#flushedmilk

Bucky caught your eye from across the room where you were tucked into the armchair. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who knew he was being absolutely played by a toddler and didn't mind one bit. His gaze dropped momentarily to the curve of your stomach, visible beneath your soft shirt, and his expression softened into something so profoundly tender it was almost ache-inducing.

"I think I’m plenty pretty already, Clara," Bucky teased, though he didn't pull away when she reached for a glittery purple clip.

"No," she sighed, exasperated in the way only a toddler can be. "You need more. For the baby."

Bucky’s hand—the warm, human one—reached out to steady Clara as she leaned a bit too far forward. His touch was light, seasoned by a lifetime of knowing exactly how much pressure to apply to keep something from breaking. He wasn't the kind of dad who did "baby talk"; he spoke to her with a grounded, calm respect, treating her like the most important person in the room.

"The baby can't see the clips yet, Peanut," he reminded her gently.

"But she knows!" Clara insisted, patting his metal shoulder before turning her attention back to her handiwork.

Bucky let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning his head back against the cushions. He looked content, his frame relaxed in a way that had taken years to achieve. In this light, with his daughter decorating his arm and his wife resting nearby, the Winter Soldier felt like a ghost from a different lifetime. Here, he was just Bucky—the man who made sure the house was warm, the man who read bedtime stories with a tired but devoted patience, and the man who was currently becoming a very shiny, very decorated canvas for his favorite girl.

Bucky shifted his weight, being careful not to jostle Clara's "workstation" as she started trying to weave a stray ribbon through his thumb joint. His gaze drifted back to you, settling on the way you were resting your hand over the baby. There was a quiet, heavy groundedness to him—the kind of presence that made the whole room feel sturdier just because he was in it.

"You're awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice dropping into that private, intimate register meant only for you. "You okay? Need another pillow?"

Before you could answer, Clara stood up, admiring the metallic arm now covered in a chaotic array of neon plastic and silk bows. "All done! Daddy is a princess."

Bucky looked down at his arm, then back at his daughter with a perfectly deadpan expression. "A princess, huh? Do I get a crown, or is the butterfly clip on my wrist enough for the royal title?"

"You need a wand," Clara decided, already scouting the room for a suitable substitute.

Bucky caught your hand as you moved to get up, his fingers lacing through yours with a gentle but firm pressure. "Stay put," he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles. "I've got the wand-finding under control."

He stood up with a slow, fluid grace, the clips on his arm jingling slightly. He didn't look ridiculous to himself; he looked like a man who finally had something worth protecting. He scooped Clara up into the crook of his human arm, settled her against his hip, and leaned over to press a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead.

"Go back to your book," he said softly, his eyes reflecting the late afternoon sun. "The princess and his advisor are going to go find a wand in the kitchen. Probably one that looks suspiciously like a wooden spoon."

Clara giggled, burying her face in his neck, and Bucky's smile was small, private, and entirely whole as he carried her out of the room.

The kitchen was filled with the rhythmic clatter of Bucky opening drawers, his movements steady and purposeful even as Clara directed him with the authority of a tiny commander. You followed the sound, leaning against the doorframe while folding your arms over the top of your stomach.

"I don’t know, Clara," you teased, watching Bucky hold up a silicone spatula with a look of extreme skepticism. "A princess usually has something with a bit more... sparkle. That looks like it's for pancakes."

Bucky turned his head, a glimmer of amusement lighting up his eyes as he took in your expression. "Listen to your mother, Clara. The Queen has spoken. This is a culinary tool, not a magical one."

Clara huffed, squirming down from his hip to begin her own frantic search through the lower cabinets. Bucky took the opportunity to close the distance between you. He didn't say much—he never needed many words to get his point across—but he stepped into your space, his presence warm and grounding. He reached out with his human hand, his palm coming to rest gently over the curve of your belly. He waited, his breath hitching just a fraction, until he felt that familiar, sharp little kick against his skin.

"She’s active today," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rasp that always felt like a secret shared between just the two of you. "Must have heard us talking about her."

"She’s probably just protesting the 'princess' title," you joked, though you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a long breath. "She’s been doing gymnastics in there since breakfast."

Bucky’s thumb traced a slow, soothing circle against the fabric of your shirt. His focus was entirely on you, his brow furrowed in that characteristic way that showed he was checking in, cataloging your comfort the same way he used to catalog threats. He wasn't hovering, but he was there, a constant and unwavering anchor.

