#ldamc

You weave through the crowd, glistening like some glazed dessert that he can’t wait to get his mouth on. Your lips are shining with a swipe of that sweet lipgloss he loves to suck off and you’re wearing that black dress.

The black dress. Shorter than short, showing every inch of skin yet not enough.

You toss your head back, exposing that neck that he loves to bite to Steve who grins, glad his joke landed. Stifling a scowl, Bucky grabs his scotch and throws it back, desperate not to grab you and throw you into a stall just to mark you up as his.

You had made him promise, after all. No socialization outside their little nightcap sessions that often lead to… well, Bucky’s game for anything really.

A cigarette is pinched between your lips and Steve helps you light it with a flick of his lighter, the burning embers glowing in the dark, seedy bar. Leaning on the bar counter, you talk to Sam wiping down his station and he nods, eyes dragging over your face and Bucky cannot tear his gaze away as Sam pours you three shots of vodka. You blow out a lungful of smoke, cigarette pinched between two fingers before glancing at Steve and making some sort of bet, based on the way your lips curl.

They go down like water, dripping down your chin and you laugh when Steve wipes it off your collarbones before he grabs your chin and smashes his lips against yours. You immediately reciprocate, mouth opening as he bends you over the bar, his hair golden and his hand trailing up your thigh.

“Fucker,” Bucky mutters, finally managing to rip his gaze away. A heat blazes through his stomach.

Stupid fucking party for damn Romanoff’s birthday. Sometimes he hates being some of the oldest friends that redhead knows. It makes him feel creepy, wading through a sea of college students that are only one or two years younger than him. Steve himself is finishing his last year, so he’s sure he doesn’t share Bucky’s plight of feeling old.

He wishes he could just approach you and ask to leave, pin you against the wall of his apartment, take you like he knows Steve’s going to later, but he can’t.

You aren’t fucking dating. Not fucking friends, either.

No, Bucky just fucks Romanoff’s best friend until she’s fucking stupid, begging for it, and leaves in the morning because that’s how the universe fucking works.

And sometimes, he wishes it didn’t work that way.

“Not enjoying yourself, James?” Birthday Girl Romanoff asks, appearing at his shoulder and he turns to her, shifting in his seat.

“Steve’s too busy chatting up your friend for me to do anything,” he replies, keeping his tone light and Romanoff glances at where Steve’s made his way to kissing up your neck, your fingers carded through his hair.

“Give him a break,” Romanoff says. “They both need to get laid.”

“You don’t think she’s getting laid?” Bucky asks incredulously. “Every fucking guy I’ve met has said they wanted to get with her at least once.”

“Sounding a bit jealous over someone you claim to hate, James,” the redhead teases, sipping on her mojito with raised eyebrows.

“I’m just saying. All the boys were saying they were into it.”

“And you?”

“She’s… a brat.”

“Seems to me that you’re into that,” she hums, leaning on his shoulder. “Honestly, it would’ve been better if you two met before her and her stupid boyfriend did. Ever since she moved in with Rumlow…” The woman trails off and Bucky absently fills in the blanks, she’s faked every single orgasm she’s had with him. “I don’t know. He’s a fucking prick. Doesn’t treat her like she deserves.”

“Does he—“

“No. Just… never a priority, is she? Why else is she here alone?” Natasha pauses, as if debating how much to tell him, then adds, “Then he gets all pissy about where she’s been. On his beck and call, isn’t she?”

“Asshole,” Bucky replies distantly. Steve has his hand basically up your dress and he watches as your legs pull him closer, your lips running along the shell of his ear. “You’re endorsing your best friend cheating on her boyfriend, you know, when we could just be beating him up”

“Hey. She said she was going to break up with him. I can’t make those choices up for her and I’m not about to land any of my friends in jail trying to be my ride or dies.” Romanoff shrugs, glancing at her friend. “Besides, she doesn’t have anywhere else to go, does she? It’s not like she can move into my dorm or move back into her parents across the country.” Bucky watches as you hook your legs around Steve’s waist and he hoists you into his arms, disappearing into the crowd.

By the direction, Bucky can guess the destination and some distant part of his head whispers, She could move in with me.

“Might want to avoid the bathrooms for a while,” he comments and Romanoff snorts, the ice crackling by her straw as she stirs her drained glass.

“I’m going to go get laid, too,” she replies frankly. “Don’t stay brooding in the corner, Barnesy-bear. Your face is one worthy of being sat on.”

“Thank you.”

With that, the redhead slips into the crowd and Bucky gets up, plucking his jacket and leaving the bar. His pants are tight with the thought of your mouth and the sound of your gasping breaths echoing in his ear. The feeling of your fingers scratching down his back makes him roll his shoulders back as he flags a cab.

So what if you’re fucking Steve?

It’s not like he’s exclusive with you.

He can’t fault his best friend for having excellent fucking taste.

As he enters the cab and tells the driver his address, he wonders how the fuck someone like Rumlow snagged the title as your boyfriend when there are so many other options.

Steve being one, but he’s still living on-campus.

Bucky doesn’t want to say it, but maybe he, with his own apartment and steady job and intimate knowledge of your desires and interests and needs, is the other.

.

It’s two weeks later when he finally sees you again, at Romanoff’s birthday function at the beach. Something with closer friends, in broad daylight at a beach house Romanoff’s parents own. She and Sam are already there by the time Bucky gets there, unpacking in rooms for a weekend stay.

“Take any room you like,” Romanoff calls from upstairs and Bucky does so, choosing one of the few rooms on the main floor just as another figure walks in.

“I’m here, Nat!” Your voice echoes against wooden walls as Bucky pokes his head out of his room to see you there. He doesn’t know whether he should feel guilty or not that he’s glad Steve hasn’t sated your hunger when you show up alone, shorts riding up your thighs and a t-shirt that is so sheer it does nothing to conceal the bikini top you wear beneath it. “I’m taking my usual room.”

“Fine with me!”

With that, you walk down the hall, eyes meandering over the living room and kitchen. Bucky’s throat closes up when you walk past the stairs to stop at his room and you smirk all saccharine at him.

“Hey, Barnes.”

He scans your face for a moment. “You came. Thought you’d still be sucking Steve’s face off like you were back at the bar. Or… sucking his dick. Whatever floats your boat.”

“Well, that was a one-off thing. Heat of the moment,” you dismiss, leaning against his door frame and he hates the way you look against the wood. Makes something in him stir, makes the blood run hot and his mind focus on one image in particular.

“What’d your boyfriend say when he saw your neck fucking marked up?” he asks, uncaring of the thin ice he stands upon. You frown, arms crossing.

“I was careful,” you reply tightly, “and I didn’t let him leave any marks.”

Bucky can’t help the small flash of satisfaction at hearing that. “You’re not careful with me. I like seeing your neck tatted up with it,” he comments, his hand twitching to wrap around your throat as he lifts his finger to trace the soft, pulsing vein along your neck. You tilt your chin up, eyes narrowing with amusement.

“I’m not yours, Barnes.”

“What you say tells me differently, princess.” Dropping his hand to grab your wrist, he pulls you into his room and slams the door shut, pinning you against it with a harsh push. You exhale sharply, the breath pushing out of your lungs as your bags drop with a disant thump. His senses zero in on everything about you, the light scent of the sunblock smeared into your skin, the cotton twisting beneath his fist as his other hand finds your neck on its own accord. “You’ve been distant lately, kitten.”

He can feel your racing pulse against his palm as you smirk, hands wrapping around his waist and pulling him flush against you. Every inch of his skin is pressed against yours as you hike a leg up onto his hip. His hand at your waist immediately goes to cup it and you loop your arms around his neck innocently.

“I’ve had a lot of work to do. Brock and I…” You let out a soft hum as if to ponder but he knows it’s just to piss him off, “spent some time alone. Romantic trip out of town. Then, I had other things to do.”

“Did you?” It’s not a question Bucky wants answered as you nod demurely, lips twisted into a smirk. He wants nothing more than to yank your shorts down, spin you around, and have you screaming his name as he takes you again and again. He’s been blue balled for two weeks and you haven’t answered any of his calls.

Now, he knows why.

“So, that stupid boyfriend of yours was with you, huh?” he asks, not waiting for an answer as he leans in close. He can taste the vodka in your mouth still, the vodka he never got to taste two weeks before in a bar, along with something fruity. Your gum, maybe, or an orange that you sucked clean off its peel. “And then what? Did you hop off after you faked your way through a few nights with him and head for Steve’s? Hm?”

“Temper, temper, James,” you whisper, lips barely brushing his. His entire body is alight, every nerve shooting sensations through his limbs as your fingers curl against the nap of his neck. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

“Jealous, yeah.” His hand on your thigh trails up and inward, sneaking past the hem of your shorts as you lower your leg to hook on his calf, pulling him infinitely closer. His dick is pressing against his swim shorts, completely obvious and painfully hard against your navel as he shifts his hips just enough to let his hand sneak further up your shorts. “Why would I be jealous?”

His fingers find the silky slip of your bikini bottom and brush over the junction of your hip, smirking at the tremble he can feel course through your body.

“You wanted me that night at the bar,” you whisper as he slowly trails deeper inward. “Tell me that isn’t true.”

“Who didn’t, hm?” He smirks when you turn your face away, biting your lip at his fingers dancing around a spot already slickening with anticipation. “C’mon, princess. You telling me you didn’t wear that black dress for me? Look at me.”

You refuse and he rubs his thumb into the side of your neck, dipping his head to bite at your collarbones.

“Look at me, princess,” he whispers, lifting his head to see your defiant gaze meeting his. “Tell me the truth about the black dress.”

“I didn’t wear it for you,” you bite back softly, “to fuck me in.” His hand tightens, just barely around your neck and your eyes flutter shut. Oh, how badly he wants to ravage your lips, lock you in this room and just take you in every way you want…

“Trying to make me jealous, kitten?” he rasps as your hips roll against his dick and you bite your lip, chin tilting up as your nails dig into his skin. Because it worked.

“So what if I was?”

“Then, you’re going to have to pay for it.” He spins you around and moves to shove his shorts just past his hips. You let out a sharp exhale at the pressure of his hand against the back of his neck, your hands pressed flat against the door. “You got anything to say for yourself, princess?”

His swim shorts fall and he tugs your shorts down just past your ass, tracing the smooth curve of it with an arrogant curve to his lip. His lips find your neck, nipping lightly before raising to your ear.

“I asked you a question.” His hand lands on your ass, kneading it with warm, familiar fingers and his words are a warning. In the silence, he can almost hear you rolling your eyes, struggling not to moan when he feathers smooth skin, tempts you with tiny brushes between the legs.

“You gonna keep talking, Barnes, or you gonna prove a point?”

His fingers hook on your bikini bottom, pulling the elastic away with an amused grin before letting it snap back against your skin.

“I don’t know. Are you gonna continue being a fucking brat?” He squeezes your neck, fingers digging into the soft flesh and you almost seem to melt against the door before he drags those bikini bottoms down too. Rolling his hips flush against your ass, he smirks when you shudder and try to thrust him in with a messy jerk back. “Aw, did you miss this?”

“Wouldn’t miss a thing about you,” you reply but it comes out strangled as his other hand wraps around your hip, travels down your navel. It wraps around your waist, keeps you tight against him as you smother his wrist between the door and your hips. When his fingers find your bud, you let out a soft sigh at the pressure he begins to rub into you and he smirks, biting the shell of your ear.

“C’mon, princess. You can admit it if you like,” he murmurs. Your fingers dig into the wood as you try to push yourself—in what direction, away from his hand, towards it, Bucky doesn’t know. He reaches farther down, fingers tracing through slick heat and he chuckles huskily against your skin, biting lightly into the junction of your neck and shoulder. “‘S that all for me?”

“Shut up,” you growl. Your eyes flash to him and he pushes you flush against the door, your head falling back against his shoulder as cock nestles itself between your cheeks. So close, not quite there. His hand on your neck travels forward, crooking inward and his fingers wrap around a silky neck from the front. He can feel every beat of your heart, the raspy whistle of your breathing. Lips falling to your exposed neck, Bucky sucks marks he knows are going to last if he doesn’t stop himself soon but two weeks has been two weeks too long— “Barnes.”

“Relax… it’s been a while since you’ve had a proper fuck.”

“Cocky bastard.”

“Needy brat.”

Your eyes flutter shut as his fingers work at a languid pace inside you. He knows every nook and cranny, every angle that brings you euphoria and he grinds his palm against your clit with every thrust, arrogant smile growing when you melt back onto his shoulder, lips slightly parted.

“Don’t have time for foreplay,” you finally manage to croak and you turn to look at him, eyes surprisingly clear for having his fingers in your soaking heat and working you up a steady incline.

“It’s the fucking beach, kitten. They won’t be in a rush to get anywhere.” Your lips are tantalizing up close and he chuckles, fingers pressing gently into your pulse. “How quiet can you be?”

“Try me,” you breathe, chest heavy and eyes filling with assured focus, “bitch.”

Challenge accepted.

Nudging your legs ever so lightly apart, he is about to push in. He can feel your heart beating through your back, a quick, racing drum and your breasts heave with every anticipating breath.

“James! Y/N! Wanna meet Steve at the beach?”

Natasha’s voice breaks the humid tension like a hot knife through butter, and your eyes fly open as if you’ve risen from a trance and he growls, not quite moving yet.

To say nothing raises suspicion.

He hates it here.

“Sure!” Bucky yells back right into your ear, much to your displeasure and he shrugs, trying to repress the smirk as his hand drops and playfully squeezes your breast. You return with a subtle nip to his jaw and he steps back. Your shoulders drop and you turn around, leaning against the door with a soft, condescending smile. Your eyes are blown with a mistiness and your thighs press together as he sucks his fingers clean. Your gaze narrows, he smirks with glee.

“What was that about not being in a rush to get anywhere?” you ask, dismissively sweeping your gaze up and down his body before grabbing your pants and pulling them up. His eyes follow the slow trail of the fabric and he sighs softly between parted lips. “Play one of those audios I know you’ve got on your phone. Can’t ever get enough of me, can you, soldier boy?”

“Don’t put yourself on a pedestal, princess.”

“I’m not.” You pick up your bags and open the door, letting cool sea wind sweep into the room that was cloudy with heat and lust. He can’t help the smile that digs into his cheeks despite how disappointed he is as you shrug innocently. You play the part so well. “It’s just the facts.”

Not for the first time, Bucky is left with the thought that Rumlow doesn’t deserve a second of your time.

.

It’s near the end of the month, the very last day. The thirty-first of May.

You broke up with your stupid boyfriend three days ago. He knows because he looked at your Instagram only to find all the pictures with him gone.

But he wasn’t stalking. He was just…

Curious.

Also, Natasha FaceTimed him and Steve, ranting all about it. So, he came upon this naturally.

Not stalking at all.

“Hey.” Bucky’s lying flat on his bed, naked and the sheets are too warm as he hears you pick up with a disgruntled sigh. “You awake?”

“Am now.” You don’t sound too heartbroken but your voice is a bit thicker than he remembers as you sniff. “What do you want?”

“Are you sick?”

“No, I was crying.”

He arches an eyebrow at your blunt response but doesn’t continue that line of interrogation. “Where are you staying?”

“Why does it matter to you? What do you want?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to come over, princess,” he replied dryly. “But if you’re on the streets, I can come pick you up.”

“I’m not on the streets,” you reply sharply in a way that makes Bucky doubt your words. “But fine. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Princess,” he begins but you cut him off.

“I just needa pack some things. See you in twenty.”

You hang up without another word. He lets his cellphone drop with a heavy sigh, sitting up and pulling on some boxers and some ratty old university hoodie.

