5. rollercoaster(of love)
summary:
You and Barnes have good days, and you have bad ones. Ones where you orbit like the earth and the moon -- close but never touch. Others where everything is running too hot and you clash like two dying stars. Coffee on Sundays, Monsters on Thursdays, and Fridays he drops it on Dr. Raynor like she can fix it.
pairing:
divinestark!readerxbucky for context: who are you? what are you? why are you here?
other parts: masterlist, one, two, three, four wc: 6.5k
requests: open if you wanna be on the taglist, tell me!
Some days…you and Barnes look like friends. Real friends, like real people. The shower incident? Forgotten. The space / no space day? Gone.
You weren’t sure what had prompted Bucky Barnes to go to Starbucks, but early this very day he had sat beside you like he wanted to ask you something. You were still wearing your shades, and you didn’t know if he was ready to see you without them. Not now, perhaps never. You didn’t know.
He had seen them once, before he was Bucky again. “Yes?” You finally said, looking over at him through your shades finally. You were lounging in one of the kitchen chairs, legs stretched out like you owned the place with an arm hooked over the back of the chair while your other hand held open a very well loved copy of Pride and Prejudice.
A picture of ease, perhaps even cockiness. “Can youmakemecoffeorsomething?” He sighed, scratching at his jaw as he mumbled something incoherent.
“Huh?” You asked him, crossing your legs and shifting towards him. You sat up a little. His eyes swept over you—not leering, just cataloguing. Measuring your body language like it meant something.
“Do you know what a brown su…hm,” He glanced at something worn and folded in his hand. Your eyes were bright with amusement, but he wouldn’t be able to see it.
You bit into your bottom lip as you recognized that he was looking at a Starbucks order. “Bucky Barnes, did you go to Starbies?” You asked him with rapidly growing amusement.
“What? No.” He said deadpan. “I went to Starbucks.” You snorted at that.
“That’s what-Oh, nevermind.” You decided, waving it off. You held your hand out for the order, and the soldier avoided your gaze as he placed it in your hand. His fingers were rough, reluctant. Your touch was gentle, fingers still soft even after the fighting.
You angled your body slightly away to push your glasses up. He shifted with you like a shadow. “Oh! I get this all the time. You want me to make it?”
“Yeah,” He said quietly, almost bashful as he watched the side of your face. He didn’t want you to look at him, not with that all seeing haze. Then again, he wanted it. Yet, he dreaded it.
Ah, the duality of man.
“Okay, I can definitely try.” You said simply, like it wasn’t an act of congress for him to work up the courage to approach you and ask. Though, he knows he wouldn’t have gone to anyone else. He wants it to be you.
In every fucking way.
You stand and let your shades fall to your eyes once more, moving to the kitchen cabinets. “I can’t cook, but I can make some coffee.” You told him with a little smile, glancing over only to find him following.
“Can I help?” He asked, and you falter and nearly drop the espresso machine as you’re pulling it down from the cabinet. He was too close. He smelled like Tom Ford and sweat before it sours. There’s a sick part of you that can practically feel him against your tongue as you run it over your teeth. You want to press your nose into his flesh and just breathe.
You nearly want to bite him, and he bleeds red around the edge of your glasses where you’re so close to seeing him for what he is. He caught the machine with one hand, chest pressing in and caging you against the counter. His free hand hovered near you, but not touching. Not yet.
“Easy, angel.” He said, but his voice went low like it’s a sweet nothing. Like your callsign is a secret name only Bucky can call you. You looked up at him, as the tip of your tongue pressed to the corner of your mouth.
“Yeah, sorry.” You murmured. Your cheeks went pink and you turned in place as he set the machine down. He was still close, chin nearly touching your forehead. You could have melted into him.
He could have melted into - “Okay, so.” You began, and you clapped your hands together. Whatever spell you cast seemed to be banished as you clapped your palms. “There’s brown sugar in the cabinet, can you grab that for me?” You asked, and you almost caught the hesitation.
You missed the way his hands flexed and fingers curled into his palms. Like grabbing you and taking exactly what he wanted nearly crossed his mind. The counters looked sturdy - “Bucky?” You said his name so sweetly, even when you weren’t.