"Are you tired?" he asked, his gaze searching yours. "I can take Clara to the park for an hour. Give you some actual quiet."

"And leave you alone with a toddler who thinks your arm is a jewelry box?" You laughed, reaching up to adjust one of the butterfly clips that was hanging precariously from his wrist. "I think I'd rather stay and watch the chaos. Besides, you're doing a great job, Your Highness."

Bucky caught your hand, holding it against his chest for a second. The metal of his other arm was still adorned with pink and purple plastic, a stark contrast to the man who had survived more wars than he cared to count.

"I found it!" Clara shrieked, emerging from the pantry with a long, wooden pasta spoon. She brandished it toward Bucky's knees. "Daddy, kneel! I have to make you magic."

Bucky looked from the spoon to you, a resigned but soft smile playing on his lips. "Duty calls," he sighed, though he didn't move to let go of your hand just yet. He leaned in, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your lips—one that tasted like home and the promise of a future he was finally allowed to keep. "Don't get up. I'll handle the knighting ceremony."

He moved away, dropping to one knee on the linoleum floor with a heavy thud, bowing his head as Clara tapped the wooden spoon against his shoulders with all the solemnity of a true coronation.

Bucky took the "blow" of the wooden spoon to his shoulder with more grace than he’d ever taken a hit in the field. He kept his head bowed as Clara moved the "wand" to his other side with a look of extreme concentration.

"I dub thee... Princess Daddy," Clara announced, tapping him firmly on the head.

Bucky let out a small, huffing sound that was definitely a suppressed laugh. He looked up at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I think that’s a promotion," he said, shifting his weight to sit back on his heels. "Though I’m not sure the guys at the gym would agree."

"I think it suits you," you said, leaning against the counter and rubbing a hand over the small of your back. "The pink butterfly clips really bring out your eyes."

He stood up, the metal plates of his arm shifting with a faint, familiar whirr. He reached out to scoop Clara up before she could find another household object to turn into a weapon. "Alright, Princess Daddy is retiring for the afternoon. I think it’s time for someone to have a snack and then maybe a nap."

"No nap!" Clara protested, though she was already leaning her head against his shoulder, her energy finally starting to flag.

"We’ll see about that," Bucky murmured. He turned back to you, his expression shifting from playful to that quiet, observant intensity he saved just for you. He noticed the way you were shifting your weight. "Go sit on the couch. I’ll bring her back in once she’s settled with some apple slices."

"I can help, Bucky, I'm just pregnant, not incapacitated," you reminded him with a small smile.

"I know what you are," he replied, his voice softening as he stepped closer, the toddler a solid weight in his arms. He used his free hand to gently tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "But I've got this. Let me take care of my girls, okay?"

There was no arguing with that look—the one that said he was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he was meant to do. You nodded, giving his arm a quick squeeze—avoiding the neon clips—and headed back toward the living room, leaving him to navigate the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and his favorite little girl in the other.

A few minutes later, the quiet of the living room was broken only by the soft, rhythmic sound of Bucky’s boots on the hardwood. He emerged from the kitchen, having successfully navigated the snack transition. Clara was trailing behind him, clutching a small bowl of apple slices like it was a prize, her focus now diverted to a picture book she’d left on the coffee table.

Bucky sank onto the sofa beside you, his presence like a warm weighted blanket. He let out a long, grounded exhale, his metal arm—still sporting a few stubborn butterfly clips—resting behind your shoulders on the cushions.

"She’s finally slowing down," he noted, watching Clara flip through pages with a look of intense concentration. "I think the knighting ceremony took a lot out of her."

"It's a lot of responsibility being the Royal Advisor," you joked, shifting your position to rest your head on his shoulder. "You handled it well, though. I think your form was excellent."

Bucky’s hand dropped to your arm, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. "I’ve had a lot of practice taking orders. At least these ones come with snacks."

You let out a soft laugh, feeling the baby give a gentle nudge against your side. "I was talking to Natasha earlier," you mentioned, your voice trailing off into a comfortable hum. "She called while you were in the middle of the 'hair salon' session. She said she’s dropping by tomorrow with some more baby clothes she found. Apparently, she’s convinced this one is going to be just as much of a handful as Clara."

Bucky’s lips quirked into a real, albeit tired, smile at the mention of his friend. "Natasha just likes having an excuse to teach Clara how to pick locks with hairpins. I’m still finding bobby pins in the floorboards from her last visit."

"She calls it 'essential life skills,'" you reminded him, tilting your head up to look at him. "And you know she’s probably right. Between the two of you, these girls are going to be the most over-protected, highly-skilled toddlers in Brooklyn."