It’s another fifteen minutes before there’s a knock on the door and he moves from the kitchen to the door, abandoning the orange juice he poured to pass the time. Swinging open the door to reveal that pretty face, he smirks to hide the concerned expression threatening to overtake his face. You look like hell, heavy eye bags and a wariness that he’s not used to seeing on your bold face. You’ve got luggage by your legs and a backpack is strapped to you as you regard him.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

“You called me, remember?” you reply dryly. He steps aside, inviting you in. Walking in, toeing off your sneakers, and shedding your jacket, you let your backpack drop as Bucky pulls your luggage in. “Woke me up and everything.”

“Yeah, I bet I woke you up from your beauty sleep,” he snorts and you roll your eyes as his eyes trail over the dull skin of your shoulders, the limpness of your hair. He closes the door behind him, an unfamiliar tug pulling at his stomach. “Your boyfriend didn’t even give you time to find a new place?”

“No. And he’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

“Just a guy you used to fuck on occassion who couldn’t even make you come,” he says sagely and you sigh, rolling your eyes again.

“Are you describing yourself?” The words make blue eyes flash to meet yours and you smirk at the dangerous warning glimmering in his irises. Cocking your head, you shrug and lean against his dining table. “So, what do you want?”

“Why do I ever call you here if it isn’t for fucking you, huh, princess?” he muses, but even he can’t find the reason anymore. Whatever libido he was housing had melted in the time between you hanging up and you arriving at his apartment. As you stand before him, his blue eyes flicker from your exhausted face to the way your body seems strung out and on high alert. He sighs, too. “I didn’t want you in some seedy motel where the locks don’t work and the concierge is probably on the registered sex offender’s list. That sound good enough for you?”

You smile, the only thing familiar about you, and it sends a wave of relief through him. “Being nice isn’t your colour, Barnes.”

“Go take a shower,” he retorts, plucking your bag from the floor by your feet and he notices you don’t protest when he grabs your jacket and throws it in the hamper. “Then, we’ll talk.”

“Fine.” You’re unnaturally obedient as you head silently for the bathroom and he brings your luggage to the living room, setting it by the couch and laying it flat. Unzipping it quickly, he grabs the clean clothes he can find right off the bat and goes into his room to put them on his bed so you can grab them as soon as you come out. You’re standing in his bathroom, shedding your tank top and he grabs some clean towels.

It’s a strangely intimate silence as he offers you the towels and you dip your head in thanks. He can see the beginnings of a bruise on your bicep and he reaches tenderly for it, fingers barely brushing your skin.

“Did he—” The anger comes unbridled, hot and heavy and dark, in his voice and you don’t even jerk out of his touch. You’re completely relaxed in his presence as you look at your reflection in the mirror, so unlike a few minutes before when you’d been a ball of tension and you shake your head. His thumb gently digs into your skin and he can feel the pulsing heat of it. It’s fresh. Not even a day old, probably.

“No. I was walking and it was dark. Guy was coming out of a cab and didn’t see me standing there. Got whacked by the door,” you assure, pulling your arm out of his loose hold. Unbuttoning your pants, you continue to undress as he stands there, eyebrows knitting together. The air is wrought with an energy he’s unfamiliar with and he withdraws but your hand reaches for his wrist. Wide eyes dart to your face and he’s shocked by the surprisingly soft smile pulling at your lips. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, uh, sure. Hungry?”

You let go of his wrist and his skin is tingling. He rubs at it absently as you nod, your strange smile ever present. “Starving.”

“I’ll whip you something to eat.”

As he’s stirring Kraft Dinner around in a bowl, he listens to the shower run and thinks.

Or doesn’t think.

Time seems to pass in such a strange way. He’s cooking for you and you’re in his shower and nothing about this is normal or something he’s used to, but it’s not something he hates.

The shower turns off just as he’s sliding the mac into a bowl and he pours you a glass of water before finishing his own abandoned cup of orange juice.

Your footfalls are light and you smell like his shampoo as you sit down at his kitchen island, clad in the clothes he laid out for you.

“It’s just some Kraft I had lying around,” he says uneasily, pushing the bowl towards you but you take it anyway with a shrug and a easygoing smile. You look more awake after the shower and colour has worked its way back into your lips. There’s new life in your eyes as you eat and Bucky, satisfied, heads for the couch just to watch whatever’s on until you’re done.

Everything seems so strange, mundane, almost… domestic as you eat, scroll your phone, and he watches The Dark Knight just because it’s on. He watches the movie blindly, his mind still going a mile a minute and his body unintentionally becoming attune to yours in a way he only knows with when he’s fucking you.

But now, he knows how you move, knows when you’re putting your bowl in the sink and knows when you’re walking towards him by the way his heart starts beating just a millisecond quicker, the gentle give of his couch as you sit down beside him. Your eyes burn into his cheek and he glances at you out of the corner of your eye.

“Come here,” he allows, lifting his arm from the pillow and you scoot closer, pulling the pillow into your lap and hugging it tight. He rests his arm along the back of the couch. “You didn’t die of food poisoning. Pity.”

“You’d have to be truly something to fuck up Kraft Dinner, Barnes,” you reply dryly, smirking at him and he suppresses a snort as you tuck your knees up. “It was good. Although, I hope you’re not living off of that stuff.”

“I do take out every once in a while,” he says with a shrug and you roll your eyes.

“I’m a college student and I can cook better than you.”

“You’re one year younger than me. We’re not so different.”

“Whatever you say.”

Bucky can’t help the amused smile edging its way onto his face as you fall into silence, watching the movie, too. One thing Bucky’s always liked about you, even if he didn’t like anything else, is that you share a lot of the same interests as him. They had whole rants on how terrible some movies were, or the disappointment that was some TV finales. It always made pillow talk a fun time, if they ever made it to that stage. 

It was more often than not either of them would wake up before the other and just head out without a single word.

Bucky finds he likes your companionable silence more than he thought he would. Maybe he should’ve indulged pillowtalk a bit more. By the small, sated smile on your lips, he wonders if you’re thinking the same thing.

“You know,” you say after a while, “when I said at the beach house that you wanted me…” Your voice rouses Bucky from his trance of staring at the TV. The credits are rolling and he hadn’t even realized. So lost in his thoughts he was near the end, thinking about Rachel’s letter to Bruce and hyper aware of your every shift in your seat beside him, the movie seemed to pass by in a blink.

Something about the long lost melancholy of lost chances…

Bucky’s never been fucking sentimental, but even he can see the chance that Bruce Wayne really… really missed out on, and the blue-eyed man doesn’t want to be in that position ever. To do the right thing only to find out it’s too late. Because she died in the end, didn’t she? She died and he was alone even though he tried…

“What?”

“At the beach house,” you repeat. “When I basically told you that you wanted me…” you say with a roll of your eyes, “it was just teasing, foreplay.” Then, more seriously: “But I guess I was being like Two-Face. Double entendres, innuendos, all that.”

“You’re going to become a vengeful, homicidal DA?” he quips wryly and you huff in faux irritation, poking him lightly in the chest.

“No. God, use that brain inside that pretty little head of yours for once.”

“Aw, you called me pretty.”

“Barnes.”

“Fine. Continue.”

“Well, what I was saying… When I said you wanted me… God, this is stupid. Feel free to just punch me in the face after, but…”

“But?” Eyebrows knitting together, he looks at you and you pull the blanket up to your face, embarrassment telltale in the way you avert your eyes. He gently pushes the blanket down, muting the TV and waiting patiently. You look more alive that you did the first minute you walked into your apartment and you look like you want to bury yourself in the blankets but he’s not going anywhere and you stare at him, lips pressed into a flustered line. “I’m not going to punch you in the face. You can just tell me.”

“I guess… I just... I wanted to believe that you wanted me,” you state, shaking your head, “for me. Like some affirmation that there’s a possibility you could ever want me like that, and… I’m being dumb. I swear I’m not usually like this, all sentimental and shit, but it’s just I feel like shit and you don’t care about any of that and Brock… I broke up with him because I know he doesn’t love me even if he says he does and that I deserve better but I just… it gets to me, you know? It fucking gets to me when I’m all alone and now I am alone and if he didn’t put me first... maybe it’s because I’m not wanted.”

“Hey, princess,” he murmurs, reaching for your hands and you surrender to him easily as he cranes his head to keep your eye contact despite you ducking your head. “I don’t judge you for any of that shit and that’s wrong. He’s a fucking prick, and people want you here. Romanoff, Steve, Sam…” Me.

“I know. I know and I just… I’m scared because I have nowhere to go. And, you’re always honest with me, and just slap me in the face because… I can’t believe I’m asking you this what if… what if everyone’s gonna treat me like Brock did? What if no one will ever really want me?

There’s a beat.

Then, two.

He’s squeezing your hands so hard he’s surprised you haven’t drawn away but then he realizes your fingers are clutching onto him even tighter, his bones wincing as you crush his digits.

“It’s stupid. I’m stupid—”

“No, you’re not.” Bucky shakes his head and you—fourth year college student and someone he shouldn’t be attached to because you two are so different but he is because you two are so alike—are something else. No one has gotten under his skin like you have.

You’re not fucking stupid. Because I do want you. In a way. In more than one way. And you are irritating and burn so fucking bright and you’re fucking bold, but—

I want you.

He doesn’t say any of that.

And it’s complicated, but that’s how the universe fucking works.

“You’re free to stay here for however long you need to,” he tells you quietly, seriously. “I don’t care how long it is, and there are no catches. Just… just don’t give that fucker another chance, yeah? ‘Cause there’s always gonna be someone who wants you, kitten. Someone who’ll treat you right.”

You smile faintly, knees tucked to your chest and hair still a bit damp from your shower. You’re warm, soft, with no cigarette smoke clouding your silhouette and no glossy sheen of alcohol. You look like you in a way Bucky’s never known before.

He thinks this beats you in any kind of black dress.

“Okay,” you accept and you lean over first to kiss him. It’s a soft peck to the corner of his mouth, an innocent, flitting thing, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He eases against the couch and you lean against his chest, cuddling close against him. His arm falls around your shoulders, holding you tight to him and you melt against him just like he does around you.

For a moment, Bucky wonders how the fuck he got into this situation.

Then again, he’s not complaining.

The crackling stops. You wait for a beat or two, blinking slowly, listening hard, and then you start moving again - trying to find something, someone… anything. You nervously continue to play with the hem of your dress as you pad through this still forest, the soft dirt squishing through your toes. The sound of water soon hits your ears, soft and rippling, and just at the end of the path, there’s a small bank leading to a quiet little river. 

You quicken your pace, stepping into the grass, and then the wet sand before you fall to your knees and dip your hands into the water. You splash your face, once, twice, three times, before dipping your hands back into the surprising cool liquid, cupping them to collect a small amount. You bring it to your lips to drink, slurping it in haste as your thirst overwhelms you. Handful after handful, you bring the small offering of water to your lips, barely finishing the gulp before thrusting your hands back in the water.

You’re so consumed with the cool liquid that you don’t even hear the crackling of the leaves behind you. You drop your hands back into the water as you lift your eyes to the other side of the bank slowly. Your breath goes shallow again as you blink rapidly, now acutely aware that you’re being watched by someone, or something. You swallow hard and let your lips part as you turn your head, peeking over your shoulder - and suddenly, you’re face to face with a large, white wolf. 

Your chin starts to tremble as fear paralyzes you. The animal’s eyes are a piercing blue as they stare back at you. Its head is low, ears laid back on its head. Its nose twitches as it sniffs at the air, but it never takes its eyes off of you. It lowers its head to the ground, sniffing at the footprints you left behind before it lifts its gaze to you again. 

It takes a step towards you, slowly, and then another, and another. You don’t move -  you can’t. You just start to tremble as it closes the distance between you, a single tear slipping down your cheek as your eyes cloud over with water. It gets nose to nose with you, blinking slowly as it starts to sniff you. You let out a sob as it pushes its nose into your hair, breathing you in. It lets out a hard breath, tossing your hair with it before it tilts its head towards the sky and howls loudly. 

You jump and gasp at the sudden burst of noise as it rocks through the forest. Birds flock from the trees as more howls from somewhere deep in the trees, making you snap your head towards the chorus, your chest now heaving. 

“You’re quick,” a deep voice sounds, making you snap your head back again, “Took me hours to track you.”

The wolf is suddenly gone, now replaced with a very tall, blonde, blue eyed, naked man. Your eyes go wide as you scramble back into the water. You blink furiously, pushing more hot tears down your face as your mind starts to race. You shake your head as your face breaks, finally giving into the confusion and fear that’s motivated you for most of the day. The man kneels and tilts his head as he watches you, his eyes still searching as if he isn’t quite sure of you.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, holding out his hand, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” you cry openly, “I don’t - I don’t know where I am.”

“It’s okay, I’ll explain it to you on the way. Come.”

He wiggles his fingers, trying to coax you out of the water. You shake your head again frantically, dragging in a breath, nearly choking on it, “Please, I just, I want to go home. Please.”

“Come.” He says again, his voice still soft- still calm. 

“No, please let me go. Please.” You beg.

The man sighs, blinking back at you slowly, “You can’t go home. Come with me please, before something dangerous finds you.”

You stare at his hand, still outstretched towards you, before you cut your eyes back up to his. A deep growl sounds through the trees, followed by a series of menacing barks. You and the man both snap towards the noise. A black wolf moves through the trees on the opposite side of the stream, instantly sending chills down your spine. Its eyes are golden, but a darkness looms in them as it peers at you. It starts to growl again, lowering its head as it bares its teeth, barking loudly again.

“Cut it out,” the man behind you says sternly, “She’s already claimed, Rumlow.”

You gasp when the black wolf changes right in front of you. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, a dark haired man stands on the bank, “She hasn’t been marked yet,” he smirks, his eyes bouncing between yours and the man behind you, “So technically, she hasn’t been claimed, Rogers.”

“Back off. I’m warning you.”

“Ooooh,” Rumlow laughs, “Scary voice.”

You swallow and glance up at the man behind you, Rogers. He keeps his eyes across the stream, his hands balled at his sides, his chest swollen with possession, “Get behind me,” He hisses, “Now.”

You oblige - and fast. You scramble to your feet and step behind him, peering around his arm at the menacing Rumlow. He sneers at you, wiggling his fingers, trying to intimidate you. The golden eyed man takes a step into the water and Rogers transforms back to his four legged alter ego. He digs his paw into the wet sand and lowers his head as a deep growl rumbles in his throat. 

You skirt your eyes back to this Rumlow, watching as he turns, thick black hair and four legs returning to his frame. He barks at you and Rogers, saliva dripping from his mouth as he bares his teeth. 

They lunge at each other without so much as a warning, making you stumble back as you inhale sharply. The sounds of nails ripping through flesh, water splashing, loud barking and growling fill the air as you once again blink back tears. You stand in utter disbelief as these two half animal, half man creatures rip into each other - one, seemingly for your protection, the other for ownership. 

Rogers prevails. He pins the black wolf to the mud, his teeth biting into the others throat and neck, shaking his head back and forth. The black wolf whelps in pain as it kicks and scratches at the much larger, much stronger opponent. Rogers releases him, taking a few steps back but keeps his eyes on the other as it scrambles back up the bank. The golden eyes are back on you as he whips back around, growling lowly, but soon scampers off with a heavy limp.

Rogers watches the trees for a minute longer before he turns and moves slowly back to your side. He rubs his head against your hand, licking your fingers gently. You look down at him, his big blue eyes gazing back up into yours and you can’t help but pat the top of his head. He did just save you, after all.

“Thank you.” You offer softly.

He takes a few steps past you and then turns to look at you, waiting for you to join him. You really have nowhere else to go and knowing now what exactly lurks out in the trees, you’re too afraid to have him leave you. The two of you start to walk back in the direction that you first came. He stays in his wolf form, his heavy paws padding softly in the dirt next to you, his eyes wide and alert as you traipse through the forest. Your mind races with the silence, his words playing over and over again - you can’t go home. You can’t go home. You can’t go home. Your stomach starts to twist all over again. Why can’t you go home? What did you do to make it so? 