He cleared his throat, handing you the brown sugar. Then he set the coffee down beside it as you got to work.
Your laughter drifted through the kitchen and common areas. “Hey, give me some space here!” You could be heard telling him.
In the other room, Natasha’s head snapped up and Sam met her gaze as Bucky murmured something with a low laugh.
“I told you.” Sam said to her in a hushed tone, and then to Clint who was nowhere to be found. Though, there was an awfully suspicious noise coming from the ventilation shafts.
“I’m helping.” Bucky said low.
“You’re hovering.” You could be heard countering. Had you been any closer, you would have gently elbowed him away.
“Potato, potahto…” He muttered, and then he lifted himself onto the counter beside you. He looked down at you, and he could see your lashes over the rim of the shades. He bit into an apple he had taken from the kitchen table.
You looked up at him, and watched his lips close over the red and green like it was biblical. Bucky’s tongue was the first thing you saw, pressed to the bottom of his mouth. The first bite was torturous, and it felt like slow motion. His tongue ran over his lips in an effort to catch any juice.
He grinned at you, but not like he knew. Like he was enjoying this. That made you feel like an abomination, sexualizing him over an apple. The second bite was easier to stomach if you didn’t look. You did.
His top teeth bit in first, moderately straight teeth crunching into it. His hand, the flesh one, big with long strong fingers and a vein trailing into his sleeve pulled the core of the apple as he bit, the flesh separating from the husk. It was a bigger bite, and he said something as he chewed around it.
His tongue again - fucking A - chased sliding juice over the waxy peel.
“Hm?” You said, still shaking his coffee like it was a martini. “Oh!” You said with a little embarrassed smile. “Yes, it’s done.” You poured the iced coffee into a tall glass with ice, topping it with a cold foam you bought at the store.
You went to hand it to him, missing the longing stare. You always did. “Before you drink this, just remember I’m not a barista, I’m an Avenger.”
“Is it…gonna Avenge me?” He asked you in mock apprehension, taking it slowly. His vibranium hand wrapped around the glass, your fingers slotting in between them with ease.
“Oh, fuck you.” You said back with a snort, and then he sipped it. His eyes rolled back for a moment, closing. You were going to lose your mind. You were losing your mind. You couldn’t keep doing this. From now on, no food or drink in the kitchen when Barnes is around. You decided you have to make it a rule. It’s borderline fucking pornographic.
“It’s good. Really good.” He finally said. “If I ask, can you make me these again?”
“I just taught you how to make it.” You told him, crossing your arms.
“I wasn’t watching the coffee.” He admitted bashfully, and you laughed like it was nothing. It was most definitely something.
…Then there were other days you couldn’t see eye to eye to literally save your life.
It was a team mission. Some HYDRA cell still thriving like fleas amongst rats. You and Bucky were side by side, assigned and ready.
He was half-distracted as he checked your weapons for you. It was a small act of service, automatic, while you spoke something Enochian at the mouth of the jet. Arms folded at the elbows, palms open, facing skyward.
Prayer looked different for you. No clasped hands. No whispered bargains with God. Just Enochian—syllables that seemed to curl around his ankles and sink under his skin. You were a mystery, and yet he knew you better than most. The contradiction burned.
Before takeoff, you moved to sit beside him. You’d been on recons before, but nothing this big. Nothing that demanded the full force of the team.
And nothing that demanded the Iron Angel suit. Sleek Stark tech, nanotech fused with vibranium, hugging your frame. Your shades were gone, replaced with a visor—responsive, interactive, feeding you biometrics, vitals, comms. All Stark’s fingerprints, written across you.
He’d never seen you like this—not as himself—and his pulse was already hammering.
You didn’t buckle, which already pissed him off. Instead, you dug under your seat for a protein bar and water. Eating before missions always unsettled the team, except Sam. Sam, who caught the bar you tossed him without missing a beat.
“Can you—” Bucky exhaled sharply, then did the damndest thing. He reached over and buckled you in himself. Another line crossed. Another rule he broke with you, and what was one more at this point?