Bucky didn't argue. He just pulled you a little closer, his gaze softening as it moved from Clara back to you. The weight of the world felt very far away from this living room. "As long as they're safe," he murmured, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw. "They can learn whatever skills Nat wants to teach them. But for now, I think I'd settle for them just staying this small for a little bit longer."

You smiled, leaning into the solid warmth of his chest. "I don't know, Bucky. I think Nat is just excited to have more 'recruits.' She already told me she’s bringing over a tiny leather jacket that matches hers."

Bucky groaned, though the sound was fond. "A leather jacket. Great. She’ll be wanting a motorcycle next." He looked over at Clara, who had finally abandoned her book in favor of leaning her head against his knee, her eyelashes fluttering as sleep started to win the battle.

"She’s almost out," you whispered, watching the way he instinctively adjusted his posture so she’d be more comfortable.

"Yeah," he breathed, his voice barely a thread of sound. He looked down at his metal arm—the one still decorated with Clara’s clips—and then at your stomach, where the baby was finally settling down for a nap of her own. "I used to think the quiet was the hardest part of being back. The silence felt... heavy."

He shifted his human hand to cover yours, his skin warm and slightly calloused. "But this? This isn't that kind of quiet. This is the first time in a hundred years I feel like I can actually hear myself think."

You squeezed his hand. "And what are you thinking, Sergeant Barnes?"

He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, grounding second. "That I'm a very lucky man," he murmured. "Even with the pink hair clips."

"I was thinking about how much I hate the smell of this house, Barnes," you lied, finally turning to face him.

Bucky didn't buy it. He never did. He stepped into your space, one hand coming up to rest on the counter right next to your hip, effectively pinning you against the wood. He smelled like clove cigarettes and something dangerously clean.

"Funny," he murmured, leaning down so his lips were brushing the shell of your ear. "Because you've been here for three hours, and you haven't taken your eyes off me once."

"You have a big ego."

"I have a big everything, sweetheart. Don't start a fight you don't want to finish."

He reached out, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it down just enough to expose the glimmer of your teeth. The possessive tilt of his head changed the vibe instantly. He wasn't just flirting anymore; he was marking territory.

Earlier in the night, he’d seen you talking to a linebacker from the rival school, and the look on his face had been pure, unadulterated ice. Bucky didn't do "labels," or so he claimed in the daylight, but the second another man breathed your air, he became the most territorial person on campus.

"I saw you with that guy by the kegs," Bucky said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding dangerous and low. "What was his name? Actually, don't tell me. I don't care."

"He was just asking for directions, Bucky. Relax."

"He was looking at you like you were a snack, and you were smiling back." He leaned in closer, his chest brushing against yours. "I don’t like people touching what’s mine. Even if 'mine' likes to pretend she’s independent."

"I'm not yours," you whispered, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.

Bucky leaned down, his nose grazing yours as he took the red cup from your hand and set it behind him, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Keep telling yourself that," he rasped, his hand sliding from the counter to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. "But we both know where you're sleeping tonight. And it sure as hell isn't the sorority house."

The air in the kitchen was getting too thin, too hot, and way too loud. Bucky didn’t wait for an answer—he just kept his hand firmly on the small of your back, guiding you through the sea of bodies. People bumped into him, but he didn't even flinch; he just kept his eyes on the hallway, his jaw set in that stubborn line that meant he was done sharing you with the room.

"Bucky, people are looking," you breathed, tripping slightly over a stray shoe in the hall.

He caught you effortlessly, his fingers digging into your waist for a split second before he smoothed them out. "Let 'em look. They already know."

He led you up the creaky wooden stairs where the music became a dull thud beneath your feet. The second floor was a different world—darker, smelling more of laundry detergent and old wood. He didn't stop until he reached the door at the very end of the hall. He kicked it open, pulled you inside, and shut it with a definitive click of the lock.

The silence of the room was jarring. It was just the low hum of a desk fan and the moonlight filtering through the window, hitting the messy stacks of textbooks on his desk.

Bucky didn't turn on the light. He just leaned back against the door, watching you in the shadows. He reached up, slowly pulling his cap off and tossing it onto the bed, his dark hair messy and falling over his forehead.

"You're being quiet now," he challenged, his voice echoing in the small space.

"I'm waiting to see what your problem is," you said, crossing your arms, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way the silence between you felt heavy and electric.

