between you. You're quiet for a long moment, processing this, then: "Okay."

"Okay?" His voice sounds surprised.

"Tell me why," you say softly. "Tell me what happened."

He's clearly expecting you to be angry, but when you just sit there, waiting, patient, he takes a shaky breath. "I woke up that morning and looked at you sleeping at that terrible mattress", he says. "And I realized we'd ben splitting one meal a day for almost a week… that the night before I'd heard you crying in the shower and pretending you weren't when you came out."

You don't interrupt, just listen.

"And I thought— what am I doing?" His voice cracks. "I was so busy trying to prove I can take care of you that I was actually hurting you. I was pulling you away from the only family you have, letting some of my pride get in the way of your well-being."

"So you called my dad."

"Yeah. I called him and told him where we were and I asked him not to tell you I'd called. To let you think he'd found us on his own."

"Why?"

"Because I was ashamed. I thought if you knew I'd called him, you'd think I was giving up on us. That I was sending you back like you were a child who couldn't handle the real world."

You're quiet for a minute, trying to absorb all of this. "And why are you telling me now?"

"Because I can't—" He gestures at the bed again. "I can't make love to you with this secret between us. I can't hold you and touch you and be with you knowing I'm lying to you. Even by omission. I should've told you right away… but I was scared."

"Bucky—"

"I'm sorry," he says. "I don't regret calling your father, I'd do it again in a heartbeat because you needed help and I loved you enough to ask for it. But I should have been honest with you."

You're crying now, but you're not angry. You reach for his hand. "Thank you for telling me."

"You're not mad?"

"I'm not mad." You squeeze his hand. "I'm sad that you felt like you had to hide it, but I understand… I was being selfish and when you first ended the things with me. Also, I saw what we were living like, I felt it."

"You do?"

"Yeah," you wipe your eyes. "And honestly? I'm grateful.I was miserable, trying so hard to be strong, to prove I could handle it but I was falling apart."

"I know," he whispers. "I could see it. That's why I called him."

"I wish you'd told me sooner," you say. "But I understand why you didn't. And I'm glad you told me now before we—before we crossed the line again."

"I couldn't do it. Couldn't be with you like that with this secret between us… It felt wrong."

"It would have been," you agree. "Not because of the secret itself, but because we're supposed to be partners, and partners don't keep things from each other."

"I know. I'm sorry…"

"I forgive you," you say simply. "You made a hard choice because you love me… and you're telling me the truth now for the same reason."

"I do love you… So much, more than my pride. More than anything."

You kiss him softly. "I know. And I love you too."

He pulls you into a tight hug and you can feel him shaking. "No more secrets from now on."

He kisses you again, and this time there's no tension. This time when he touches you, it's different. There's no guilt, no hidden truth, no shame. Just the two of you, honest and open and completely present with each other.

Six months later.

The big top is packed. Saturday night, full house, the energy electric. You can smell the popcorn, the sawdust, the excitement that always fills the air before a show. You're wearing a new costume—a rose gold bodysuit with sequins that you designed yourself. It fits perfectly, moves beautifully, and makes you feel like yourself in a way you haven't in a long time. Not the innocent girl, not the provocative performer. Just you, confident and strong.

Candace whistles when she sees you. "Holy shit, girl. You look incredible."

"Thanks," you do a little spin. "Feels good."

The opening music starts and you and the other showgirls sweep into the ring, all smiles and sequins. The spotlight finds you, warm and familiar. You're halfway through your routine, spinning and smiling at the crowd, when the music suddenly stops.

You freeze, along with the other girls. This wasn't part of the act.

The ringmaster—your father—steps into the ring, microphone in hand. He's smiling, which is odd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, voice carrying across the tent. "We have a slight change to tonight's program."

And then Bucky enters the ring. He's not wearing his entire riding costume. He's wearing a dress shirt and a pair of new jeans you've never seen before. He looks nervous and so handsome it makes your chest ache. He walks straight into you, and the crowd is silent now, sensing something important is bout to happen.

"Hi," he says.

"What are you doing?"

"Something I should have done months ago." He takes your hand, and drops to one knee. The whole crowd gasps. "You're the best thing that has ever happened to me, even with everything we've gone through."

He pulls out a small box and the ring catches the spotlight. "Marry me. Please marry me."

You can't speak, can only nod frantically as you drop to your knees in front of him, tears streaming down your face. "Yes," you finally manage. "Yes—-"

He slides the ring onto your finger and pulls you into a kiss, and the big top explodes with applause and cheers and whistles. When you finally pull apart, you're both crying and smiling.