His hands were gloved, large, deliberate as he pulled the belt over your middle and shoulders. Tight. Secure. Enough to make you look up at him.
“You make me feel like I’m getting strapped into a rollercoaster,” You mused, chewing.
“Oh, shut up.” His voice was low, muttered, his mouth a sharp line. “You gotta start buckling yourself. What if we hit turbulence and you slip right out of your seat?” He adjusted the strap, tugged your braid free from the harness, careful in a way that made his chest ache.
“Okay, mother hen,” Sam teased. “Angel baby’s got it.”
Bucky scoffed, a sound edged with steel. “Don’t call her that.” His jaw was tight, brows drawn, pretty mouth pressed flat. Sam shot you a look, eyebrows raised, like what’s his deal? You’d noticed it too—the way he’d been wired since the briefing, the weight pressing heavier the closer the jet drew to the facility.
“Buck,” You said finally, and you placed a hand over his forearm. The metal plates shifted beneath the leather, beneath your touch. He didn’t look at you for a moment, but then he turned his head just a little, eyes on the floor. He could hear you though, this you knew. “I’ve got your six.” Is all you said.
His eyes met your visor. He swallowed thickly. This was too familiar, he thought. This air, this mission, this fucking cult.
“Okay?” You said to him again. The jet hit turbulence. His body went rigid, muscles pulled taut like wire. You murmured something—just one word—and the bristle in him eased. The hum of engines softened, the team blurred into background noise. It was just you, and him, in a bubble.
“What did you do?” He asked you, finally meeting your gaze.
“It’s protection.” You said back to him. “Like… a prayer for one.” Your voice was soft as you said it. His flesh hand reached over to where your palm rested over his vibranium forearm.
“I’ve got your six too, Angel baby.” You scoffed a little at that, nose wrinkling. Then he smiled, a reluctant one, but genuine none the less.
When you got into enemy airspace, a few SAMs (surface-to-air missiles) pinged their radar.
“Angel, Falcon,” Steve said, and as this was the first time Bucky had worked as a team on a mission, his brows shot straight to his hairline. “SAMs inbound. We won’t be able to drop the team in, so—”
“Finally. Some action.” You said, and your hand that he had sandwiched between his vibranium and flesh slipped away to unbuckle. Had he missed something? Didn’t they have countermea-
He realized you and Sam were the best countermeasures at their disposal. Disposal was such a filthy word, and he didn’t like it.
“Whoa, what?” Bucky said as you stood.
“I’ll take care of the SAM’s,” You told him, and your visor displayed readings that were reversed. “I’ll meet you on the ground.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—” His pulse spiked. Splitting up wasn’t how you worked. Not with him. Not ever.
“You sit here and look pretty.” You told him. “I’ll see you in a minute.” The smiles only lasted so long.
You checked in on comms, voice clear, steady. Steve gave a thumbs up. Sam bumped fists with you as the deck lowered.
First out, you dove like you’d been born military—arms crossed, body cutting the air clean. His stomach plummeted with you.
Through the jet’s glass, he saw you flick up and roll hard to the side.
“Yeah, I got them pinged. Join me, Sammy.”
Sam laughed as he stepped off the lip of the jet, chasing you into fire.
For Bucky, the ground came up too hard. Too fast. The concrete vibrated up through his boots, rattling in his bones like old chains.
The team had little time to hop out of the jet before the pilot could tuck in somewhere safe for extraction. Gunfire cracked in the distance, muffled by the static in his comms.
The concrete walls weren’t walls—they were commands barked in Russian, they were fists at his back, they were seventy years of being dragged forward without choice by a chain around his throat. The taste of iron was warm in his mouth.
You landed behind him with the sound of wings. Heavy and wrong in a place like this. Your movements were purposeful and sharp as you took to his side.
This was like a scene out of one of his nightmares. It was like being dragged back in. Long concrete corridors, floodlights against rusted fencing. The insignia spray faded on half washed walls. They were still alive.
Like goddamn roaches in the slums.