"My problem?" He took a slow step toward you, then another, until the tips of his sneakers were touching yours. He was so much taller without the chaos of the crowd around you. "My problem is that I spent two hours downstairs watching you laugh at things that weren't my jokes."

He reached out, his hand hovering near your neck before his fingers finally brushed against the stray hairs that had fallen out of your ponytail.

"I don't like being sidelined," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Especially not by you."

"We aren't a 'we', Bucky. You're the one who said that back in September."

Bucky flinched, just a tiny bit, before his expression hardened. He moved faster than you could track, his hands grabbing your waist and lifting you up until you were sitting on the edge of his high dresser. You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

He stepped between your knees, leaning in until your foreheads pressed together. "I say a lot of stupid things when I'm trying to be the guy everyone expects me to be."

His breath was warm against your lips, and for the first time all night, the cocky frat-boy mask slipped. He looked frustrated, desperate, and completely focused on you.

"But I’m pretty sure the guy who spent all week checking his phone to see if you texted isn't 'independent,'" he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Are you going to keep punishing me for September, or are you going to kiss me?"

The silence in the room stretched thin, the only sound the distant, muffled throb of a bassline through the floorboards. You stared at him, your hands still curled into the fabric of his shirt. The bravado he’d carried downstairs—the "king of the party" energy—had evaporated, replaced by something much more raw and grounding.

"I’m not punishing you," you whispered, your heart doing a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "I’m just trying to keep my head above water."

Bucky didn't move away. If anything, he pressed closer, his weight shifting until you felt the solid heat of him between your knees. His hands moved from your waist to the wood of the dresser, flanking your legs, trapping you in his orbit.

"You're doing a hell of a job," he muttered, his eyes dropping to your mouth and staying there. "Because I'm the one who feels like he's drowning."

He didn't wait for your permission this time. He leaned in, his mouth catching yours in a kiss that tasted like a long-overdue confession. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry and frantic, full of the frustration of the last few hours of watching you from across a crowded room. His hands slid up from the dresser to your thighs, his grip firm and possessive, pulling you right to the edge of the wood until there wasn't a single inch of air left between you.

You let out a soft, broken sound into his mouth, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. The messy strands were soft, contrasting with the tension in his shoulders.

Bucky pulled back just a fraction, his lips grazing yours as he spoke, his voice wrecked. "Tell me to stop. Right now. If you don't want this... if you want to go back down there and talk to that guy... tell me."

"I don't want to go back down there," you admitted, your voice trembling.

A dark, satisfied smirk flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "Good. Because I'm not letting you leave this room looking like that."

"Looking like what?"

"Like someone else has a chance," he rasped.

He moved his kisses to the sensitive skin just below your ear, his teeth grazing your pulse point in a way that made your toes curl. One of his hands moved to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you steady as he mapped out every inch of your skin. It was more than a hookup, more than a situationship moment; it felt like he was trying to memorize you.

He shifted, lifting you slightly so he could hike himself up onto the dresser with you, his legs tangling with yours as he pushed aside a stack of mail and a stray textbook without a second thought. The wood creaked under the weight, but neither of you cared.

"September was a mistake," he whispered against your collarbone, his voice vibrating through you. "I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot, but I’m your idiot. Okay?"

The friction of his sweatshirt against your palms felt like the only thing keeping you grounded as the room blurred into a haze of moonlight and adrenaline. Bucky’s confession hung in the air, thick and heavy, but the restless energy of the house below seemed to claw at the floorboards, reminding you that the night was still in full swing.

"You’re an idiot," you agreed, your voice breathy as you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. "But you’re an idiot who’s currently hiding in a dark room while your roommates are probably wondering where their best recruiter went."

Bucky groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a long second as if trying to bottle the quiet before the chaos. "They can wonder. I’ve done enough 'recruiting' for one night."

"We need a drink," you said, gently pushing against his shoulders. "A real one. Not whatever mystery juice they’re serving in the kitchen."

He let out a sharp huff of laughter, his hands finally loosening their iron grip on your waist, though he didn't let go entirely. "You’re right. I’ve got better stuff hidden in the pantry downstairs behind the industrial-sized boxes of cereal. But if we go back down there, you’re staying within arm's reach. I mean it."

"Possessive much?" you teased, sliding off the dresser. Your skirt swished around your thighs, and you felt the sudden chill of the room the moment his heat left you.

"Always," he muttered, reaching for his cap on the bed and tugging it back on, low over his eyes. He looked like the version of Bucky Barnes the rest of the campus knew again—guarded, effortlessly cool, and a little bit dangerous—but the way he reached out to lace his fingers through yours told a different story.