Maybe it’s a dream - maybe it’s just all one big, bad dream and you can’t wake yourself up. You start to pray, closing your eyes as you walk, pleading with God to just wake you up from all of this. But you don’t - wake up that is. 

You walk for hours. The heat beating down on you from the sun starts to wear on you, your throat going dry again as sweat beads on your forehead. Your feet ache as each footprint you leave behind starts to clump with blood. Your vision starts to blur and you stumble slightly, making Rogers snap his head towards you.

He circles your legs, barking a few times before he changes into his human form again. He grabs your elbow, his eyes searching yours intently before he brushes your messy hair away from your face. 

“We’re almost there, let me carry you.”

You pull away from him but stumble again, “I’m fine, I -”

Without another word, you’re lifted from your feet with ease. He curls you into his broad, hairy chest, wrapping an arm around your back and tucking the other underneath your knees. You’re too exhausted to fight him. You rest your head against his chest and let him carry you slowly the rest of the way, your eyes closing to slits. You’re barely conscious when Rogers steps through a wall of brush and shrubs and suddenly, you’ve stepped into a utopia. 

You blink furiously as you try and make sure that you are seeing what you are really seeing. The air smells sweeter. The trees and grass are alive with motion as a breeze whips over your body. You feel eyes on you as Rogers moves you through this new town-like place. You can see cottages placed randomly throughout the trees as people start to come out from them, watching. You tense, but Rogers is quick to quell your fear.

“It’s okay. Your scent is spreading, that’s all.”

“My scent? I smell bad?”

He smiles a little, keeping his eyes straight ahead, “Not bad, just new.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see Wanda. She’s our seer.”

He moves you through another set of trees and you’re standing at the edge of a large lake. The water level is low - a wispy waterfall to your left barely dribbles into the body of water. That’s when you spot her, a redheaded woman bathing in the water. Her back is to you, but she’s calm as she sweeps her hand over her outstretched arm, smoothing water over her skin. Rogers sits you on your feet but keeps his hand on the small of your back to help keep you steady. 

You glance over at him, where he meets your gaze, shaking his head gently as he taps his index finger against his lips, “Wait until she calls for you.” He whispers. 

Another man pops up from underneath the water seconds later, scaring you slightly. He pushes the water away from his face with his hands before he sweeps them over the top of his head. He smiles at you, and you smile back without hesitation - he’s so beautiful. It’s a warm, gentle, friendly smile - the gap in his teeth and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes invite you to feel just a little more comfortable. The sun makes his brown skin glow, accentuating the drops of water that collect on his shoulders and chest.

“Steve?” You hear the woman say.

“Yes. I have her.”

“I know you do,” her voice is sweet, thick with comfort  and amusement, “Sam, can you bring her to me?”

She disappears under the water. You watch as the other man, Sam, swims towards you and glance nervously over at Rogers - no, Steve. He gives you a reassuring nod and a hint of a smile before you turn back just as the smooth skinned Sam emerges from the water. You quickly avert your eyes towards your feet, as he’s stark naked as well, but steal a glance or two. Water cascades down his rippled chest and stomach, glinting underneath the strong sun.

Sam outstretches his hand, a broad smile lighting up his face, “Hi, I’m Sam. Welcome.” 

When you hesitate, Steve steps a little closer, “She’s still a little foggy.”

“That’s okay, darlin’. We’re not going to hurt you. Promise.” Sam reassures, keeping his hand open and outstretched. 

You take it with trepidation, allowing him to slowly pull you into the cool water. It feels good on your achy, bloody feet, and sore limbs. Sam turns to you again, “It’s okay if you want to dip under. You’ll feel a whole lot better, I swear it.” 

You don’t even hesitate. You push your body underneath the water, closing your eyes as your hearing gets muffled by the liquid. You pop back up seconds later, pushing your hands over your hair as the sun warms you again. He’s right. You do feel a whole lot better - clean. 

Sam wraps his long fingers around your arm and places it over his shoulder, before doing the same with the other. Before you can question him, he starts to swim out deeper, pulling you with him. You let him carry you towards the mysterious woman, who is now wearing a bright smile as she wiggles her thin fingers at you as you approach. She swims underneath the waterfall and Sam follows, setting you on your feet before he exits.

“Hungry?” She asks, handing you a small bowl of assorted fruits, “I wish I could offer you more, but we’re going through a bit of a rough growing season. I had to walk for miles to find these as it was.”

“That’s okay,” You greedily take the bowl, stuffing the sweet berries into your mouth, “Thank you, I’m- starving. Thank you.”

“Eat up, baby. I know you’re exhausted.” She watches you as you eat, her eyes twinkling as she smiles. She closes her eyes after a few minutes and tilts her head upwards, nodding every now and again as if she’s listening to something - or someone. 

She moans softly as she sways her hands back and forth in the water, her fingertips just barely touching the surface. Then, suddenly, she pops her big eyes open and blinks at you, “My God,” she whispers, “It’s you.”

“M-me? I-” You stammer, glancing around nervously.

She smiles big as she grabs your hands in hers, “We’ve been waiting for you. Bucky, he’s… I promised him you’d come and here you are.”

You shake your head slowly as dread fills your stomach, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t- I don’t even remember how I got here and Steve says that I can’t go home. Please. I just- I want to go home.”

Wanda pulls you into her bare chest, hugging you tightly. She pulls away seconds later, her eyes bouncing between yours, “This is scary at first, it was for all of us, but you’ll come to love it here. You are going to rule this forest one day and drive out all of the evil. You, dear girl,” she smiles at you again, “You will finally bring us peace. Please, close your eyes.”

“Wanda, I don’t-”

“Shhh,” she coos, “Close your eyes.” 

You take a breath, letting your shoulders slump slightly but close your eyes. You feel Wanda braid her fingers with yours before she starts to speak again.

“Only the cursed inhabit this enchanted forest.” She says softly. Your lips part as fear flushes through you, “All of us, at different times found ourselves wandering through these trees, cursed to never be able to leave. Each one of us has gained an affliction over time, some sooner than others.”

“Affliction?” you whisper, your chest starting to heave.

“I’m a seer. I wasn’t at first, it came to me over time. I can see other’s afflictions before they manifest. I’m also known to have premonitions and visions of what’s to come. Steve and Sam, they are lycans, able to shift between wolf and human form. Bucky, whom you’ll meet soon enough, a werewolf. Unlucky for him, full moons come around every night. Clint, another shifter of an avian kind. Natasha and Carol, mermaids, unable to walk to the earth.” 

“Then what am I?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“We’ll get to that soon,” She answers. You feel the water shift as she moves around you. She drags her hands up your arms and shoulders softly, “Try and remember. Remember what brought you here.”

You focus your breathing, in through your nose, out through your mouth, as you force your brain to try and remember. You squeeze your eyes tight, but nothing forms - not a thought, not a memory… nothing. You shake your head as your chin starts to tremble, all of the fear and anxiety rising up in your throat. 

“I can’t,” you start to whimper, “I can’t remember, I don’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Wanda coos, hugging you from behind, “It’s okay. Relax, just try and remember. Feel the water and the warm sun, just let it carry you away. Focus on the waterfall, hear it.”

Tears stream down your cheeks but you push out a shaky breath as you digest her words. Feel the cool water. Hear the waterfall. Wanda grabs your hand, flipping it over before she presses her fingers into your palm, drawing gentle circles, “Just try and remember.”

A quick image flashes before your eyes - pink. Balloons, a congratulations banner… the clinking of champagne glasses. Then, there’s faces, happy ones - Shelia! Romero and Tammy are also there, all hugging you, wishing you luck. You’ve worked so hard for this! No one deserves this more than you!

“I got it,” you whisper, “I got the job. I was promoted to bank manager.”

“That’s it. Stay there, just remember.”

You see it now. They threw you a party during your lunch break - bought you a cake and everything. After the celebration, you walked back to your desk and there it was - one singular cupcake, topped with pink icing and white sprinkles. 

You gasp, covering your mouth with your hand, “Oh my god.” 

Wanda sways you back and forth softly, resting her chin on your shoulder, walking you through it. You looked around, but saw no one paying you any attention. You sat in your chair, stuffed to the gills from the lunch and the cake - but you brought the small pastry to your nose anyway, inhaling the sweetness of it. You moaned as a smile spread on your face. You were always a sucker for a cupcake. 

You peeled away the wrapping and brought it to your face again, ready to take a bite, when you noticed a small slip of paper peeking out from underneath your keyboard. You pulled it out with the tips of your fingers and furrowed your brow as you read the unfamiliar handwriting. You deserve all that’s coming to you. 

More tears spill from your eyes as the realization hits you like a ton of bricks. 

You looked around one final time to see if anyone was watching, but found no one paying you any mind. You looked back down at the cupcake in your hand and shrugged before closing your eyes and taking a bite. You moaned again as the spongy cake exploded on your taste buds. It was the best cupcake you had ever had. You finished it quickly and tossed the wrapper and note, before waking up your computer and returning to your emails, not even noticing the little old woman slipping out through the front doors. 

“I didn’t give her the extension.” You whisper, your voice shaky, “She was months behind on her mortgage, we had already given her three. I couldn’t. My hands were tied. I couldn’t grant her another extension, I just couldn’t.”

“It’s okay, dear girl.”

“It’s not okay!” You shout, “She cursed me! She sent me here!”

“I told you it was going to be hard at first.”

You pull away from her, spinning around to face her again, “I want to leave! Now!”

“Honey -”

She reaches for you but you slap her hands from you as you back away, “I’m leaving. I’m not- I don’t know what you want, but I’m leaving!”

You move underneath the wispy waterfall and back out into the large lake as Wanda screams for you to stop. You swim hard, and fast towards the shore, feeling Sam and Steve’s eyes on you as they lounge underneath one of the large trees. They both stand, their eyes wide as you stumble up onto the bank, tripping over your own feet as you try and gain some traction. 

You run towards the trees, the weight of your wet dress not slowing you down in the least bit. You hear Wanda’s voice again, this time instructing Sam and Steve to let you go, “She’ll get lost out there.” Steve worries.

“She’ll be fine,” Wanda says, taking a breath as she wades in the water, “You’ll just have to find her again in the morning.”

You run for miles. You run until the sun is replaced by the moon and the sounds of the day have completely stilled. You hear nothing but your own footsteps and the chirp of a cricket that you never seem to find. It’s cooled down considerably, your body is racked with chills as a gust of wind whips around you. The only thing keeping you going is fear. You’re afraid to stop and rest, not knowing what or who is out in these woods in the dark. 

You push deeper, trying to use the moonlight as a guide but you have no idea what you’re looking for. Every time you think you’ve found a way out, that maybe you think you see a road or hear a car, you just move into a section of trees and shrubs and grass. This forest is never ending. Maybe they were right. Maybe you can’t -

You snap your head and gasp as a loud scream erupts from deep in the trees. It awakens the birds, making them all screech and fly out from their nests. The scream erupts again, this time louder, so loud you have to cover your ears. It sounds like a man being ripped apart from limb to limb. He screams again - a blood curdling one - and you cringe as it seems even louder, like he’s right behind you. 

You start running again. The screams continue but each one gets deeper, more animal-like, more painful. You freeze right in your tracks when a loud, long howl sounds through the sleepy forest - a bay at the large, white moon in the sky. Unlucky for him, full moons come every night. 

Soon, all you can hear is your own breathing. You cower behind a tree, hugging it tightly as you keep your eyes wide, your pupils surely blown. There’s a rustling in the trees and brush, twigs snapping, heavy, fast footsteps. Another howl, followed by random barks and then rushed footsteps again. Your eyes fill with water as your mind races, unsure of what to do, where to go. You don’t want to die out here. 

Smell? I smell bad?

Not bad, just new.

Fuck.

You snap your head over your shoulder, watching as the bushes in the distance start to shake as something moves through it. You push away from the tree and dart off to your left, ducking and dodging random limbs and vines as you try to flee. You keep turning around as you run - but you see nothing. You just hear it. Barking, growling, howling - the heavy footsteps pounding into the ground as it closes in on you. 

“Shit!” You cry as you push yourself as hard as you can, willing your feet to carry you faster. Your lungs and legs burn as you cut through the trees, ignoring the stinging cuts on your arms and feet from the branches whipping against you. You turn again, gasping you finally spot the beast chasing you emerging from the brush. 

Just as you do, your foot tangles in an exposed root, tripping you. You hit the ground hard, face first, screaming as pain rips through your ankle and lower leg. A shadow casts over you as a large mass jumps clear over your head. It lands on all fours, the ground shaking with its weight when it lands. You sit up quickly, trying to back away, dragging your now bum leg as your fingernails dig into the dirt underneath you.

You drag in a deep, shaky breath as instant tears flood your face. Your body shakes as your face completely breaks with emotion. You stare back into a pair of pitch black eyes. This beast is huge - larger than Steve and Rumlow combined. It howls again, making you scream as your eardrums nearly burst from the sound. It stands on its back legs as it bays again and you could swear it’s seven feet tall. It falls back to the earth with another heavy thud, then lowers its head as it zeros in on you again. 

It starts to growl, snarling its lip to show its sharp, white teeth. It barks and snaps at you, saliva dripping from its mouth as it takes a step towards you. You scamper backwards but your back slams into a tree. You try to stand but fall back to the ground as your leg just can’t carry you. It steps towards you again, still growling, still snapping. 

You push up against the tree as hard as you can, almost wanting it to swallow you whole. You shut your eyes as the heat from its breath washes over your face, the rush of air pushing from its nostrils tossing your hair. You squirm, whimpering when you feel its wiry hair on your legs, its whiskers grazing against your cheek. You turn your head as it sniffs at you loudly, pushing its long nose through your hair and down your neck.

It pushes out another forceful breath through its nose, making you jump. You blink your eyes, slowly opening them as you turn back to face it. You pull in deep, audible breaths as you stare back at this… thing, this affliction, as Wanda’s words come back to you. Bucky, he’s… I promised him you’d come and here you are… 

“Please,” you whisper quietly, so quietly you barely hear yourself, “Bucky, please.”

It tilts its head at the sound of the name - but not in the way you’d hoped. His eyes narrow as he snarls his lip again, that menacing growl rumbling through his chest and throat. His ears lay back on his head as he drops it, clearly threatened. He crouches down as he snaps at you again, dragging his front paw through the dirt as he readies himself to pounce. 

You start to sob loudly, holding your hands out as you plead and beg - screaming for your life. The adrenaline and anxiety coursing through your veins becomes ever present as your head starts to spin. Your palms get sweaty, your heart racing and thumping against your chest as your body shakes. You can’t catch your breath, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t fill your lungs with air. You’re hot and cold all at the same time. Your vision tunnels - your pupils shrinking to the size of the tip of a pin. 

Suddenly, everything goes black. 

Bucky glances down at the woman in his arms as he trudges through the trees. It’s early morning, the sky still orange and pink as the birds start to sing. He’s not sure who she is, he just remembers her smell - strong - calling to him in the dark of the night. It’s the most vivid scent he’s ever encountered. So pure, so heavy that he can remember it even after his change. She’s not the usual newcomer around here -  that he can tell. 

He pushes into his home surroundings, most of their small community still snuggled tight in their cottages - “Bucky! There you are.”

He snaps his head towards the approaching Wanda, eyeing her as she steps next to him, sweeping her hand over the passed out woman’s forehead, “You know this one?” He asks. 

She nods, “Just came to us yesterday. She’s -”

Bucky just nods, glancing out into the distance as he knows what she’s about to say, “She’s hurt. I think her ankle is broken. I might have - I think the gashes are from me.”

“No worries, I’ll get her fixed up. Do you mind taking her to your cottage?”

He sighs heavily, sending his eyes towards the small redhead, watching as she smiles softly, “Wanda,”

“You and Steve have more space,” she shrugs, her face filling with surprise as Bucky scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Sam and I just had a baby. This poor thing needs rest and looking after.”