“Clear,” You said to him, steady. He hated how you could remain so steady and he felt like the rug was about to be pulled from under him. Something felt wrong. Maybe it was him, maybe it was this goddamn place.
You stayed at his six like you had promised, yet his heart pounded in his ears. His stomach felt heavy. His tongue felt too thick to tell you that the air smelled wrong—metallic, old blood baked into concrete—and that this silence wasn’t real. This was the silence weaponized and used against you.
His gaze turned to you, the only true fixed point in any of this. Not here. He prayed. Not here.
You, who knew him disarmingly well, lowered your blade to step to his side. “Talk to me,” You said to him gently.
“I can’t.” He bit out, brows low.
“Look at me.” You all but demanded, and your fingers curled around his wrist for a moment in a desolate hallway. He was forced to face you, and his whole body was stiff. You looked at him from his eyes to his how he planted his feet. “Something is wrong?” He nodded once, exhaled sharply through his nose.
“I just-” Like he had to explain it, like you wouldn’t believe him.
“Then we deviate and make it right.” You said firmly. “Tell me where your gut is leading us. I’ll follow you.” You promised. His gaze darted to one side, then the other. “Then we deviate and make it right,” you repeated, taking a step towards him.
He let you anchor him like that, toes of your boots touching. Like the lead he could tug on to go home. Instead of tucking behind him, you followed at his side, ever present.
You were no longer his shadow, but his partner. You were practically silent, jaw set and eyes watching. You worked well together, like there was a tether you maintained and were never far from.
You couldn’t recall when, but Steve’s voice cracked through the comms. “A-angel? Buck?” He said, breathless. The distant sound of gunfire seemed to skip on the line.
“We’re here.” Bucky answered for them, voice low and rough. There was a millisecond delay, causing him to echo slightly in your comms. Imperceptible to most.
“They knew we were coming, the slate was wiped clean on the west side.”
“How the fuck did they know we were coming? This is clearance five-” Barnes was already tight over it, and your hand found his flesh bicep. You didn’t realize you were even doing it, fingers curling in the material slightly. He softened towards you, body curling and shifting towards you without him even catching it.
“I know.” Steve muttered into the comms. “We’re coming to help clear the east compound with you. S – oming – ten –” You furrowed your brows.
“Stevie?” You said into comms. “Hello? We – “ Barnes pushed you back with one hand over your chest plate. You thumped into the wall with a gasp. He practically covered your body with his own, head ducked into the shadows with you as two guards rushed past into a revolving door at the end of the hall.
“We have to talk to – “ Their words were cut off by the distant clamor in the other room. His hold shifted from your chest plate to your hip. You couldn’t feel his touch through the plating. You just felt the pressure. His head turned then, following where they had walked. Your eyes, however, followed the line of his throat as he swallowed. The strong profile of his nose, the way his tongue wet his bottom lip.
He was beautiful, and it was fucking devastating. He gently squeezed, and then he turned away from you to the door. He nodded his head once, and you followed behind him. You didn’t know how much longer you could pretend not to be attracted to him.
You were not even human. You were made for war, for avenging, not for matters of the heart. You knew better than this. That tether that connected you seemed to snap tight as a few feet grew between you, like a reminder to be present at his side.
It sent your heart racing, and you shook your head to remain present. Looking away from him was like turning your back on God. No, you’ve done that. This was worse. This was turning your back on everything.
You ached for him in a way that was unhealthy, unreal, inhuman.
The den of this compound was a cylindrical room. Rooms lined the walls, small walk ways lining the walls and staring down into the lower floors. Comms static bled into your ears, but something cold and purposeful settled in your bones. Like you had flipped a switch.
You could feel him like another limb, moving like he was tapped right into your nervous system in a way no one ever had been.
“I’ll go low, you go high.” He told you, and you nodded once. “Any trouble, set this shit hold on fire.” He broke free on your right, and you took to the steps on your left.
There weren’t many in the rooms you came across. You had gotten through maybe ten rooms before you saw anyone. A man came out of one room, gun already ready. You kicked into over drive nearly immediately, the slick sound of a blade leaving its sheath. It was sharp gun metal, sliding up through his vest. Thirteen inches of a high carbon steel bowie knife slid through his ribcage like it was cutting butter.