The walk back down the stairs was a sensory assault. The temperature rose ten degrees with every step, the air thick with the scent of sweat and expensive perfume. As you hit the landing, the music shifted into a heavy, rhythmic beat that seemed to pulse in time with the flickering LED strips taped along the ceiling.

Bucky didn't let go of your hand. He carved a path through the crowd like a prowling wolf, his shoulders squared as he navigated the sea of swaying bodies. You saw a few of his fraternity brothers shout his name, raising their cups in a silent toast, but Bucky only gave them a curt nod, his focus entirely on the kitchen doorway.

Once inside the kitchen, the chaos was even more concentrated. A group of guys were cheering over a game of cards at the table, and someone had spilled a drink near the fridge, making the floor dangerously slick. Bucky navigated you toward the narrow pantry door, shielding you from a pair of stumbling freshmen with his body.

"Stay here," he commanded, though it was softened by the way he squeezed your hand before letting go.

He ducked into the cramped pantry, his tall frame disappearing behind shelves of bulk-buy snacks. You leaned against the doorframe, watching the party from a slight distance. For a moment, you felt the weight of someone’s gaze on you. Across the room, the same guy from earlier—the one who had sparked Bucky’s silent fury—was leaning against the counter, watching you with a curious, lopsided grin.

Before he could even think about walking over, Bucky emerged from the pantry, clutching a glass bottle of expensive bourbon that definitely hadn't been bought with house funds. He didn't even have to look over his shoulder to feel the shift in the room. He stepped back into your space, his arm immediately hooking around your waist, drawing you flush against his side.

He didn't say a word to the guy across the room. He didn't have to. He just uncapped the bottle with his thumb, took a slow pull, and then offered it to you, his eyes dark and daring.

"Change of plans," he murmured, his voice cutting through the roar of the music as he leaned down to whisper against your temple. "We’re grabbing this, we’re grabbing a bag of those salt and vinegar chips you like, and we’re going to the roof. I’m done sharing the air in this kitchen."

You took a sip of the bourbon—it was smooth, burning a trail of liquid fire down your throat—and looked up at him. "The roof? Isn't that technically off-limits during Rush?"

Bucky’s smirk returned, the one that made him look like he owned every square inch of the block. "Sweetheart, I'm the one with the key."

The air on the roof was a shock to the system—crisp, cold, and smelling like the faint hint of rain instead of the humid, beer-soaked chaos below. Bucky kicked the heavy metal door shut behind you, and suddenly the thumping bass of the party felt like it was miles away, reduced to a dull vibration beneath your sneakers.

"Way better," he exhaled, the sound getting lost in the wind.

He didn't head for the ledge. Instead, he led you toward a shadowed corner where a few mismatched lawn chairs and a tattered outdoor sofa had been shoved against a brick chimney. It was the house's worst-kept secret, the place where the brothers went when the "frat persona" got too heavy to carry.

Bucky sat back on the low sofa, his long legs stretching out in front of him. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a small, glass jar and a pre-rolled joint.

"Thought you might need to take the edge off," he said, his voice finally losing that sharp, defensive edge it had in the kitchen.

He flicked a silver lighter, the flame illuminating the rugged lines of his face for a split second before he took a slow, practiced pull. He held it for a beat, his eyes fluttering shut, before exhaling a thick cloud of sweet, skunky smoke into the night air.

He offered it to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it. "Careful. It’s the good stuff. Sam brought it back from his trip last weekend."

You took a hit, the familiar, herbal heat blooming in your chest and instantly softening the jagged edges of the night's tension. You leaned back against him, your head resting on his shoulder. Up here, under the pale glow of the moon, the whole "cheerleader and frat star" thing felt like a costume you’d both finally taken off.

"You were a real jerk tonight, you know," you murmured, watching the smoke swirl and disappear into the dark.

Bucky let out a low, dry chuckle, his arm winding around your shoulders to pull you closer into his side. "I know. I saw him talking to you and I just... I saw red. I hate the way guys look at you like you're something they can just have."

"And you don't look at me like that?"

He took the joint back from you, taking another hit before looking down at you. His eyes were already starting to glaze over with a heavy, relaxed haze, but the intensity in them hadn't faded.

"No," he said softly, blowing the smoke away from your face. "I look at you like you’re the only thing keeping me from losing my mind in this place. There’s a difference."