“Well,” Bucky starts gruffly, “Steve can look after her then.”

Wanda throws her hands on her hips, giving him a stern look before she turns her attention to the shuffling coming from behind them, “Clint? Can you do me a favor?”

The short blonde approaches, nodding his head towards Bucky, “Of course. Who’s that?” He asks, pointing towards the unconscious woman in his hands.

Wanda smiles brightly, “She’s our Faery.”

Clint’s eyes widen as a smirk spreads on his face, “No shit, really?”

Wanda nods, and Bucky rolls his eyes again.

“What’s the favor?” Clint asks, chuckling softly.

“See if you can find Steve and Sam. They’re out looking for her. They couldn’t have gotten far.”

With another quick nod, Clint is now soaring towards the tops of the trees, his arms replaced by long, sleek wings as he transforms. He screeches, his bird call rippling through the forest as he flies out of sight. 

Bucky starts to move again, readjusting the woman in his arms as her legs bounce against his naked thigh. He moves into he and Steve’s shared cottage, Wanda right behind him as he moves into his room. He lays the unconscious woman down on his bed before walking back out of the room without a word. 

He collects a large bowl from the kitchen and fills it with warm water while grabbing clean towels and cotton swabs. He pads back into the room, sitting the supplies on the small table next to his bed before he pulls open the drawer, grabbing his stitch kit and tossing it on the bed.

“Where are you going?” Wanda questions from her spot on the bed, watching as he walks back towards his bedroom door.

Bucky doesn’t even turn around. He just holds up a bar of soap as he heads for the main door, “Bath.”

Bucky runs his hands through his short hair as he comes up from underneath the water. He’s still not really used to it, but he needed the haircut, and Steve actually did a good job on it. He keeps his eyes closed and his head tilted towards the sky as the sun beats down on him, warming him as he stands in the cool water. There is nothing better than a bath after a night of pillaging. 

His mind floats back to Wanda and the strange woman keeping him from collapsing into his bed. He scoffs at just the thought. He’s never bought into Wanda’s bullshit. She’s been blowing smoke up his ass for years, but it just goes into one ear and right out the other one. She’s coming Bucky, I can feel it. She’ll fix this place and she’ll love you forever, plus a day. He rolled his eyes then and he rolls his eyes now. She seems to forget this place is a literal curse. 

Who could love you? Bucky pops his eyes open as the thought floats through his mind. Who could actually love a monster like you? “Nobody,” he mumbles to himself, letting his eyes drop to the water. That’s why it’s all bullshit. 

He hears a rustling in the trees and turns his head and body to watch Sam, Steve, and Clint emerge. Sam lifts his hand towards him, which Bucky returns with a head nod, before he swims towards the bank to join the three men.

“Where did you find her?” Steve asks as soon as he’s on the bank.

Bucky shrugs, “Out pretty far. I came across her on my way home.”

“She’s hurt?” Steve questions again, his face and eyes full of concern.

“Broken ankle, some gashes and cuts, but she’ll live.”

“You didn’t hurt her, did you?”

Bucky grits his teeth as he narrows his eyes, “I don’t know, maybe. What’s with all the fucking questions?”

Clint slaps him on his arm, smirking all the while, “You know Steve and that bleeding heart of his.”

“She’s our faery, we’re all supposed to take care of her.” Steve says, pushing past Bucky.

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dropping his head into his hands to rub his face, “I’m not in the mood for all of this.”

“When are you ever in the mood?” Sam quips, shaking his head, “Where’s my wife?”

“In my bedroom, tending to our fabulous faery.” Bucky huffs, “Fuck, I just want to sleep. I should have put her in Steve’s room.”

“I wouldn’t talk about your soulmate like that, Barnes. Women don’t like sarcasm.” Sam smiles, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Don’t you start. She’s not my soulmate, she not gonna bring peace or whatever the fuck Wanda is always spouting off about. She’s just another cursed soul, just like the rest of us. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Sam and Clint glance at each other, shaking their heads at the cynical man before them, “Whatever, fuck off. I’m going to sleep.” Bucky grumbles, turning back towards his cottage.

“You can sleep at ours if you want,” Sam calls, “I'll bunk with Steve until the girl is back on her feet.”

“And have that sniffling, whiny little brat of yours waking me up every hour? No thanks.”

He ducks quickly as a rock whizzes by his head, “Don’t talk about my baby boy like that, Barnes!”

Bucky bounds inside his shared home and makes his way towards his bedroom, leaning against the door frame as he listens in on Wanda and Steve. The girl looks better already, the dried blood splattered on random parts of her body gone. Her tattered dress is also gone, replaced by one of Wanda’s hand sewn tunic’s. The deeper of her gashes are sewn together, her feet wrapped in leaves of the bountiful lamb ear. 

Her face is soft as she breathes in and out gently. Her hands are crossed over her chest as Wanda crushes up more herbs beside her, smoothing the goop over her flesh wounds. He turns away after a few minutes, as her scent starts to make him dizzy in this confined space. He wonders how Steve can handle being that close.

His heavy feet carry him into the living room, his eyes growing heavier and heavier with each step. He falls onto the old, lumpy hand sewn pillows that sit atop the nicked up couch that Steve fashioned with his bare hands, and grabs the blanket thrown over the back. He covers his entire body and head while burying his face in the cushions as he tries to drown out Wanda and Steve’s hushed voices. 

Bucky wakes with a start hours later. A loud pounding noise beats over the roof of the small cottage, making him spring up. He snaps his head towards the front door, finding it wide open. He stands quickly, peeking his head into his room, finding the woman still asleep on his bed but doesn’t find Wanda or Steve. He takes off towards the front door, but stops in his tracks when he realizes what the pounding is. 

Rain. 

He moves out onto the small porch, finding Steve sitting on the step, “How long has it been raining like this?”

“Hours,” Steve smiles up at him, “Started right after you fell asleep. Do you remember the last time it rained like this?”

Bucky shakes his head. They get showers here and there, just enough to keep the stream and the lake flowing but this? It’s been months since they’ve seen a steady, strong, purposeless rain. 

“Wanda had a premonition, a strong one. She had to go lay down.” Steve says gently, not taking his eyes off the rain, “She said this is just the beginning. This is because of her.”

“Steve, come on-”

“There’s not going to be a full moon tonight.” Steve says, cutting him off, “Wanda saw it, Buck.”

Bucky squares his jaw as an irrational anger flushes through him, “That’s not possible.”

“It is. She saw it, Bucky. Wanda is never wrong, you know that. She’s proved it time and time again.”

“I’ve been here for seventy years,” Bucky growls, his tone hard, “I’ve turned every night -  every single night there’s a full moon. That’s my affliction, it doesn’t just go away because some woman shows up one day.”

Steve drops his head, shaking it softly. He shrugs after a minute or two, not wanting to pick a fight, “Okay, Buck.”

“I don’t know why you fall for that shit.” 

“Maybe because I want to believe in something more, something bigger. I get it,” Steve retorts, “We fucked up in our old lives, but we were given a second chance.”

“A second chance?” Bucky asks incredulously, “You call this a second chance? Bound to a god forsaken forest and having to skulk around like an animal for the rest of eternity?”

Steve hangs his head, but smirks nonetheless, “It’s not that bad.” 

“For you,” Bucky reminds him, “Try having your limbs twist and break every night and get back to me about it being a second chance.”

Bucky pushes past him, off of the porch and into the rain. He lets it beat down on him, cleansing him of the anger building inside of his chest before he pushes his hands over his hair, “I’m going for a walk.”

Steve just nods in acknowledgement and returns his gaze towards the gray sky. 

You wake up slowly, fluttering your eyes as you stretch out your limbs. You rub your face as you groan slightly, rolling your head into the pillows beneath you. You sit up and let out a yawn before you glance around the unfamiliar room. It’s minimal, a table, a chair in the corner, and a bed. It’s cozy still, even with the scarce decor. 

You’ve never felt better in your life. All the aches and pains in your body are gone. There’s no anxiety or fear. Your eyes don’t burn, your throat isn’t dry. You feel so good.  You glance down, running your fingers over the hand stitched garment that covers your body. You then graze your fingers over the stitches in your leg, a purple and blue bruise surrounding it, but you feel no pain. You unwrap the leaves around your feet and wiggle your toes before you toss your legs over the side of the bed. 

You notice a small bowl of fruit and a homemade mug sitting on the small wooden table next to the bed. You pick up the bowl, popping what looks like a blueberry into your mouth before you moan in satisfaction, closing your eyes as you swallow. You stand, tucking the bowl into your chest and grabbing the mug before you head out of the bedroom. You glance around as you move slowly through the cottage, from room to room, finding it empty. As you pop a strawberry into your mouth, you move out of the second bedroom and back into the living room, where you peek out of the small window. 

A steady, hard rain pours from the gray sky. You stand and watch for a few minutes, bringing the mug to your lips and draining the cup of it’s sweet liquid. You sit the now empty cup and bowl down and walk out onto the porch, the defending sound of the rain now unmuted by the walls of the cottage. You reach your hand out, letting the fat drops plop against it as a smile spreads on your face. You’ve always loved the rain. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, breathing in the earth - the dirt and leaves and grass - letting it fill your lungs as they’re all nurtured by the water. Without thinking, you step off of the small porch, right into the rain, letting it wash over you. Your hair sticks to your head, your thin tunic becomes glued to the curves of your body, accentuating your hips and breasts as you start to walk aimlessly through the quiet, sleepy little community. 

You move into a field of tall grass and hold out your hands as you walk slowly, letting the blades graze your palms. You close your eyes again as your head starts to swim and a warmth starts to spread through your body, starting in your toes and moving all the way up to your head. You’re not sure what exactly has happened over the past twenty four hours but, now, with each passing minute, you start to feel like you’re home - almost as if this is what you’ve been searching for your whole life.

“What are you doing?” You jump at the sound of the deep, gruff voice. You pop your eyes open, spinning on your feet to come face to face with a dark haired man. His eyes are a crystal blue, his jaw square, his eyes crinkled in the corners as he squints at you, “You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“W-why not?” You ask softly.

“You’re ankle, it’s-” he drops his eyes to your feet, his lips parting as he finds them in perfect condition, “What did you do?” 

He moves towards you quickly, scaring you slightly as he lifts the thin material covering your body, “What did you do?” He asks again, his voice irritated, his eyes angry.

“N-nothing. Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Your ankle was broken. Wanda had to give you stitches in that leg.” He points.

You snatch the material of your tunic from his fingers, stepping back, “I still have the stitches,” you rebuff, glancing down at your leg, “See? They’re right -”

Your breath hitches in your throat as you stare at your now healed leg. You shake your head, letting out a breath, “I just… the stitches were there, my leg was bruised, just… just right before I walked out here.”

You look up at the man standing before you, your eyes bouncing wildly between his as he stares back at you. You can’t read his expression, but the wheels in his head are definitely turning as he drops his eyes from yours. He turns his head to the side slightly and stares into the grass as he tries to work something out in his brain. 

“Do you know what’s happening to me?” You ask softly as you push your wet hair out of your face.

He turns back to face you as soon as the words leave your lips. His mouth falls open, but no words come out. He just stares at you as the rain beats on him, slipping down his neck and chest and abs before it hits the ground below.

“You haven’t spoken to Wanda?”

“Just a little,” you shrug, swallowing hard as you drop your head to look at your feet, “I didn’t really, um, give her a chance to explain it all. I was... scared.”

You feel his eyes roam over you as you twist the bottom of your tunic in your fingers, “You need to talk to Wanda. She’ll explain it to you.” He answers simply as he turns away.

You watch him as he walks away from you. His shoulders broad, the muscles in his back flexing as he moves. You bite your lip as your eyes fall to his behind, sculpted and hard, and his thighs, thick and sturdy. Your stomach clenches. The rain doesn’t help either - the water droplets cascading down his sinewy body, providing you with quick, fragmented images of your tongue licking each droplet away. 

You let out a breath, and then Wanda’s words float back to you again, stronger and louder this time. Bucky, he’s… I promised him you’d come and here you are.

“Are you, um,” you call out to him, “Are you Bucky?”

He stops, rolling his shoulders in irritation, “What about it?”

“You’re what attacked me last night?”

You watch as he drops his head, his back muscles tensing as your question reaches him. He turns to face you, his jaw tight, his eye narrowed, “You’re still breathing aren’t you?”

You glance around nervously, “Well, yeah, I-“

“Then I didn’t attack you, did I?”

You swallow. You’re not sure if it’s just you or if he’s always like this, but he’s trying really hard to intimidate you. It’s working… kind of, “You tried too.” You answer back quietly.

He scoffs at the notion, “If I had tried to attack you, I’d be digesting you right about now. I should’ve, I wouldn’t have to eat for a week. That would be a welcome change.”

You squint your eyes at the unnecessarily rude comment, “You’re an asshole.” You spit back angrily, your brow furrowing, “I’m just trying to-“

“I don’t care what you’re trying to do.” He shouts, “Keep outta my way and I’ll stay out of yours.” 

“No problem there, pal.” 

“Wonderful, darling.” He sneers, before turning and walking off again.

You scoff hard, crossing your arms over your chest in a huff. You cut your eyes back towards him as he moves through the grass and your stomach tightens again. A warmth spreads through you as your fingers start to itch - wanting to feel him. Your lips part as your breath starts to come a little faster - a little harder - and you’re not even sure why. Something is just drawing you to him. 

You don’t understand for the life of you what’s happening in this moment. Maybe it was the berries and fruit, or that drink that was left by the bedside, but you’re warm all over, your head is spinning and you want nothing more than to feel that man inside of you - even now after your tense exchange. Heat rises in your cheeks as your breath starts to rush. You twist the bottom of your tunic harder as you become acutely aware of the ache between your legs. A fire starts to rage in the pit of your stomach - you want him to put it out. 

Before you can stop yourself, you're running after him, your feet squishing in the mud as you move. You reach out for him once you’re close, grabbing his shoulder to stop him. He turns quickly, bringing to you a quick halt in front of him. He scrunches his face in utter confusion and maybe a little annoyance as he blinks down at you, “What? What do you want?”

You push up onto your tiptoes and kiss him hard. You moan into him as you rest a hand on his shoulder and push the other into his hair, pulling him closer. He pulls away seconds later, his lips parted and swollen, pure befuddlement playing in his eyes.

You blink back at him as your chest heaves. You open your mouth to speak, but you can’t find the words. Your mind is just - blank. You rest your hands on his shoulders again and drop your eyes to his chest as your fingers start to trace the light scars littered across his otherwise smooth skin. Some are old and white, some deep and purple, some raised, some smooth. They’re all beautiful - they make him beautiful. You drop your hands down to his stomach, just feeling him, his muscles, his masculinity, his strength. 

You bite your lip. 

You take a deep breath as you feel his arms wrap around you, his hands cupping your ass before he lifts you right off your feet. You stare back into his ice blue eyes as you push your hands into his dark hair again and wrap your legs around his waist. He kisses you - deeply. You accept his tongue into your mouth, letting it massage the roof of your mouth before it slides along yours. You push your chest into his as your lips smack against one another’s, both of your moans rising into the air around you.

The rain is still heavy as he lays you down in the grass. You tug at the wet garment covering your body, pulling it over your head to expose your nakedness to him. You’ve never been this forward in your life, but something is pulling you, filling you with confidence and power and awareness. You want to be one with him, with the earth, with the wind and the rain. You want to connect with everything around you. You let him grope your breast with his large, calloused hand. You let him drag his lips along your neck, his teeth nipping at your sensitive skin.

He pushes your legs open gruffly with his hand as he pulls away from you. You dig your feet into the wet, soft earth, the mud squishing between your toes as you feel his rough fingers sweep through your folds. He rubs at your clit quickly, not really for you, but for him - just to touch you - giving you the feeling that it’s been a while since he’s felt a woman. Pride swells in your chest. 