You grit your teeth as you cut up from the navel to the tip of his chin. He didn’t even get the chance to make a noise. You made little work of his body, kicking the fallen soldier back into the room and letting the door swing softly closed. The next one came from behind, releasing a grunt when your elbow slammed into his throat. You used the but of the same blade to crack against his helmet once, twice, and then peeled it off with your fingers.
Something deep and hungry like a growl reverberated from your throat. You wrapped your fingers around his throat with your left hand, cutting off his air as warmth trickled down your fingers where his helmet had cracked his skull open. You set the helmet down quietly, trying to remain covert in the operation despite the inhuman sound you had made.
He choked out a plea and then died, his eye bulging from the ruptured socket grotesquely. You laid him down gently. For your own sake, not for his. Your visor was clear, allowing you to see each and every one of them.
Not all of the men you killed were bad, many were lost. It didn’t matter, you saw their souls. You could see the cracks in the foundation where HYDRA had planted roots. They would be bad men if they continued down this path.
You weren’t here to save them. You were here to eradicate them.
The next one was further up the steps, and when he saw you he wanted to bolt. He turned on his heel, choked out something like he wanted to tell the others “No! She’s here!”
You were there when he turned around, impossibly fast and terrifying with the way you breathed down at him. Your knee kicked into his chest, and he hit the concrete wall behind him with a grunt. He raised his gun to shoot, but you had grabbed his hand and twisted where he held the rifle until his fingers cracked and his wrist hung limp. Your other hand clasped over his mouth, muffling his screams. You punched him in the shoulder that held the gun, shattering that bone.
His arm hung limply as you removed his helmet, looking down into his eyes. An act of mercy, perhaps. You made it quick, pulling him into your chest and breaking his neck in one swift move with your right arm as you held his mouth closed with your left hand.
“Shh.” You grunted, licking your lips. Someone’s blood coated your tongue, but it wasn’t your first taste and wouldn’t be your last.
You nearly missed the man coming up behind you when a shot fired from two floors below where Bucky was handling his own attackers. Your head jerked up at the sound, and your ears picked up on the man opening his mouth behind you. Lips slick with saliva, his skin was wet with sweat.
You could smell everything. Taste everything. The air was electric. A hiss slipped through your teeth as you leapt, hands out like claws, dragging him to the ground. His bones folded beneath your knees with an ugly crack. The catwalk trembled, and for a heartbeat, you sounded less like a soldier and more like something hunting.
You dodged one shot, and from one hand extended a burst of holy fire that caused your target to scream as his clothes melted into his flesh. He fell from the catwalk with a shriek. Comms seemed to kick back in right then.
“-commotion?!” Steve called through comms. “Do you copy?!”
“Hi, Stevie.” You mused, and Bucky could hear you grunt on comms.Bucky jumped when a burning body landed beside him with a thump.
He glanced up instinctively—and for a second, he thought his mind was playing tricks. Through the red strobe of the alarms, he caught a sliver of you on the catwalk above. One hand clamped over a man’s mouth, the other wrenching at his shoulder until the limb came free with a wet snap. Not dislocated. Not broken. Torn away, neat and violent, like pulling meat from bone.
You didn’t roar. You didn’t scream. Just a sharp grunt, almost satisfied, as you shoved the twitching body back into the shadows.
Bucky blinked, heart hammering. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it—maybe smoke, maybe blood loss. But then the spray caught the light, misting down, and he knew.
“So, we’ve been spotted.” Barnes said flatly into his comms. The lights flickered red then, an alarm sounding.
“We’re experiencing some push back at the doors. Get out, now!” Steve called over comms.
“Angel, you head up through the vent.” Barnes commanded, glancing up at the ventilation shaft. The enhanced soldier stepped into the room, chains dragging at his wrists, mask hissing with each labored breath. Tubes pumped into swollen boils along his back, the skin stretched so thin it looked ready to split. He was massive—eight feet of muscle and bile, his body jerking like it could barely contain itself.