"You propose in front of everyone," you say.

"I wanted everyone to know," he says, cupping your face. "No more hiding like before… just us."

"Just us," you agree.

Your father's voice comes over the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think we can all agree that was better than the scheduled act! Let's give a round of applause for the happy couple— and might I add, doesn't my daughter look stunning in that new costume?"

The applause is deafening and you can only smile through your tears.

After you exit stage hand in hand, the other performers swarm you with congratulations. Bucky keeps his arm around your waist, and you keep looking at the ring on your finger, the way it catches the light, the way it looks against the rose gold of your costume.

"Did you plan this?" you ask him. "The proposal on the same night as my costume debut?"

"Rose told me you were debuting a new costume," Bucky admits. "And I thought that would be perfect, to ask you to marry me while you're being completely yourself—you seemed too excited this morning when you said you had a surprise for me."

You kiss him again. "It was perfect."

"You're perfect," he corrects.

Later, in his trailer, Bucky carefully helps you out of the costume, taking his time to hang it in the small closet you both share.

"We should frame this."

"Really?"

"Really." He turns to face you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch. "So we can tell our kids someday."

"Our kids," you whisper.

"Our kids… our future." He cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones and just looks at you for a long moment.

"What?" you ask softly.

"You said yes," he says, voice thick with emotion. "You're going to marry me… you're going to be my wife."

"I am," you confirm, tears already forming. "I 'm going to be your wife."

He kisses you then, and it's different from all the other kisses. His hands slide down your sides gently. He's seen you naked a hundred times, touched you in every way imaginable, but tonight feels different. He lifts you easily, and you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you to the bed and lays you down with such tenderness it makes you want to cry, his body covering yours.

"Touch me," you breath. "Please, Bucky."

His hands cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak, and then his mouth follows. You arch into him, hands fisting in his hair, and the sound he makes against your skin is pure need.

"I can't believe you're going to be my wife," he murmurs between kisses. "Can't believe I get to have you forever."

"Forever," you echo and then you're helping him out of his clothes, needing to feel his skin against yours.

When he's finally naked, you pull him back down, reveling in the feeling of him—warm and solid and completely yours. His cock is hard against your thigh, and you reach down to wrap your hand around him.

"Fuck," he groans, hips jerking into your touch. "Sweetheart—"

"I want you inside me," you say. "Want to feel you."

He kisses you fiercely, and then his hand is between your legs, fingers sliding through your wetness, circling your clit with perfect pressure.

"So wet for me," he murmurs. "Always so ready."

"Always," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you. "Always for you."

He works you slowly, thoroughly, his thumb on your clit while his fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot over and over until you're trembling on the edge but you stop him.

"Not yet," you beg. "Want to come with you inside me."

He withdraws his fingers and positions himself at your entrance, and for a moment you just look at each other before he pushes inside. You both gasp at the sensation. It's familiar and new all at once—the same stretch and fullness you've felt before, but somehow deeper.

"Oh god," you breathe as he bottoms out. "Bucky—"

"I know," he drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard. "I know baby, I feel it too."

He starts to move, slow and deep, his eyes never leave yours, and you can see everything in them—his love, his absolute devotion.

"You feel so good," he groans. "Made for me."

"Only for you," you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He picks up the pace, his hips snapping harder now, and you can feel the pleasure building in your core. Your hands slide down his back, nails digging into his skin, and he groans in response. The pain is welcome and seem to drive him wild. He captures your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he drives into you harder, deeper, hitting that spot with every thrust.

"Touch yourself," he commands. "Want to feel you come around me."

You slide your hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out.

"That's my girl," he changes the angle slightly, grinding against you with each thrust. "Let me feel you fall apart."

The combination of his movements and your fingers become too much and your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, you cry out his name, not caring who hears.

"Fuck yes," he groans, feeling you clench around him. "That's it, baby."

He keeps moving prolonging your pleasure and he's there too—burying himself deep as he comes with a low groan of your name. For a long time, you just hold each other, breathing hard, hearts racing in sync.

"I'm never going to get tired of that," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Never going to get tired of you."

"Good," you say, smiling against his chest. "Cause you're stuck with me now."

"Best thing that ever happened to me," he murmurs. "Being stuck with you."

You fall asleep like that, tangled together, the ring on your finger catching the moonlight. And in the morning you'll wake up in his arms and do it all over again.

Because you have forever now… and forever starts today.