He then leans over, his lips hovering over yours, his fingers gripping the grass. Then - oh, and then - he starts pushing at your opening, breaking into your awaiting cunt. You gasp as your body inhales inch after inch of him until he’s buried to his hilt - his hips flush against yours. You whimper softly as your flesh stretches wider than ever before to hold him. It feels good. You let out the breath that you’ve been holding as Bucky settles into the feeling of you. His eyes flutter as his mouth hangs, the rain dripping off of his brow and the tip of his nose down onto you.

He bucks into you and you grunt, grabbing onto his forearms and digging your nails into his thick skin. He pushes again, and again, and again until he has a succinct, hard rhythm. Your body bounces with each thrust, your pussy gripping him harder and harder with each pass. The sky really opens up then. A flash of lightning streaks across the sky as a crack of thunder rips through the silence. Not that either one phases the two of you. 

You lean up and kiss him again, biting down on his lips as he fucks into you. You wrap an arm around his shoulders and neck, hanging on for dear life as you breathe him in - the raw, carnal scent of him filling your lungs. He thrusts into you suddenly, as hard as he can, and then just stays there, pressing against the deepest part of you. Another bolt of lightning slashes through the sky as you cry out - his name falling from your lips - the sound of it tripping off your tongue sending a shiver right down his spine. 

Your pussy starts to quiver as he moves again. His hips are quick and swift, his cock pushing, pushing, pushing until you’re writhing underneath him. Tears sting your eyes as the intensity of the past twenty four hours rolls through your body. Every synapse within you fires as the warm tears start to slip out of the corners of your eyes, the hard rain sweeping them away. 

You cry out again as a sharp pain travels through you, your sensitive nipple now between Bucky’s teeth. Thunder claps again. You push your chest into his wet mouth as his tongue swirls around your skin. He bites down again and your hips jerk up into his as you roll your head in the mud. You run your hands up and down his arms, gripping and groping as his weight pins you to the ground. You’re almost certain that as he drills his hips into yours, he’ll push you right into the ground, straight down to the earth’s core. 

The orgasm that’s been laying in wait, deep inside of your belly, starts to ripple through you. The sparks start to fly, soft as first but within minutes, the embers are now a full blown fire. You screech and wail as your body tenses and curls into his. The rain gets harder, the lightning spidering through the clouds, the thunder so loud it could burst your eardrums. Another push of his hips and you let out a long, deep growl as your release is finally set free. 

The air whips up around you as you come undone beneath him, shaking the leaves of the trees and the blades of grass. His hips still crash into yours as you claw at his back with your fingernails, but they grow more desperate as the seconds pass. A moan rumbles through his chest, then his breathing hitches - his eyes slam shut. You tense, squeezing your slick pussy around his cock as he starts to spill his seed. You want it all, every last drop - not an ounce to be wasted. 

You grab his face in your hands and press your forehead into his as you both ride out the waves of your orgasms. The warmth of his thick cum spreads through you as his hips jerk and his body shudders. His body slides against yours until he is totally spent, collapsing on top of you when he just can’t hold himself up any longer. You cradle his head with your hands as he tucks into the crook of your neck. You push your fingers through his wet, dark tresses, massaging his scalp slowly as you stare up into the sky. 

The rain slows - it’s still steady, but calmer than before. The lightning and thunder disappears, the wind dies away. You and Bucky stay connected as you drag your fingers up and down his spine. He leans back after a few minutes pass, and stares down at you, his eyes roaming your face as he tries and fails to figure you out. 

“Who are you?” He asks softly, slowly realizing the power you hold.

You breathe gently as you blink back at him, “I don’t know.”

You throw your head back as you pant loudly. Your hips roll against Bucky’s as you ride him on top of his bed. You lean forward slightly, pressing your palms into his broad chest, your fingers digging into his flesh. His strong hands are around your hips, helping you move, pushing you forward and then backwards, and then forwards again. 

A bead of sweat slips between your breasts but his tongue captures it before it can delve any further. He falls back onto the thin mattress that holds the two of you and lets his hands fall to your thighs, “God,” he pushes out between clenched teeth, “S’fuckin’ good, girl.”

You start to bounce on top of him, pushing more of your weight into the center of his chest. His hands leave your hips to grip your bouncing tits, massaging them hard before he takes each of your nipples between his rough fingers. He slips his hands around to your back, groping your flesh quickly before he grabs your long locs to pull them gently. You groan as a slight pain prickles at your scalp, but smile as you push your hands up to cup your breasts.

The rain picks up outside again as the familiar pull of an orgasm starts to tickle your insides. You work your hips, up and down, up and down, up and down on his cock until you’re quaking. Your clit jumps with convulsions as you come, your thin fingers stroking the aching flesh to exacerbate the feeling. Bucky isn’t far behind, just like the other four times the two of you have made love throughout the day and evening. 

He hisses and grunts as he lifts his hips into yours, fucking up into you as his spunk fills you to the brim before it slips back out and down his shaft. The thunder outside cracks again as you fuck him for all he’s worth, until you literally can’t sit up any longer. You fall onto his chest, your breath heavy and hard as you nuzzle into him. Your skin sticks to his as humidity fills the room but you hum happily.

You start to trace the scars on his chest with your index finger, your eyes growing heavy. You still don’t know what is drawing you to this man. One minute, you’re both seething with anger directed at one another, the next, you’re making love like it’s your last hours on earth. With each passing moment, you feel him seeping into your heart - your soul - and you don’t even know him. All you know is that you don’t ever want to leave this bed again.

“I have a question.” You whisper after several minutes.

“What’s that?” He slurs, half asleep.

“How long have you been here?”

He wraps his arms around your waist, holding your body tight to his, “Too long.”

“How long?” You press.

“Seventy years,” he says, letting out a breath, “Give or take a year or two. Go to sleep.”

You giggle but close your eyes anyway, “You’re a jerk, you know that?”

“I’ve heard that a time or two. Now shut up, I mean it.”

“Steve said that I was already claimed. What does that mean?”

“You’ve asked your question, girl.”

“Come on,” you whine, “Please?”

He sighs heavily, turning his head into the pillow, keeping his eyes closed, “There’s evil out there in the woods. Not everybody is as nice as us.”

You sit up, flattening your palm to his chest as you blink at the side of his face, “Rumlow? He’s evil?”

“You saw Rumlow? When?” He asks, popping his eyes open as he turns to face you.

“Yesterday, when Steve found me.”

Bucky lets out another breath, his eyes calming, “He’s evil. It’s a good thing he didn’t find you first.” He reaches towards you, sliding his hand along your face before he cups your chin, “Now, I’m going to put you out if you don’t go to sleep.”

You smile softly and lay back down on his chest, nuzzling into him, “Sheesh, okay grumpy.”

He tightens his grip around your waist and just as you are slipping between consciousness and sleep, you swear you feel his lips on your forehead and hear a faint goodnight, girl. 

Bucky sits straight up as a jolt of fear flashes through him. He snaps his head towards the window as the sun peaks in behind the thin, white curtains that cover it. Daytime. It’s daytime and he’s still in his bed. How in the - 

Something shifts beside him and he jerks again, letting out a breath as an arm slinks over his chest. He eyes the small woman next to him, her leg slung over both of his, her face nuzzled into his bicep as she drags in deep, calm breaths. The previous day’s events flash through his mind - his lips on hers, her nails dug into his skin, her sweet gasps as he plunged into her over and over and over again.

She’s coming Bucky, I can feel it. She’ll fix this place and she’ll love you forever, plus a day. 

Wanda’s words play back through his mind. He huffs, letting out a breath before he lowers his head to his hands and rubs his face. He turns his head and peeks over at the sleeping woman next to him. It’s been a long time since he’s woken up to such a sight. Warm brown skin, long locs spidering across the stark white sheets, a gentle, soft face… it takes him back to the 40s. How it felt to wake up next to his girl everyday. God, he wonders where she is now, if she’s even still alive.

He blinks and reaches out slowly, placing his palm flat on her back. He watches as it rises and falls with each steady breath before he sweeps his fingers across her smooth skin. He cups the side of her face and rubs his thumb across her cheek… it’s been a long time… and it feels nice. She feels nice.

Movement outside of his door grabs his attention and then a soft knock spreads through the room. Steve pokes his head in, smiling softly as he eyes the sleeping girl.

“This is not what it looks like.” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face again.

“Of course it isn’t,” Steve shrugs, “Wanda’s here for you.”

“Wonderful,” Bucky titters, “Give me a minute.”

When Steve disappears, Bucky turns back towards the sleeping body next to him. He dips down and places his lips to her forehead, and then the side of her face, and then on the tip of her nose before he sits up straight. He watches as she smiles in her sleep, before she hums softly. He smiles back. He throws his feet over the edge of the bed and stands - what the fuck is happening to him? He couldn’t stand her twelve hours ago. 

“Wanda,” he starts as he moves into the living room, shutting his door, “What brings you here so early?”

She smirks, tossing her red hair over her shoulder as Steve hands her a mug, “You know why I’m here.”

“Do I?” He asks sarcastically - smirking as she levels a slap to his arm.

“How is she?” 

“Who?”

“Goddamn you, Barnes!” She laughs.

“She’s fine,” he shrugs, “Still sleeping.” 

“With you?” 

Bucky sends his eyes towards her, squinting them just a bit as she smiles back at him. Steve hands him a mug seconds later, which he accepts and sips before he answers, “Nosy ass.”

“You are awfully nonchalant about this whole thing,” Steve pipes up, “It rained like hell all day and well into the night, and then, more importantly, you didn’t turn. No full moon, and all we get from you is your usual sarcasm.” 

Bucky shrugs, “Yeah, that was nice.”

“That was nice?” Steve scoffs, “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” Bucky laughs lightly, “Okay, yes, some weird shit is going on, alright? I don’t have an answer for you.” 

“It’s not weird, it’s her.” Wanda says, sending her eyes to his closed door, “She is powerful.” 

Bucky rubs his face again, his brain turning, “It still doesn’t make any sense. You have to be cursed to end up here, right? So how does she have all of this power? Where is it coming from? Who fucking decides?”

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” Wanda says, tilting her head, “We may have been cursed, but even here, in this place, we all still have a destiny to fulfill. We were meant to adapt and survive for some reason or another. Our afflictions have shown that.”

Bucky casts his eyes to his feet as he runs his hand through his hair. He doesn’t want to bring up that within twenty four hours, her broken ankle is completely healed. That not one scratch is present on her body. That every time she came in his arms, the wind and the rain got stronger and harder. If he does, it’s real. Everything Wanda’s been telling them for years is actually coming true - and he’s found the love of his life. 

“What is it? What happened?” Wanda asks, eyeing him quietly, “What are you thinking?”

Bucky clicks his tongue, throwing her a look, “Nothing, damn.” 

“James Buchanan Barnes, so help me!”

He rolls his eyes, “She’s… her ankle, you remember? It was broken, clearly.”

“I remember.” 

“Well, it’s not, now,” he says slowly, shifting his eyes around the room, “It wasn’t yesterday when she was roaming around outside.” He snaps his eyes to Wanda when she gasps and covers her mouth with her fingers, “The gash on her leg, her feet, they’re all healed up. It’s like nothing even happened to her.”

Wanda’s eyes go wide as she glances off into space, her mind racing. She opens her mouth to speak, but a loud knock at the front door interrupts her, “Babe,” Sam starts as he pops his head inside, “You gotta come look at this.”

The three of them follow the excited Sam as he pulls them down towards the lake. The waterfall rushes with intensity, the water level of the lake higher than they’ve ever seen it. They rush up the hill just to the side of the lake and waterfall to the connecting stream above and stop in their tracks as they push through the trees. 

Fish, all sizes and colors, leap from the water and then dive back in as they swim along. Natasha pops her head up out of the water, her green-blue tail swishing behind her, “Do you see this?” She laughs, “This is incredible! We haven’t had fish like this in God only knows how long.”

“When did this start?” Bucky asks.

“Last night, but it was just a few. Carol and I just thought a few got separated from their school, but we woke up this morning to all of this.”

The water starts to ripple upstream as something cuts through it with ease. Once the shadow underneath reaches them, it circles Natasha before it bobs up in the water, Carol’s blue eyes and warm smile falling onto the group, “Go check the orchards. I’ve never seen them like this.” 

Apples, oranges, peaches, and lemons scatter the ground as Bucky, Sam, Wanda, and Steve move through the trees. They haven’t yielded in months and now they are so full, they can’t even hold their production. Wanda’s eyes fill with tears as she reaches towards a blueberry bush, plucking off a single berry. Sam wraps her up in his arms, kissing the side of her face as she smiles up at him through the emotion, “She’s going to save us, Sam. We’re going to be okay.” 

“I never lost faith, baby.” He whispers, swaying her gently back and forth, “Never for a minute.”

Steve picks a bright red apple from the sprawling tree above him and brings it to his mouth, sinking his teeth into it. He closes his eyes and hums in appreciation as the sweet taste explodes against his taste buds.

Bucky wipes at the corners of his mouth, wiping away the juices from the plumb he’s just inhaled. Wanda was right. He should have never doubted her. 

“Is everything okay?” A soft voice sounds behind them, making them all turn. You stand a few feet away, worry written all over your face, the bottom of your tunic bunched in your hand, “I woke up and everybody was gone.”

You cut your eyes to Bucky as he plucks a handful of blueberries from a small bush. He walks towards you, stepping right up to you before he brings one of the berries to your lips. Your eyes bounce back and forth between his, searching for an answer that you’re not sure he has. You’re almost shocked when he smiles back at you. You open your mouth and accept the small piece of fruit, chewing slowly before you swallow.

“Everything’s okay.” He answers, kissing your lips quickly - softly, “We’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of you.” 

Over the coming days and weeks you had him stay in your cabin in the middle of the Eastern European woods. You learned that his name was Bucky. He told you what they had done to him, what he had done to others. Then he talked about his family, friends, other soldiers. You still went out to hunt down the bases, but you had another project at home.

„Can fallen angels go back to heaven?“ He asked laying next to you on the bed. „Sure. If they do enough good and all that fun stuff.“ You shrugged indifferent. „I mean...you killed a lot of bad guys. Haven‘t you?“ He looked over at your face. „Yeah, but I‘m not about all that god stuff, you know? Some assholes use that to create chaos on the mortal plane and I just try to help the humans out a bit...but I‘m still killing them.“ „So you take me under your wing until none of them is searching for me anymore?“ With a monotone face you lifted a wing up above him, „You are an idiot.“ „You like it, darling.“ He chuckled and got a grumble back from you. Lean on me, like a shelter from the storm And pray for deliverance, oh-oh, Lord Lean on me, honey, I‘ll keep you warm While we wait for the knocking on the door. You came into the cabin with a loud grumble and blood on your cheek. You were so fucking close to finding that weird doctor, but everytime you found a new base he was already gone. „I made us food.“ You heard from the little kitchen nook of the cabin. He held out the plate with a big smile and your tension melted away. Why was he so sweet to you? Oh, right, you saved him from 20 more years of brainwashing. „Thank you, Bucky.“ You gave him a warm smile back and sat down on the bed to eat.

When you were gone to hunt down asshole people, he always made sure to clean up everything in the cabin, made food, chop wood and keep the cabin warm and cozy. You didn‘t know if he did it for his own comfort, but you weren‘t complaining. 

„Oh, your wings are all dirty.“ His face contorted as he saw the grime sticking to your wings. You shrugged it off and grabbed a bowl of soup he had just made for the both of you. „Should I clean them?“ He asked a little unsure, but sweet nonetheless. „Don‘t care.“ You mumbled with soup in your mouth, trying to put him off of doing it. A few seconds later you felt something comb through your dirtied up feathers and looked back. „What are you doing?“ You raised a brow. „I‘m cleaning you up.“ He mumbled concentrated on the oil being stuck in part of your feathers. „You do know this is a very, uh, intimate thing to do for a fallen angel?“ You both stopped in your tracks and stared at each other. „Should I stop?“ He retracted his hands back to himself. „No, I could really use someone grooming my wings.“ You sent a small lopsided smile before staring down at your bowl of soup to make this feel less awkward. He took well into midnight to clean up both of your wings, but after he was done you could feel how much the were weighing you down before. „Thank you, gentleman.“ You smiled at him before giving him a kiss on his cheek and going to sleep.