Without hesitation, he backhanded Bucky into the wall. The concrete cracked under his weight.
“Angel, respond!” Bucky barked, staggering to his feet, shoulder aching.
“What’s your status, guys?” Steve said over comms, anxious and weary.
The man – who was looking more like a creature than a man, made a noise. The creature tilted its head, the tubes pulsing. When it spoke, the voice crawled through a thick accent, muffled through fluid and metal: “Winter Soldier,” He said in a thick accent. “You’re mine.”
“Oh, fuck me.” Barnes breathed out. The thing engaged Bucky with a strength that Barnes had maybe twelve bodies ago. Maybe.
The monster moved, far too fast for its size, and hurled a table like it weighed nothing. The corner clipped Bucky’s vibranium arm, jolting pain through his body. A chair followed. A steel cabinet. Barnes ducked and weaved, every blow he landed reverberating through his bones—strong enough to stagger most men. But this thing just absorbed it, tubes hissing like a heartbeat.
And then came the smell. Sterile, metallic, chemical. The tang of antiseptic and machine oil. His lungs locked. For a moment, he wasn’t in the room—he was back in the chair. The straps biting into his arms. The cold air of the Hydra facility pressing into his skin. The sound of a handler’s pen scratching notes while they tested his strength against another “volunteer.”
The thing lunged, and for a half-second Bucky saw not the monster but himself—chained, feral, unrecognizable.
“Been waiting for this day, Soldier.” He said angrily, throwing a metal table at Bucky. It clipped his vibranium shoulder and he grunted, nearly falling to his side. He dodged a chair flung at him and uppercut the thing with his left arm. It stumbled back, not expecting his strength.
“Stark? Where the fuck are you? Get out of h-” Bucky grunted as he rolled away from another object. He swiped at it’s legs, but only one buckled. The thing panted for a moment, seemingly struggling with moving back to it’s feet. “Confirm you’re out.” He commanded.
“Понял тебя.” The creature spat, yanking Bucky down by his leg. He reached for the metal bar, tearing it from the floor with devastating strength. MRE’s and liquor bottles clattered to the ground as they fell from the bar. He raised the bar over his head, and Bucky raised his left arm over his head. He’d survive the hit once, but if the monster had the strength to do it twice?
He wasn’t so sure. The blow never came.
There was a flash of heat and something bordering on a roar that shook the ground beneath him. You were a flash of white beneath the flashing red lights. You put your heels together, slamming both feet into the beast's chest with strength that could only be divine.
“Ты его не заберешь.” When did you learn Russian? He wondered as your voice cut like a blade.
The bar was thrown from his grasp as he toppled back with a great rumble. You stood in front of Bucky then, wings flaring and sliding into place beneath your suit. Your visor was gone, probably slipped from your head - which would explain why you hadn’t told him you refused an escape. “Он мой.” Your voice was low, eyes reflecting the flashing lights above like a panther as you poised to strike.
He heaved, ears ringing. For a heartbeat he felt small, frozen. Later he would curse himself for freezing in a place like this. He felt the straps of the chair dig into his flesh for just a moment.
Then he realized that here in this moment, it wasn’t just Hydra’s monster against Bucky. It was now Hydra’s monster against you.
And whatever that made you, even if it was worse, you were still his.
Bucky had no time to stop you as you charged the beast, still struggling to rise. Fire ran up your arms, two bowie blades in your hands. You smelled of blood and something harsh, sweet—like raw power. It made his nose burn.
The monster tried to sit up, but you landed on it, legs latching around its head. Your movements were unnatural, inhuman. Bucky shouted your first name, panic rising in a way he’d never felt before.
The enhanced creature released a cry of pain as you cut its tubes loose. One massive, seven-fingered hand latched onto your braid, trying to pull you off. You doubled down, letting go of its head to clamp onto its arm at the shoulder. Your blades bit into bone, flesh peeling away like orange skin.
Horrific, methodical, predatory—you carved it apart like a thanksgiving turkey. It grabbed you and hurled you several feet. You hit hard, chest plate cracking down the middle. Bucky rushed to your side as you rolled into a crouch.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” he shouted, fury and disbelief mingling.