He leaned down, his lips grazing your temple. He smelled like woodsmoke and that specific, earthy scent of the weed, a combination that felt more like 'him' than the cologne he wore for the parties.

"I don't want to be the guy who just shows up at your door at 2:00 AM anymore," he admitted, his voice rough and honest. He reached into the bag of chips he’d managed to snag, offering you one with a faint, lopsided grin. "Even if I am currently the guy hiding on a roof with a bottle of bourbon and a joint."

You laughed, the sound light and airy as the high started to settle in, making the stars look a little brighter and Bucky's shoulder feel a little softer. "Well, you're a work in progress, Barnes."

"Yeah," he whispered, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles on your arm. "But I'm your work in progress. Right?"

The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore; it was soft, cushioned by the slow-moving smoke and the way the bourbon was starting to hum in your veins. Bucky watched you, his eyes searching yours for an answer, his thumb still tracing those slow, grounding circles on your skin.

"Yeah," you finally whispered, reaching up to tug at the collar of his hoodie. "You’re my work in progress."

The tension in his jaw finally snapped. He leaned down, crushing his lips to yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted of sweet herbs and expensive whiskey. It wasn't the frantic, territorial kiss from the kitchen; this was a slow burn, a claim made in the quiet of the night where no one was watching.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a long, shaky breath. "Good. Because I was about two minutes away from losing it downstairs. I don't think I could've handled seeing you walk out that door tonight."

He took another pull from the joint, the cherry glowing bright orange in the dark, before handing it back to you. "Stay up here a while? The party’s not going anywhere, and I’m pretty sure the guys think I went on a 'mission' anyway."

"A mission?" you asked, leaning your head back against the brick of the chimney, feeling the cool air hit your face as you exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the moon.

"Yeah," Bucky chuckled, his arm tightening around you, pulling you so close you could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart through his chest. "Usually means I’m out getting more supplies. But tonight... my mission is just making sure you don't decide you're too good for a guy who lives in a house that smells like old gym socks."

"The socks are a lot," you teased, turning your head to nip at his jawline. "But the rooftop access is a decent perk."

Bucky let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through your entire body. He reached for the bottle of bourbon, taking a small swig before setting it carefully between his boots. Then, he shifted, pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling him, your skirt bunched up around your hips.

The change in position made the world tilt for a second, the high making everything feel fluid and warm. Bucky’s hands settled firmly on your waist, his fingers splayed wide against your skin.

"You're dangerously high, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, possessive register that made your stomach flip.

"I'm exactly where I want to be," you countered, sliding your hands up to cup his face.

Bucky’s eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening just enough to let you know he wasn't going anywhere. "Stay right there then. I’ve got you."

The wind picked up, whistling around the chimney, but you barely felt the chill. The heat radiating off Bucky was enough to keep the entire rooftop warm. He reached out to take the last of the joint from your fingers, stubbing it out against the brick before tossing the remains into the darkness.

"You’re staring," he whispered, his voice thick and honey-slow.

"You’re easy to look at," you murmured back, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight prickle of stubble. The high had settled into a heavy, sweet languor in your limbs, making every touch feel like it was amplified, echoing through your skin.

Bucky’s hands slid from your waist, moving down to the tops of your thighs. His touch was firm, grounding you as the world hummed around you. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes hooded and dark with a look that wasn't about the party or the frat or the drama downstairs. It was just about you.

"I’m done with the rooftop," he rasped against your lips. "I’m done with the noise."

He stood up, keeping his hands locked underneath you so you didn't have to put your feet back on the cold gravel. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he carried you back toward the heavy metal door.

The walk back down the stairs was a blur of shadows and muffled music. He didn't stop in the hallway this time. He didn't look at anyone. He shouldered through his bedroom door, kicking it shut and turning the lock with a finality that made your breath hitch.

The room was still dark, but the air felt charged, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering heat of the bourbon. Bucky set you down on the edge of the mattress, but he didn't pull away. He stayed between your knees, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a surprising tenderness.

"You sure?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, giving you that one last out he knew you didn't want.

You didn't answer with words. You reached for the hem of his hoodie, tugging it upward until he got the message, helping him pull it over his head and tossing it somewhere into the dark. In the pale moonlight, the muscles of his shoulders looked like they were carved from stone, tense and waiting.

"Bucky," you breathed, reaching out to pull him back down to you.

He let out a low, guttural sound, his weight following you down as you reclined into the pillows. "I've been thinking about this since the moment you walked into the house tonight," he confessed, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your throat, his hands already moving with a practiced, impatient hunger.