__

And then you finally got him. The doctor. The man that ruined the lives of many, but first and foremost the life of your human friend. You had him locked in the room with you and you made it slow and painful for him. „Nobody hurts my human friend.“ You growled as you heard a last breath beneath you. When you came home later you looked at Bucky and sent him a soft smile, „Nobody is searching for you anymore.“ His eyes went wide, „What?“ „Zola is dead.“ You shrugged before taking your food from the counter and walking past the shocked human man.

Sam Wilson was having a really bad day.

He had slept in, having missed his alarm by well over forty minutes, and when his - goddamned, motherfucking, idiotic - roommate Bucky started banging on the door warning that they were going to be late, Sam rose in a flash, tripping on the strewn covers and stubbing his left pinky toe on the foot of the bed. Howling in pain, he half-entered, half-fell in the shower, scrubbing himself as fast as he could while muttering curses under the cold water.

The temperature was just warming up when he got out, only to realize he forgot to get a towel from the clean laundry basket. Trusting that drying himself off with a face towel was less humiliating than asking Bucky for a regular one - even if it meant going over his legs five times - Sam lost even more precious minutes, having to forgo his beloved french-pressed coffee in order to get to the hospital on time. Barnes could be a dick sometimes, but he was the best ambulance driver in the city, and, right now, Sam’s only hope.

Only they were not on the ambulance yet, and New York City's traffic didn't make way for Bucky's old Camaro - "It's vintage!" - the way it did for first responders. So when the tires screeched in front of Brooklyn General and the two friends rushed to the ER, they were greeted by the displeased face of their supervisor, Maria Rambeau.

"Please come in" she said in mock welcome. "I'm sure emergencies can wait for the princesses to get their beauty sleep."

And because anything in life that can go wrong will go wrong, you happened to pass by precisely as Sam was spilling out apology after apology. From the corner of his eye, he saw you stifling a laugh as you ducked behing Maria to get to the women’s rest room.

That was Monday.

Late evening blended into early morning and Sam found himself in the hospital cafeteria, upper body slumped on a chair and legs stretched in another. He always found it funny how healthcare professionals were usually the ones with the most unhealthy habits - like the irregular sleeping habits and the copious amount of bad coffee. Still, over and over again he took refuge on beige walls of the cafeteria, trying to find a modicum of rest between calls.

So far, the night had brought in an amateur archer with a cracked rib and a teenager with a allergic reaction to spiders. All in all, not a bad 24-hour shift.

Sunlight was just beginning to filter through the shutters when you walked in with Carol Danvers, another nurse. Your scrubs were rumpled and there was a dot of smudged mascara under your eyes. A thin line streamed your cheek from where the surgical mask sat and he was sure your hands were dry and scratchy from the latex gloves just like his were. Even so, to Sam, you were as beautiful as you did when you arrived yesterday morning, if only for the twinkled of mischief he could still catch in your gaze.

Next to him, Bucky snickered.

“You’re so whipped.”

That was Tuesday.

The first time you saw each other outside the hospital, it was a coincidence.

Sam turned left at the coffee aisle and there you were - almost unrecognizable in legging pants and a cap, bopping to a song he couldn’t hear on your earphones. You looked worlds away from the capable nurse he knew you were, staring absentmindedly at the rows of grains, weighing different options on each hand.

He couldn’t help it. Maybe it was the familiar white packaging on your right palm or the way the black pants hugged your calves and thighs in a soft curve your scrubs could never achieve. Somehow, finding you in the domestic setting of the local grocery store brought the words out of Sam’s lips, past lungs and vocal cords, toppling the insecurity that lived at the tip of his tongue.

“The Colombian one is great,” he blurted out.

Your removed an earbud, then the other. Your confused frown morphed into the most beautiful stretch of lips when you recognized the tall man at the end of the aisle.

“Hey,” you beamed. “I know you.”

I know you.

I know you.

I know you.

“From the hospital,” you quickly explained yourself, not knowing you didn’t have to. “You're Sam, right?”

On the inside, he was hyperventilating.

Oh my God, she knows me.

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “Sam Wilson.”

Two steps forward and he was close enough to extend his arm. The handshake was brief and polite, but thrilling. Sam sensed the gentle caress of your palm on every nerve ending of his body. He was wrong yesterday: your hands were so soft it felt as though you'd never once wore latex gloves.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you said and damn it sounded so much better coming from your mouth rather than someone else’s. “Since you’re a friend, do you think you can help me understand this coffee?”

Friend. Friend. Cool. Helping a friend at the grocery store. He could do that. Friend. Get it together, Wilson.

Sam cleared his throat again.

“Well, I use a French Press, so if that’s your thing I’d suggest a medium or dark roast. That one is one of my favorites,” he pointed to the small white bag you were still holding in the cradle of your elbow.

“Oh wow, you’re a pro,” you laughed. “I don’t think I can operate anything more complicated than a coffee bag.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“A coffee bag? Really? That’s like a crime against coffee!”

You giggled, carefree, melodious and slightly embarrassed, like the first warm breeze after a long winter, still shy and oblivious to her greatness.

“In my defense, I’ve been trying to get better,” you claimed. “I don’t think I can survive much longer with the cafeteria coffee as my standard.”

“You’re right about that,” Sam said. Then, in a push of his good luck, he added. “Hey, if you want you can borrow my book on coffee recipes. When’s your next shift?”

“Tomorrow morning,” you replied. “And thank you! Are you sure you won’t need your book?”

“Not at all!” he shook his head. “Besides, it would a crime to let you keep using those coffee bags.”

And there it was again, the laugh. He could keep hearing it forever.

There was a pause, then. That awkward silence in the middle of a sentence when someone wishes they could say more but they don't know how to. It's child's play all over again, from the itch at the tip of the fingers to the flutter in the stomach. In a few moments of quiet, everything is a lot - emotions are too intense, too noisy and too much, toppling over careful overthought expectations of an infatuated heart.

He saves the memory of your smile, willing it to be good fortune, read from coffee grounds sitting on a an empty cup.

“Ok, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam.”

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

That was Wednesday.

He found you at the nurses’ station.

Standard green scrubs, hair out of your face, glasses on the bridge of your nose. There was a pink stain on your middle finger from the neon pen you used to highlight patient’s prontuary.

He’d never seen you in glasses before and something about them made his heart beat faster.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, fingers drumming the countertop in a nervous tick disguised as smooth greeting.

“Oh. Hey, Sam, ” you offered. Next to you, Carol Danvers looked like the cat that ate the canary. “How are you?”

“Good, good,” he nodded. “What about you? Committing any coffee sins recently?”

“I’ll let you know my coffee bags are safe and healthy, thank you very much,” you grinned and laughter bubbled from him in easy breaths of adoration.

“Here,” Sam slid a small rectangular to you. “The recipe book I promised you.”

You held it to your chest like a precious gift and he crumbled, tiny pieces of man falling apart in earth-shattering joy.

“Thank you so much,” you said. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Please,” Sam whispered, either to you or to himself, he wasn’t sure. “Please do.”

That was Thursday.

It took Bucky a lot of convincing, but he eventually let Sam take the Camaro.

"Never call her old again, ya hear me?" he complained. "Not when she's helping you get your girl."

Sam was going to call it something a lot worse if he didn’t manage to find a place to park soon.

On it’s defense, it was Friday night on Fulton Street. Chances of finding a parking space were little to none, even if you were a man with a crush and a nice car. So when he finally reaches you, looking pretty in a dress under the artificial light of a café, he’s just a little breathless from racing down three blocks.

“Y/N!” he exclaimed and you beamed, brighter than the signboard, or his headlights or the first twinkling star shining through the foggy city sky.

“Hey,” you said. “I thought you’d bailed on me.”

“Never,” he breathed out. “I just… Idrovemybestfriendscartoimpressyoubuttherewasnoparkingspace.”

“What?”

“I wanted to impress you, so I borrowed my friend’s car,” he admitted. “Only there was no parking space, so I had to go around the block a few times.”

Relief flooded from you and your shoulders visibly relaxed - but not enough.

The text came ungodly early, in an hour that most people would consider impolite, but not you and definitely not him. In your line of work, odd hours were just regular hours.

Hey Sam, it’s Y/N. Y/N L/N. I hope you don’t mind, but I got your number from an EMT named Steve. He said he’s your friend. Anyway, there’s this café in Bed-Stuy that’s doing a “French Press Festival”. I don’t know what that means but I thought maybe you’d like to come. With me. Like friends, of course. To honor good coffee.

He said yes of course. Perhaps more than once.

“I have something to confess, too,” you said. “I thought you’d found out about it and that’s why you didn’t show.”

Sam froze.

“I’m not a coffee newbie,” you admitted. “I actually know a lot about it. But when we met at the supermarket you seemed so enthusiastic… And honestly, I’d tried to find so many excuses to talk to you at the hospital but I was embarrassed - you make me nervous!”

And nervous you were, fingers twisting each other in a painful, agitated grip.

“I didn’t want to ruin the first good opportunity I got by saying that I knew the Colombian coffee was awesome, and yes, coffee bags should be banned from the face of the planet.”

There are moments that define a boy's heart. Shape it like more than muscle and blood, with something akin to manhood. Sam Wilson was grown - long limbs, tall frame and brave heart - but something in your presence screamed schoolyard crush and teenage fever at him. Like a toddler learning to walk or a boy tasting love for the first time. Like an adult discovering that some things feel better when they speed through older veins.

Sam’s smile was an earthquake - shattering the ground and dismantling structures in its wake. It rattled the five feet keeping you apart, pushing your bodies forward finally.

“I must say I was a little disappointed when you mentioned coffee bags,” he stated. Then he opened the café door and mentioned you forward. “But not as disappointed as I’ll be if say you’ll prefer Chemex over French Presses.”

You grinned and maybe Sam’s fortune was read before the coffee was poured.

“I guess you’re in luck, Mr. Wilson.”

That was Friday.

It was laundry day. He was in the middle of separating the colours from the whites, like you taught him, to lessen the load for you, when there was a knock. You were supposed to be back in a few hours - today was the day you had the least work hours - to finish the task of throwing each load in the washer. He never could work that thing.

He had let Bucky in as soon as he opened the door, offered him a beer and scrambled through the drawers for a clean shirt to wear. Turns out you were the only one that didn't mind him walking around in a pair of sweatpants.

Both men were confused at first, finding each other on opposite sides of your apartment’s door. Thor assumed there was a mission he was needed for, so he had a paper and pen in his hand and was halfway through scribbling a note for you - something along the lines of 'work emergency'. Bucky assumed he had gotten the wrong apartment; Sam hadn't been particularly useful in helping him locate you.

If she wanted you to find her, she wouldn't have moved, were his exact words.

Bucky knew he was right. But he still had to see you. He hadn't felt the bond in a few weeks, and it was honestly starting to worry him. The least he could do was make sure you were okay, right?

Imagine his confusion when he found out that yes, this is Y/N's apartment and yes, I'm staying with her and no, she's at work, why are you asking?

"Soulmate," Bucky repeats himself, leaning against the kitchen counter as he eyed Thor. "She seriously didn't tell you?"

Thor shakes his head, mouth slightly agape as he stared back at his co-worker. You would have mentioned having a soulmate, that's something people generally tell each other before they make plans to buy a couch big enough for both of them—

"Are we talking about the same Y/N?" He knows that they're both talking about you, because it is the only thing that makes sense. Of course, you would be soulmates with an Avenger, he was just hoping that he was lucky enough to find an unmatched woman like you.

Bucky nods solemnly, taking a sip from the beer he had been cradling as he continued to lean against the counter.

"And you're matched?" Thor asks, hoping the answer is yes.

Because if you're matched, then it's fine. If you're matched with Bucky, his co-worker and friend, then being in love with you was absolutely fine. He could still have you, you could still be his, he could still slice up the peppers for you like you had asked - like you had shown for tonight's dish - and he could still help you make that dish without worrying about—

Bucky shakes his head, eyes scanning your new apartment again. "Mated." He mumbles, frowning slightly at how much smaller it was than your first one, too small for two.

"Mated..." Thor breathes out, and he stares at the man that was made for the woman he wants.

Because that's so much worse. Because he can't have you now, not when you were made for someone else.

It shouldn't surprise him, that you would be a matebond. He thought it was odd for you to not have a match or a mate. The universe could never create such a being, soft and sweet and right, and not have made her for someone like Barnes, rough and edgy and in need of the love you could provide. Fate would never have it.

But it did. It honestly surprised him. You hadn't mentioned having a mate or that he was Bucky. And Bucky had married another woman. And you lived in an apartment that was made for one, when your entire nature was to nest for two, prepare for two, exist for two.

"You're married." is the only thing Thor can seem to say, the only thing his mind can force out of his mouth and he narrows his eyes at Bucky. Your habits were definitely contagious.

Bucky nods, his face neutral as he looks back at Thor. "I am."

"You were made for someone, literally made for her—" he doesn't mean to get angry, to let the thought of losing you get to him, but it does. "—and you married someone else?"

Bucky grimaces, putting the bottle down. He hates that he has heard those words before, hates it even more that it's always from people involved with you in some way, from people in love with you - as if they even knew you like he does.

Steve. Sam. And now, Thor.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I married someone else. That's part of the reason I'm here—"

"—You're here to do what?"

How do you do it? How do you keep on getting his friends, his team, to love you like this? To bat for you like this.

He had barely gotten on good grounds with Sam, then you showed up and ruined a potentially great friendship.

Steve had broken laws, disobeyed orders, took on Hydra countless times, because of their friendship. But, one look at your pretty little face and that annoyingly contagious smile, and he couldn't even leave his best pal alone with you. Not when he had seen that look on his face before. Not when he came back from being with Peggy for you.

And now, Thor, a man who had left Asgard – and came back to help the team – on his quest to win Jane back, was in your kitchen. In sweatpants. Doing laundry.

How do you keep making everyone love you?

How do you keep finding ways to hurt him like this?

"I'm here to fix things, Thor." He shouldn't hate the way it makes him feel, but he does. "I can't feel her, not like before, and that's not right. It... it didn't used to be like this, ya know?"

Thor doesn't. He was made for a throne, and royalty could never have matches or mates. A kingdom could only ever prosper if the ruling party was unmatched, historically speaking, and Kings had to be able to marry whomever was fit to rule beside them - without the prospect of a soulmate intervening.

He didn't know what it was supposed to be like. He had always wanted to know, wanted a soulmate, having loved the notion of it all – having someone made for you. A person so intricately made for another, that it was impossible to be with someone else. So, how could you both be with other people, when you had already found each other?

The weather outside had changed, a darkening sky and a flash of lightening somewhere in the distance. Thor didn't mean to let this upset him, but all he could think about was how he would have to let you be with someone else.

"Thor—"

"Leave, before—" before the temperature drops, before the weather worsens, before it starts to storm—

Because all he could think about was that short-sleeved shirt you wore to work and the jacket you didn't take and the umbrella that was still in the coat closet, because he had said it's going to be a good day, you won't need the jacket and now it wasn't.

Because you were a matebond.

 --

 What you had, the type of soulmate you were, was called a bond – or a mate. It was a rare type, but not uncommon. While most people grew up with matches or were unmatched, you were part of the minority with a mate.

Matches are actual soulmates. It is decided, unchanging. As a match, you live your life knowing that you are just a half – that you have another half somewhere out there. A match's instinct to want their half cannot be fought or changed or challenged. It is inevitable.