“What’s status?!” Steve barked over comms. “We’re in!”
Bucky reached for your face where a cut ran down your brow. You didn’t look at him. He watched it heal. You bared your teeth at the enemy—predatory, deliberate. He faltered.
“You should’ve run! Are you insane?!” he yelled again. You shoved him behind a pillar just as a metal bench hurtled toward you both. You leapt aside and charged once more.
Furious, he watched as you smiled at the creature, slurred taunts slipping past your lips. “Yeah… you like that, baby?” The reinforced door behind it gave way, the Avengers rushing in, noses wrinkling at the scent of blood and burning flesh.
“What’s the d—” Steve began, but Bucky reloaded, no time to finish. He turned the corner, gun raised. He couldn’t let you fight this alone.
A head rolled toward him.
His breath caught. His stomach dropped.
“What the fuck is that?” Natasha hissed, the jawless skull nudging Bucky’s foot.
You were panting, standing at the center of the chaos. Eyes flicking over their feet so as not to meet theirs directly. The beast burned beneath you—but you didn’t. Heat licked your skin yet left you untouched. Bucky had never seen this tested theory realized in real life.
You held a pair of dog tags, shoulders rising and falling, head tilted toward your dislocated shoulder as you pressed the metal into Steve’s hand like a present.
“Got him,” you said, finally. Then a smile stretched across your face—slow, predatory, satisfied. Blood coated your teeth, nose subtly reshaping as it healed.
Bucky froze. Horror and fascination warred in his chest. His body betrayed him before he could even process it.
He didn’t speak to you the entire flight back. Your head tipped back as you held your visor in your hand. Eyes closed, letting the storm of energy from the fight settle…then releasing it. A faint twitch in your fingers, almost imperceptible, betrayed that the fight wasn’t fully gone from you.
He couldn’t place his anger. It wasn’t from you besting him on the field. It wasn’t a visceral reaction to your methods, as horrifying as they had been.
No. It was anger that you should have run. Fury because you should have gone up instead of coming back down for him. Rage because your shoulder was dislocated—and you hadn’t said a word.
Instead, you walked the length of the jet with your good hand out, healing the others. You spoke Enochian over wounds like you had fire to spare, turning it into a living, glowing light. Flames licked at everyone else’s injuries, and like a true martyr, you plopped into your seat afterward—refusing to touch your own wounds. Even then, your eyes flicked toward the ceiling, tracking some imperceptible movement as if your predator instincts were still scanning for danger.
You were careless. Not in the quirky way, with quips and one-liners. Careless in the quiet way that made him wonder if you’d done it on purpose. As if the pain was yours alone to carry, something you could nurture and bear like a badge of honor.
“Shoulder’s dislocated,” he said, stopping at the archway of the common living room. You nodded, eyes lowered—but he caught the flash of a sharpened smile, teeth just barely bared, like a predator acknowledging its own survival.
“Yeah,” you replied, clipped but not unkind. Not asking him to put it back for you. And still, somehow, there was the faint scent of iron and fire clinging to you—reminders of what you had been moments before.
He reached for you, and you let him. His breath brushed your neck as he murmured a warning. Your eyebrow twitched, jaw tightening. A faint hum ran under your skin, subtle but unnerving—like the echo of fire still coiling through your veins. With careful pressure, he popped your shoulder back into place. You released a grunt as your head snapped back, tendon and muscle stitching themselves beneath the flesh.
“That was careless,” he said, holding your elbow. You ignored him, slipping from his grasp, head turned away. No visor to shield him from the haze of divinity in your gaze, the tiny sparks of energy dancing along your fingertips.
“I got him,” you said, for the second time that night, voice steady despite the faint shimmer of heat that rippled over your arms.
“I told you to run,” his voice cut hard, and you made a face like you’d snap.
“I deviated and made it right,” you bit out, third time that night. A subtle quiver of muscle beneath your skin made him pause, the inhuman precision still lingering, like a predator that hadn’t fully left the kill.