"No, Buck," you giggled, walking over to him. "I mean, I did have lunch, but that's not what I meant. 'Eating' means I look good. Like, I’m doing a great job with the outfit. I’m consuming the competition." 

Bucky stared at you for a long beat, the gears visibly grinding behind his blue eyes. He looked down at your pink cable-knit sleeves, then back up at your face, his expression deadpan. 

"You're consuming the competition," he repeated slowly, his older Brooklyn accent making the modern phrase sound like a line from a dry military briefing. "By wearing a sweater the color of a strawberry milkshake?" 

"Exactly! You’re getting it." 

He let out a huff that was half-sigh, half-chuckle, turning back to his dog tags. "In my day, if you said someone was 'eating,' it meant they had a fork in their hand. If you looked 'swell,' you just... looked swell. You didn't have to pretend to be a cannibal." 

"It's about the energy, Bucky," you said, dropping onto the cushion next to him and leaning your head on his shoulder. "Like, if I said this outfit was 'serving,' what would you think?" 

Bucky didn't even look up this time; he just closed his eyes for a second, looking weary. "I'd ask you where the tray was and if there was any pie on it." 

He shifted his metal arm, the plates whirring softly as he tucked it around your waist to pull you closer. 

"I think," he murmured, his voice dropping into that soft, warm register he reserved only for you, "that you're 'eating' just fine. Even if the English language is apparently falling apart one word at a time." 

He paused, a tiny, mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Does that mean if I like your shoes, I have to say you're... having a snack?" 

You stared at him for a full second before bursting into giggles. “No, silly! Just say you like my shoes, duh.”  

"See? That’s exactly what I mean," he muttered, though he couldn't hide the way his eyes softened at the sound of your laughter. "One minute it’s all 'eating' and 'serving,' and the next, plain English is back in style. It’s enough to give a guy whiplash." 

He set the dog tags down on the coffee table and shifted, fully turning his body toward you. His human hand came up, calloused fingers gently tugging at the hem of your pink sleeve. 

"Okay, hotshot," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Since I’m apparently an 'antique' who needs a manual to talk to his own girlfriend... give it to me straight. What else? If you look 'cutesy' and you're 'eating,' what happens if I look good? Am I... fermenting? Am I a buffet?" 

You snorted, leaning back against his chest. "No! But if you wore that leather jacket I like, I’d probably say you had 'aura.'" 

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. "Aura? Like a ghost? Or those people who think they can see your mood in colors?" 

"Sort of! It’s like... a vibe. You just have this presence. Like you’re cool without trying." 

He was quiet for a second, processing. He looked down at his plain black t-shirt and then over at his metal hand resting on your hip. He looked back at you, a genuine, confused frown creasing his forehead. 

"Doll, I’m a hundred-year-old man who spends his Friday nights polishing pieces of tin and wondering why the milk tastes different than it did in 1942," he said flatly. "I don't think I have 'aura.' I think I have a library card and a bad back." 

"That is exactly why you have aura, Bucky. The mystery? The brooding? It’s very... demure. Very mindful." 

Bucky let out a long, pained groan, dropping his head back against the couch cushions. "Demure? I know that one. My Ma used to use it. But I have a feeling the way you're using it involves me being confused for another twenty minutes." 

He pulled you closer, his chin resting on top of your head, smelling of peppermint and gun oil. "Just promise me one thing," he murmured into your hair. "Don't ever tell Steve he has 'aura.' His head is already big enough as it is."

You laughed against his chest, the vibration of his soft chuckle rumbling through his ribs. "Deal. No telling Steve he has aura. But honestly, Sam might already be telling him that just to mess with him."

Bucky let out a low grunt, his calloused thumb tracing a slow circle over the fabric of your pink sleeve. "Sam uses words I don't understand just to see the vein in my forehead pop. I don't need the two of you teaming up." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the small hallway that led to the bedroom, then back to your outfit. "So, where are you taking this 'consuming the competition' look anyway? Are we staying in, or are you showing off the strawberry milkshake to the rest of the world?"

"I was thinking we could walk down to that bakery on the corner," you said, tilting your head up to look at him. "Get some of those lemon bars you like. Unless you're too busy being an antique."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the fond smile on his face gave him away. "Alright, alright. Let me grab my jacket."