Unmatched are as common as matches. They are born from matches who breed with non-matches. The world is a big place, and only 30% of matches ever find their soulmates.

Mates are only ever born because of certain events. Nothing specific, it could be major or minor, an earthquake or the parent of a mate nursing a wounded animal back to health. There wasn't any science to prove the specifics or the nature of the events, only that fate chose which event was significant enough to give parents—matched or unmatched – a mate for a child.

You, along with Sam, were a mate. The science called your kind a bond, because of the biology that linked you and your mate. The stories, folktales, myths, called your kind matebonds, because of the unsettling similarities to the bond’s werewolves had with their mates.

Matches were their own people, regardless of being halves. They could do as they pleased, whenever they pleased. That is why unmatched can only ever come from matches.

Mates, however, could only ever do what their bond to their mates allowed. Everything about a mate was made to correspond with their significant other. Your biology was made for your mate, only him, and vice versa.

You couldn't feel their emotions, like some matches, but your bond - your closeness to each other - could accelerate their healing. Your blood mixing with theirs, your presence near theirs, your smell, everything about you was made for them. You can't feel their pain, but you can feel their presence and them. The bond pulls you towards them - always.

Only 30% of matches ever find each other. But mates will always find each other.

Bucky could never really reject you; it could literally kill you both. He could never be apart from you for too long, it would make him unbearable to those around him. He would constantly need you near, around him, within arm’s reach, because that was his biology.

He would need you, always, and you would always be ready for whenever that was. It was your biology.

When you arrived home and found bags by the door, and Thor waiting for you in the kitchen, a part of you knew why.

He was dressed in the same outfit he was in when you had hit him with your car, stormbreaker placed on the kitchen sink and out of the closet you had insisted it be kept in. His arms were folded across his chest and his expression was one of disappointment. And you didn't need to look into those clear blues to know he was disappointed in you.

You walked into the kitchen cautiously, body shaking slightly from how cold you were – the rain had caught you on your way back to the office from your lunch break, and again on your way to your parking spot across the street – and your hair was drenched.

"He came, didn't he?" You whisper, eyes assessing the giant of a man standing in front of you.

"Your mate?" He hisses.

An actual hiss, directed at you, and not at the waitress who had gotten your order wrong, or your neighbour who could never lower his music and was too scary for you to ask, or the caretaker who would give you a hard time whenever he had to fix something that Thor couldn't.

You hate what that does to you, what his stare does to you. You could take Bucky's angry glare and his temper tantrums, but not Thor's. You couldn't have this with him too, you couldn't survive it.

"Uh..." You don't know what to say. You can't deny it, because he's not wrong. But Bucky hasn't been your mate since... ever. He hasn't been what a mate should have been. "It's not—"

"It's not what? True?" He's leaned back against the sink and, even though stormbreaker is behind you on the counter, you don't like how intimidating he looks. "Please tell me it's not. Please tell me that Bucky is just an ex-boyfriend that's still attached, or that he got the wrong address, and that you're not the girl he's trying to fix things with—"

"—he wants to fix things?" You didn't mean for that to come out as it did, as hopeful, as slightly excited.

But it did, and Thor's light blues darkened so quickly that they nearly remind you of Bucky's.

"You let me into your home and into your life, knowing, knowing who I was and what you were, and you didn't bother to—" he doesn't mean to yell, he really doesn't, but he's angry and he feels betrayed and you have a mate. "What was your plan?"

"Thor—" you're trembling and it's no longer from the cold, "—calm down, please, I can explain."

He scoffs at that, rolling his eyes. "You're not denying it."

"I'm not gonna lie to you!" Your voice is shaky and high-pitched, and you don't mean to escalate this into a screaming match, but it's too late. "Just—I promise it's not what it seems—"

"It seems like you belong to another man!"

"He's not mine!"

"Neither am I, dammit!"

That shouldn't have hurt you. That should not have hurt you. You have heard it so many times, seen it in so many different ways, that it shouldn't have hurt.

But it did.

It hurt more than it should, you had never thought of Thor as yours, but you were beginning to care deeply for him like he wasn't made for anyone else. And, to make it worse, it took this moment, right here and right now, it took the look of disappointment and betrayal, it took the darkening of his eyes, for you to realise that. To realise that this man, this being that had done nothing but give instead of take, had somehow managed to make you fall—

"We're not even together, he and I." you say softly, wrapping your arms around your waist and looking away from him. "We've never been together."

He seems to find that funny because he laughs. It's a bitter laugh, cold and humourless, and you hate how it sounds nothing like his actual laugh.

"You're mates, Y/N." He says, as if you don't already know that. "What you haven't been doesn't compare to what you will be. I can't do this."

"Do what?" Your eyes widen as you look up at him, gaping at him, at what he was trying to say. "Do what, Thor?"

"I can't do this. I can't be with you—"

"Because of Bucky?"

"—because of you. Because of what you are!"

"What I am?" There's a crack in your voice when you say this.

You're shaking and it's his fault. He knows it. You're easily frightened, and you have never liked yelling, or loud noises, or fast movements, as they always seem to set you on edge. He knows this.

He hates this. He hates that this is your conversation right now, that your first fight together will be your last, that he can hear your heartbeat and it's beating too fast for you to still be standing.

He hates that he wants to hold you, and forget about all of this, because he can't. He hates seeing you like this, hates it even more because he's the reason.

Most of all, he hates that you were made for someone else, when everything about you seemed to have been created for him.

You weren't his, but his entire being responded to all of you like he was yours.

"You are made for—"

"I am made for a man who is programmed to want me dead!" You yell, even though you hate it. You yell because Thor isn't Bucky, and there aren't any holes in your walls or shattered glasses around your feet. "This isn't fair—he can't kill me; his biology won't let him but that hasn't kept him from trying! You can't—we can't—he doesn't get to do this again. You can't leave me— please."

His stomach shouldn't churn the way it is, you're not his.

His anger shouldn't be trying to consume him, because you're not his.

You're not his. You're not his. You're not his. He doesn't get to be enraged by—

"Kill you?" He all but growls, the rumble of it mimicked by the thunder that followed.

"It's not fair—" You don't hear him though; your ears are ringing, and your racing heart seems to be louder than your own voice. "—he doesn't get to do this. No!"

"Y/N!"

"No!" When had your life turned into this… "You don't get it. I want this, I want you. I know I can't give you anything-- I don't have anything left to give. But I want you and I want what we have, okay? Because this is good, this is great. We can have this."

You know you can't. That's why you kept your soul-type a secret. With nothing to show for it, no signs or birthmarks, you could be passed off as an unmatched. Until Bucky shows up... and he always shows up.

But you're hoping that this time, it's different. That he isn't like everyone else, like Bucky.

You're hoping that, this time, your reasons are enough for him to want to stay. That you're enough for him to want to stay.

That you're worth the decision to stay...

"The bruising around your neck..." He trails off and you visibly stiffen. "That's why he can't feel you right, isn't it? That's because of him."

"Say you want this too." You say, choosing to ignore his question – as rhetorical as it may be. "Say you'll stay."

He doesn't.

He doesn't say that, and he doesn't stay.

Hearing voices in my head wasn’t nearly as upsetting as it might seem on the surface. They weren’t true auditory hallucinations...most of the time. I knew I had an active imagination. Usually it was a source of comfort for me and my solitary, sheltered existence. The more upsetting mono- or dialogues I had become disciplined enough to shut out. Therapy is a wonderful thing.

You most certainly do, or else the consequences will be most dire.

Oh? Such as?

Such as, I am the only thing keeping you from falling asleep, and as such slipping under the surface of the water and drowning.

The voice was quiet, and firm. Curiously enough, it was male. Huh. A lovely baritone, come to that. Most of my voices were either female, or asexual.

I somehow think my first inhalation of water would be sufficient to wake me up, but thank you for reinforcing your poor opinion of me, whoever you are. You may go now. Just...so tired...

You are tired because you haven’t eaten in three days, nor had anything to drink for two. And you are also tired because you are barely conscious. You are quite ill and in dire need of medical assistance. Does the thought of impending death not move you at all? 

Voice, who are you and why should I even care? Voices come and voices go. None of them speak truth, they simply tell stories or say what I want to hear. Just leave me to some god damned rest for a change.

No. This god will not let you have the rest of the damned.

Oh bullshit. There are no gods. And if there are, none of them speak to me, or care enough to make their presence known. I’ve tried.

Can you not hear me answer you?

I’m dreaming. That’s all this is. And I challenge you, Nameless God—who are you, and why would you come to me now anyway? Why can’t you just let me go in peace?

Because I have been watching over you, my dear. I’ve heard you calling out to me in joy, in mischievous laughter, in rage, in despair, but most delightfully in passion...and yet, your calls have dwindled, and your supplications grown smaller, and finally silent. I came to see about you, and find you on the verge of passing beyond even my reach...why? Why have you allowed yourself to fail so grievously ill?

I repeat—who are you?

Beautiful mortal. I’m your Loki. Open your eyes.

Struggling, I managed to force my eyelids to open. It was time to force myself out of this reverie that was bound to sink my soul deeper into the mire of depression should I continue. There would be no one there, because there was never anyone there.

Crouched besides my tub, was...someone. A male figure, in armor that was casually unfastened at his throat. His index finger lightly supported my chin, as my body had in fact slipped a lot lower than I realized. Careless of modesty, I struggled to sit up, but my head felt poorly supported by my neck, and I leaned it heavily against the side of the bath. I blearily realized perhaps I was sicker than I realized, as my imagination had now exploded into full blown delusions. Auditory, visual, tactile...whee, such fun...

“You do not seem overly distressed to find me here.”

“Begging your pardon, but I fear you are not. Clearly I am spiking a temperature and am delirious. I knew I was feeling ill beforehand but had no idea...”

“Oh, you skeptical woman. You are indeed sick, in fact I am still unsure what can be done for you, but none of my favored will slip away in a bath if I can give at least some assistance to aid their passage.” And with that, I found myself being lifted, and tenderly brought to my bed, instantly dry and clad in the loveliest nightdress I’d ever seen. Certainly finer than anything I had in my possession.

“What...?”

“Darling, you deserve something beautiful. But right now, I fear your body is shutting down. You should not have neglected yourself so sorely. Why have you?”

At this point, I decided to just go with it.

“Are you then, truly...”

“Yes, I am the same Loki you’ve called out to many, many times. Your very own.”

“Why do you say it like that? ‘My very own’? Surely there can only be one of you...?”

“Little One, have you no idea how many multiverses exist? For whatever reason, I have found you, and therefore I have claimed you as mine. I do not share easily, if at all. Should another incarnation of myself suddenly appear, he would have quite a fight on his hands. You are mine. I know everything about you...how you read well past your bedtime. The many, many hundreds of thousands of words you have written, but have never shared with anyone—why? You’ve created entire universes of your own, woven wondrous tapestries filled with richness and delight, but have locked them away in secret...composed anthologies of poems...” Long fingers played with my hair as I stared into his eyes, struck dumb by his revelations as he looked pointedly at my stacks of journals that were perched on my nightstand, leaned on shelves, and even sat on the floor.

His face was a confusion for me. He wasn’t as described in the eddas, nor was he the mirror image of the MCU character.

“Of course not,” he laughed, his voice rumbling low in his chest. “I am me, and no one else. Just as you are yourself.” Drat the man, he was even reading my mind now, or at least reading my expressions...

His eyes were almost a kaleidoscope of green and blue, and his hair a rich black waterfall of wavy locks, his lips neither thin nor thick, and his teeth...I had to shake myself from getting lost in his physical magnetism. 

“I don’t know what to say,” I murmured. “If you know so much, why are you asking me these questions, and why are you coming now, when everything has gotten so bad?”

“When I saw you last, things weren’t so dire, pet,” he confessed. “I wasn’t going to manifest myself unless I thought you truly needed me. You were content, I thought—you had your life with your friends, your activities...why should I upset everything? God of Chaos and Mischief I am, but I had no desire to destroy your life for no purpose. I adore mischief and pranks. I would bring pain to you.”

“Loki, everything is gone,” I whispered, trying to contain my grief. “Everything I was striving for...I’m never going to get better, you know, the physical therapists told me I’ve hit my maximum potential. The only thing I can do is have surgery, which will be expensive, painful, and risky with uncertain outcome. There will be no one to help me recuperate, to further complicate matters. My job is at risk because I can’t keep up any longer. I’ve worked so long to help everyone else, but...”

“Now you need help, and everyone has disappeared, aye,” he concluded sadly. “I am sorry. I know you have struggled with this for a long time.”

“I never felt like I wanted outlandish things. I wanted to have a family of my own. A husband who loved me, found me physically desirable...”

“You are incredibly desirable,” Loki growled fiercely. “By the Nine, I’ve watched you as you have lain in your narrow bed of nights, wondering what ails the men of this realm that you have had to take care of your needs alone. Your body in passion has inflamed me in ways I can barely tolerate without slipping through and ravishing you without so much as a by your leave...!”

“But you didn’t” I hotly interrupted. “For whatever reason, you didn’t. Whether I was too old, too disabled, too fragile, too mortal, too unattractive...you like every other male found your pleasures elsewhere, and...”

“Be very careful,” Loki hissed. “You are close to unleashing something you know nothing of...”

“Well of course I know nothing of it, I just want a family, babies, children, I just wanted to be loved, and yet you find me about to drown in my own bathtub! And come to it, why didn’t you just leave me be? At least the pain and the loneliness and the aching would be over! What is the point, or are you going to be just as distant as all the other gods in the pantheon...!”

I didn’t say anymore, because speech was no longer possible. Loki had swooped down, crushed my body to his, and was kissing me with a thoroughness I never dreamed possible.

What need for breath had I, when there were such kisses to be had? My head was spinning, my heart was pounding, and the edges of my vision were growing dark as I lost myself in him, my hands slowly then more confidently pressing him even closer to me, so I could feel his silky locks in my fingers, his chest rising and falling.

“I warned you,” he said at last, allowing me to greedily inhale at last. “You taunt me, showing me where I may have failed in the past, but I will refuse myself no longer. I thought by denying myself the pleasure of being in your company, I was doing what was best for you, but no more! You are mine, and I will be the one to give you all, whether you wish it or not. No mortal men for you, my darling. I will have Eir herself if necessary at your bedside, and what Eir cannot heal, I shall unleash my seidr upon, and what magic cannot improve, I swear I will fetch and carry and give to you whatever you need so you will be comfortable and happy. No healer will be as dedicated. No handmaiden as constant.”

I sat back. “You...really care? You care that much?”

“Sweetling? I may be your Loki...but you?”

He leaned forward and cradled my body against his, his voice husky and tantalizing, his breath barely brushing against my ear.

“...you are my Ástvinur. I cannot, will not be without you another moment. I refuse. Seeing you about to slip away...no. I have chosen you, and you are mine.”

He shrugs, twisting his hand easily in her grip to wrap his fingers around hers. “Changed my mind.”

There’s a cheekiness to his gaze – and a brilliant hue to his crystal blue eyes – that she recognizes immediately. It’s the same vague, teasing look he gives his daughter whilst telling her that dinosaurs used to keep sabretooth tigers at pets… and made wooly mammoths use their tusks to clean their litter boxes. Or when he insists that ice cream for breakfast is against the law, and he’s keeping her out of jail by giving her waffles instead.

It’s a look Annie’s had directed her way a time or two as well, the playful flash in his features doing more to set her ablaze than just about anything else – save maybe seeing him slide out from under a car, covered in grease and sweat. Those moments when he sneaks up behind her while she’s washing dishes, gives her a swift and startling slap on the ass that every time causes her to nearly jump out of her skin? There’s that glint burning in his gaze as she turns to coyly chide him. Or when she bemoans being tired after a long day and a late night, only to feel his fingers trail slowly up her thigh, setting her flesh to tingle and singe? Sure enough, when she rolls over in bed, it’s that look she’s met with, impish anticipation painting his features.