“You could have been hurt—” His voice was harsh; the anger radiated off him. You could smell it—battle and frustration mingled with the faint iron tang that clung to you, remnants of your own fight.
“You could have been killed,” you shot back, walking with your back to him. Tiny flames flickered over your knuckles, almost imperceptible in the dim cabin light. “You could say thank you—”
“Thank you?” he echoed incredulously. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? I should thank you for nearly getting torn in two—” His voice sharpened, anxiety spiking. Hydra’s stench lingered, their threat still raw in the air. A threat that he had to keep you from. They could have it all if they just left you.
“It was hardly close!”
“It was close enough!” he snapped, grabbing your uninjured arm as if the other shoulder hadn’t healed. “You’re not all-powerful—”
“Listen,” you said, eyes on his chest, unwavering. A subtle flicker of white-hot light traced your forearm for a heartbeat, just enough for him to see it if he looked too closely. “I did what had to be done. That’s how this works.”
“No. This works with you watching my six,” he corrected. “Not going billy-fucking-badass and putting your neck on the line—”
“He was going to crush you!” You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. You wanted to see him, unshielded, no glass separating you. A faint hiss escaped your throat as your muscles tensed—still a little feral, a little ready to leap.
“Then he crushes me—”
“No!” Your voice was firm, raw, unflinching. “No.” Your ungloved hands found his biceps, holding him steady. A ghost of heat ran through your touch, subtle but undeniable. You opened your eyes, fixing them on a single point on his chest.
“You could have literally died. You were naive, and you got lucky. But next time, it may not go—” You pushed him back—not hard, just enough to create space. Sparks of residual fire danced along your fingers.
Everything was running too hot. His lips were just there.
“I did what I had to do,” you said, hand cutting through the air with force. Heat traced faintly up your arm, visible only to him. “I do what I will always do for you. I won’t change because a monster shows up. I won’t change my method. Not if the sky falls, not if you ask, not if it’s dangerous. Not when the alternative is losing a partner. This is just how it is. That’s fucking that.”
You dropped your gloves on the kitchen counter, hands running up your face through dried blood and braided hair. A tiny ember flickered at your fingertips, almost playful, almost feral. “Goodnight,” you said, firm, final.
The door closed without another word.
“...And I don’t want her to change.” Bucky told Raynor the very next time he went in for a session. “It’s not that. She’s just terrifying.” He confessed.
“She’s everywhere, in everything. She’s –” In my fucking blood. If he was an honest man, he would have owned up to it right then. “There’s not one thing she leaves untouched, and she’s so careless on the field. She has tunnel vision and I thought it was her head for a second.” There was one truth out.
He had dreamed of it every single night leading up to this session. He had dreamed that it was your head rolling towards him, jawless with your eyes open and bulging.
“James?” Raynor said, trying to get his attention. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the floor – no angel head in sight. “Are you afraid that maybe you’ll lose her to this fight?”
His fingers curled on his knees, his back straightened. He felt sick at the thought of his dreams becoming a reality. He had placed your head in a casket and had to explain to your father why he let it get you. Pretty eyes he only ever saw when you were dead – “What? No.” He lied.
The notebook opened then, and Raynor began to write. “O-Okay. Yes.” He bit out like it made him sick. “I am…” His jaw worked as he glanced to the wall. “Afraid.”
“Have you talked to her about it?” Raynor asked him.
“No!” He said quickly. “Why would I do that?” You had been fine since the mission. He had been up every night all night. He had listened for your breathing in the next room. He had watched you carefully. Watched your shoulder, watched your body, made sure your head never left your shoulders. He couldn’t stomach it.
Raynor frowned deeply. “Alright,” She finally said. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but I’m sensing that you both need to work through this assignment before we can really move on to pressing matters.”
“Have to do what?” Bucky asked her suspiciously.
“Couple’s therapy.” And all of the air left him like he’d been kicked in the chest.
“Absolutely not.”
if you made it this far ily THIS WAS A LOT LONGER THAN I INTENDED, SORRY! TAGLIST @torntaltos , @lilyyyy2005 , @wandanatissuperior , @mangostrawbsonnyangel , @4ngelberry, @cassity357