He pushed himself up from the couch with a soft, dramatic groan that completely justified his earlier comment about his back. He disappeared into the bedroom for a minute, returning with his dark leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He slid his arms into it, the dark leather instantly making him look like the lethal, devastatingly handsome super-soldier he was. He caught you staring and raised a single, challenging eyebrow.

"Well?" he asked, his voice dripping with dry humor as he zipped it up halfway. "How's the... what did you call it? The ghost energy?"

"Aura," you corrected, biting back a smile as you stood up. "And honestly, Buck? It's off the charts. You're practically glowing."

"Great. Fantastic. I'm a glowing hundred-year-old," he muttered, though he held the apartment door open for you with a courtly, old-school sweep of his arm.

The spring air outside was cool, a sharp contrast to the stuffy warmth of the apartment building. As you walked down the bustling Brooklyn sidewalk, Bucky automatically shifted to the street side—a protective habit from the 1940s that he’d never dropped, no matter how many times you told him the sidewalk was perfectly safe. He kept his gloved left hand tucked in his pocket, but his right hand slipped into yours, his fingers warm and reassuringly solid.

When you reached the bakery, the sweet aroma of powdered sugar and fresh bread hit you instantly. The place was relatively quiet, save for a teenager behind the counter who looked entirely drained by their shift.

You ordered two lemon bars and a coffee, and Bucky reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. As he handed the cash to the teenager, he gave them a polite, tight-lipped nod.

"Thank you," Bucky said, his deep voice carrying that distinct, old-school Brooklyn rhythm. He took the brown paper bag of pastries, looked at you, and then turned back to the cashier. With a completely straight face, his blue eyes deadpan and unwavering, he added, "The service here is very... mindful. Very demure."

The teenager blinked, instantly snapping out of their bored trance, their eyes widening as they processed the rugged, leather-jacket-wearing man using TikTok slang.

You bit your lip so hard it hurt, desperately trying to suffocate the laugh building in your throat. You grabbed Bucky’s arm and practically dragged him out the door before you burst.

"Bucky!" you gasped the second the bakery door clicked shut, letting out a wild laugh. "Oh my god, you did not just say that to them."

Bucky walked alongside you, a look of supreme, smug satisfaction washing over his features. He didn't even crack a smile, keeping his eyes locked straight ahead as he popped a piece of a lemon bar into his mouth.

"What?" he asked innocently, though the spark in his eyes gave him away completely. "I was being polite. I'm adapting to the modern era, doll. I think I did a great job." He chewed thoughtfully for a second before glancing down at you. "Honestly? I think I'm eating."

You nearly choked on your own breath, a loud snort escaping you as you stopped dead in your tracks on the sidewalk.

"Bucky, no!" you wailed, covering your face with both hands, though your shoulders were shaking with laughter. "That is not how you use it! You can't just say you're eating after you actually ate a lemon bar!"

Bucky stopped a few paces ahead of you, turning around with a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. The smugness radiating off him was heavy enough to have its own zip code. He took another deliberate bite of the pastry, chewed, and shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Seems pretty literal to me, doll," he said, his voice a low, amused rumble. "I look good in the jacket. The food is good. I am currently consuming it. Therefore: I’m eating. I’m serving the lemon bars."

"Stop, stop, please, my lungs," you gasped, walking up to him and burying your face in the front of his leather jacket. The familiar scent of leather, peppermint, and a hint of gun oil surrounded you, grounding you even as you laughed so hard your eyes watered.

His human arm wound around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He rested his chin on the top of your head, and you could feel the rumble of his deep chuckle against your cheek.

"See? I'm a natural," Bucky murmured into your hair, his tone dropping back into that sweet, private warmth that was meant only for you. "Give me another week, and I'll be teaching Steve how to have... whatever it is. The color mood."

"Aura," you mumbled into his chest.

"Right. Aura." He squeezed you gently, his fingers pressing into the soft pink fabric of your sweater. "But seriously. Thanks for dragging me out. And for... whatever the hell we just did in there."

You tilted your head up to look at him, reaching up to adjust the collar of his jacket. "Anytime, Buck. You gotta stay current if you're gonna keep up with me."

Bucky looked down at you, his blue eyes softening in a way that made your heart do a little flip. The playful, smug soldier melted away, leaving just the man who loved you more than anything in this century or the last. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his thumb tracing the side of your hip.

"I think I'm doing just fine keeping up," he whispered, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through. He started leading you back down the sidewalk toward the apartment, his hand securely holding yours. "Come on. Let's get back before my hundred-year-old back actually gives out. And you can explain to me what a 'snack' is, because I'm still convinced it involves a plate."