It’s a look that has already become adored and craved by her. And freely given by him. A gesture, an unspoken admittance of affection that – in just these few short months – has managed to work its way into a new, shared vernacular.

She steps closer to Bucky, the slowly setting sun beating harshly on her back as she presses herself to his chest. “What if I change my mind about coming home with you tonight?” she asks with a sly smile, eyes fluttering flirtatiously up at him. “I mean, if I go in there alone, chances are, I’ll find some handsome, rich man and go home with him instead. Let him whisk me away in his Ferrari.”

Her mere presence coupled with the unseasonably warm temperature causes sweat to build beneath his collar, and he reaches up with his free hand to tug at the suffocating tie. “If he’s got a Ferrari, I can’t blame you,” he breathes out casually. “Go for it.” He drops his palm down to her hip, taking in the cool silkiness of her dress. “But you’re not gonna find anyone in there more handsome than me.”

She pulls back with a sudden – utterly enchanting, he can’t help but think – laugh and slaps him in the chest. “Cocky much?”

He merely wiggles his brows at her, earning an eyeroll – amid a beautifully dimpled smile – in response.

“C’mon,” she breathes out then, spinning round and twining her fingers with his before setting off towards the celebration. “You’re my officially RSVPed plus one. There’s no backing out now. It’s the law.”

He bites back a short chuckle, lets out instead a rumbling growl, but easily relents just the same, this time allowing himself to be pulled forward towards the massive gardens ahead. “I don’t know any of these people,” he whines pathetically, plodding behind her with heavy feet.

“You know me. And Tony,” she supplies, forging on without casting a glance back at him.

He rolls his eyes restlessly. “Last time I saw your boss, he was practically dusting for prints in my garage.”

“So dramatic,” she mocks thickly, accepting a program from one of the ushers as they enter the sprawling garden. She stops short once inside, Bucky very nearly ramming into her from behind. “It looks amazing,” she lets out in a low, astonished tone, the very tenor of which shoots a wide grin across Bucky’s face. She spins to look at him, her eyes inadvertently ticking round to take in more details of their surroundings. The lush, green topiaries looming on all sides. The big, beautiful lilies and orchids encircling the seating area. The perfectly placed fairy lights streaming from the tall trees. The giant pergola up front where a terribly well-dressed justice of the peace is already stoically standing. “This is exactly like what Pepper requested,” she mutters delightedly. “She must be so happy!”

He tugs her off to the side – out of the way – as more people stream in. “Well, it is her day, right?”

Annie nods, small hum spilling from her lips as she turns and drags him off towards the pristine white chairs, marching ever closer to the pergola at the front. “Tony said that if I sit any further back than the third row, I’m fired,” she tells him when his heels begin to dig in yet again.

And again, he yields, a deep, rather comic frown pulling on his face as they lightly push their way through the other guests. “So Stark is the bridezilla,” he mutters, no question to his voice.

She leads him into the seats, across a few already sitting – oddly familiar-looking – people before plopping down with a huff. “Ugh,” she drones, completely ignoring his comment and instead straightening her skirt beneath her before letting out a long, weary sigh alongside the very simple utterance, “It is hot.”

“You’re hot?” He turns on her with wide eyes, tugging once more at his tie, trying – and failing – to slide the sleeves of his suit jacket up his forearms for just a little air. “If they say anything more than just I do, I might freakin’ melt out here.”

A soft, clever smile rolls across her face. “But you’ll look good while you do it,” she says, reaching up to flatten his lapel before giving a single, terse nod. “I like you in a suit.”

He lets out a small scoff. “Don’t get any ideas, doll.”

“Any ideas?” she intones, grin only growing. “We’re at a wedding, Buck. I’m getting all sorts of ideas.”

His eyes blow wide for the briefest of moments, mouth falling agape and head cocking towards her as an anxious trilling buzzes through his brain. But then he sees the teasing turn to her lips, the tightness in her jaw as she works to hold in a bout of laughter. And he releases a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding as an exasperated, “Very funny,” slips from his lips.

The bright, airy chuckle she’d been holding so tightly to spills out, her fingers dropping to splay wide over his knee. “Relax. I promise I won’t propose to you at the end of the night.”

His face drops, and along with it, his voice. “Might not mind you proposing certain things,” he mutters with a shrug.

A quick bark of a laugh has his eyes veering automatically back up at her, locking onto her mirthful gaze. “Fine,” she eases out after the giggles begin to fade. “Maybe I’ll propose something.” Then she shifts in her seat, turning towards him, her face mere inches from his. Her eyes take on a somewhat solemn quality as she tells him, voice dropping nearly a full octave, “I’m not one of those super-sentimental, sappy girls who’s going to get all weepy just because we’re at a gorgeous wedding.” Her eyes tick over to the waiting pergola, a wistful air wrapping around her tone. “Or because I genuinely love the two people getting married. Or because,” she looks back at him, something clenching and burning deep in her core as she catches his bright blue eyes. “Because I love the fact that you actually came here with me.”

A tight breath hisses between his teeth. “Jesus, doll. You keep looking at me like that, you might just turn me into one of those super-sentimental, sappy girls,” he tells her before throwing an arm over her shoulder – despite the heat – and settling back with her body nestled close to his.

000

In the weeks following what had since been dubbed FLU: Revenge of the Toilet, Annie and Bucky had not only grown closer, but more… solid.

That rather rough Wednesday night – when everything seemed to go wrong and all of their insecurities were laid bare – had been a bit of a turning point in their relationship. Looking back, both of them would likely say that it was, in fact, the beginning of their relationship. Before that night, they were dating. They were two people who talked and laughed and hung out… and were – undeniably, categorically – attracted to one another. But after, they became so much more.

For Annie, the defining aspect of that evening – the thing that convinced her they were about to head down a new path together – was simply the fact that Bucky had pushed. He forced a conversation about whether or not she could handle his messy life, felt the need to because – I really like you – he was beginning to see a place for her in his future. That, coupled with the fact that he never asked her to leave, clearly never wanted her to leave, served to quiet Tony’s well-intentioned warning – You’ll never come first, you know – that always seemed to linger in the back of her mind.

Maybe that would still be true at times. Maybe it should be true, especially when the one she’d be competing against for that top spot was a four-year-old girl. But in that moment – that night – Bucky had made it abundantly clear that she was his priority.

Needless to say, she had stayed the night after all. After a rather intense and achingly long make out session that resulted in swollen lips, a bit of beard-burn, and a broken coffee maker; a quick everything’s good here check-in phone call from Steve and Natasha; and too much lukewarm Indian food, Annie ended up coiled around Bucky’s hulking form, breathless in his bed, sweaty sheets sticking to naked flesh as her exhausted body drifted off to sleep. It was blissful and hot, and above all else, it just felt… right.

The next morning, on the other hand, wound up being less than stellar. She woke cold and alone, sprawled atop an otherwise empty bed, pulled from her slumber by the muffled sounds of retching emanating from behind the closed bathroom door.

She cared for Bucky that day – much to his chagrin – helped him shower and dress, cleaned his toilet, even ran to the store to stock up on Gatorade and ginger ale. And she allowed him to care for her as well – to come and fetch her and take her home, clean her up and keep her hydrated – when she blew chunks all over her desk at work two days later.

And that is what became the defining moment for Bucky.

It had all been a somber sign of things to come. Sickness. Hardship. Going to bed on cloud nine and waking the next morning with a faceplant to the dirty ground. It was all the things that he’d been afraid might happen. Burdening Annie with the cumbersome task of caring for a stubborn patient – I see where Lana gets it now – and the painful domesticity it bore. Having to do the same for her, just looking at her pale skin and hooded eyes, wiping the sweat from her brow, all the while knowing she was sick because of him. Having to break plans – the first plans they managed to make that didn’t involve chicken soup and Netflix – when a rather green-looking Natasha brought Svetlana over two days early because Steve’s horrendous retching was making the little girl cry.

But they made it through just fine. It was oddly easy, in fact… easier than he ever expected it to be. Caring for one another. Wanting to care for one another. It had been too damn easy.

If he were to be completely, unabashedly honest, Bucky would have to admit that this degree of ease… of comfort and simplicity – because that’s really what it is, isn’t it? Just a bizarrely uncomplicated, effortless sensation? – was not something he’d ever had with any other woman before. Even with Nat – whom he’d loved long before Lana came along, though admittedly not in the way that allowed two people to forge a life together – it had never been easy. She was strong and independent and wholly her own person. Her strength reeled him in and turned him on. But it also terrified him. Still does. Showing any vulnerability in front of Natasha Romanov – despite her telling him repeatedly that she can see right through his cocky façade – is not a thing he has ever been willing or able to do.

And with other woman too, he’s only ever allowed a certain side of himself – or perhaps a select few sides – to be glimpsed. More often than not, he’s shown them the charming, self-assured smile, imbued every movement, every word with the seemingly subtle confidence that he could see turned them to mush. But never, that he can recall, had he shared with them his struggles. No, instead he’d wear that charm like armor, a beguiling indifference that got him laid while still keeping his heart safe. And after Lana was born, once he realized his heart had become even more precious – more full and seemingly fragile now that his baby girl lay inside – an utter air of detachment was added on as an extra, thicker layer of protection.

He’d tell women about himself – what he did for a living, where he grew up. He’d share with them that he loved cars, loved screwball comedies, loved his daughter more life itself. He’d let them into his home and his bed. But his heart – and most of what made him truly him – was simply off limits.

He never really realized how much of his time was spent walking on eggshells around the women in his life, cautiously selecting which pieces of information to reveal, which parts of himself – if any – to lay bare. He’d never realized quite how hard it had been to be himself… to be real and genuine and – God help him – vulnerable with women.

Until Annie came along and made things so damn easy.

000

The music is surprisingly… intense. For a wedding reception, at least. The not-so-subtle beats of AC/DC and Metallica permeating the air for a good hour or so before slowly tapering off into some more appropriate rock ballads. “Tony got to choose the tunes for the cocktail hour,” Annie whispers to him with a smirk. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.”

But for Bucky, the predetermined cocktail hour expands well into the post-dinner lull, his general wariness of large crowds and unease with small talk driving him to keep his hands and lips busy with drinks for as long as humanly possible. He gets it down to a science… sip easily at the watered-down drink in his hand to keep from having to say more than a few words to any of Annie’s overeager – borderline neurotic – coworkers. Then slip back over to the bar, taking his sweet-ass time to get a refill.

He’s on his fifth lap now, taking a break to sit at the far corner of the open bar. He watches from afar – head ducked, fleeting smile stifled – as Annie laughs and talks and mingles with a handful of work friends, her kind eyes ticking his way every few moments in quiet – easy – reassurance. And with each tender glance he feels a new wave of adoration wash over him, a steadily undulating current that both buoys him and threatens to drown him in the depths.

“You’re drinking the cheap shit,” he hears from over his shoulder. His hand grips the crystal tumbler of bourbon a little tighter as he slowly spins on the stool, raising a brow at the suspiciously unaccompanied center of attention. Tony ticks his chin toward his glass before calling the bartender over and saying simply, “Break out the Pappy Van Winkle.”

“The what?” Bucky asks, his eyes following the bartender’s cautious steps as he makes his way around to the back of the bar, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder as he goes.

Tony rolls his eyes and lets out a small grunt before dropping into the seat beside him. “Stupid name, wholeheartedly agree.” He tugs at his bowtie, unfurling it in one quick swipe and flinging it down atop the mahogany bar. “But it’s the best. Or…” he shrugs. “One of the best. Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow – not unkindly, but certainly suspiciously – as he watches the bartender return with two tumblers and a bottle that his fingers curl around as though it were the freaking holy grail. “Shouldn’t you be out there mingling with all your high-society guests?” he asks once they’re left alone with their drinks.

Tony raises his glass, holding it high with an expectant sort of impatience. “C’mon,” he mutters fitfully. “I just married the love of my life. Toast me.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks up into an amused grin, a quick snort of a chuckle spilling out as he brings the bourbon up and clinks Tony’s glass. “Congratulations,” he deadpans, the smallest gleam in his eye revealing the depth of his sincerity.

“Thank you.” Tony pulls back and sips at his drink, a look of pure comfort spilling across his face as his Adam’s apple bobs.

Bucky brings the bourbon to his lips – slowly, cautiously – and lets the amber liquid slide inside, coating his tongue, his throat, his soul in the most delicious burn possible. “Damn,” he breathes out, staring wide-eyed at the drink in his hand. A delicate trace lingers as he swipes his tongue along his bottom lip, head shaking slowly. “Damn.”

Tony chuckles under his breath. “Probably shouldn’t have introduced you to good ole Pappy,” he declares. “Like sending someone who’s only ever flown coach across the ocean on a private jet.”

“I’d settle for business class,” he smarts with a frown.

Tony nods, another small chortle spilling out of him. He takes another sip and cheats out on his stool, gazing across the large dancefloor in front of them until his eyes light on the tall strawberry blonde, dripping with white silk, a glass of champagne in her left hand that sets a sparkling backdrop for the platinum band clinking delicately against it. “Nah,” he mutters, grin growing as he watches his new wife throw her head back in a carefree, delightful bout of laughter. “Why settle when you can have the best?”

Bucky’s shoulders pull into a quick shrug, his gaze sweeping out to find the object of Tony’s attention before returning to settle on the drink in his hand. “Not everyone can afford the best,” he mutters a bit under his breath.

Tony turns to him with a disappointed glare. “You do realize I’m not actually talking about bourbon, right?” He lets out a long, exasperated sigh and settles in, placing his glass on the bar and leaning close to the man beside him. “She’s ruined you, hasn’t she? Annie,” he clarifies when Bucky’s brows curl in confusion. “Can’t go back to the cheap shit after getting a taste of her. Am I right?”

Something akin to a growl pulls from his chest, his jaw ticking tightly to the side. “Don’t talk about tasting my girlfriend.”

And Tony just laughs. Loudly. Haughtily. Slapping Bucky on the shoulder as he goes. “Relax, will ya?” he chokes out before swallowing down the snickers. He shakes his head with a fond sort of amusement. “Metaphor, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, hint of agitation still in his voice as he brings the glass back to his lips and lets the liquor wash away the remnants of his irritation.

“I was watching you before,” he states simply, mirthful eyes still trained on the rather uncomfortable looking man before him. “The way you look at her, eyes following her around like a little puppy dog.”

Bucky’s lips press tightly together into a small snarl.

“I’m a genius, you know,” he lets out vapidly before giving a quick shrug and reaching up to pop open the top button of his starched, white collar. “Doesn’t take a genius to see what I saw, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky bites out, perhaps a bit harsher than intended. “What’s that?”

A smug smile, a stifled laugh, a short, incredulous snort… that’s all the answer he really needs. But Tony says it anyway, never one to pass up the opportunity to be heard. “You’re smitten. Intoxicated. You’ve had the Pappy and – you’ve gotta admit – nothing’s been sweeter, smoother… easier going down.”

He flashes him a stunned look, his stare reflecting something between confusion and accusation. And his lips part, jaw popping open to emit nothing but dumbfounded silence.

“Love’s a good thing,” Tony tells him, his voice light and airy, flitting atop a soft laugh. “Annie is a damn good… thing,” he finishes, frown forming as he realizes what he said. But he shakes it off, a look of you know what I mean flashing Bucky’s way. “She tell you about the promotion?” he asks, curiosity lacing his tone.

Bucky sputters a bit, the swift change in topic causing him to reel. “Uh,” he thinks. Promotion… promotion. “Yeah,” he utters finally, once his brain catches up. “Yeah. Something about… operations…” He shakes his head. “Or operational… something.”

Another snort of a laugh. “Operations manager for our new Innovative Tech Division.” He shakes his head with an almost annoyed air. “Up and comers are the worst. They all think they’re the hottest shit, each of their ideas the most… innovative. I find them… exhausting.” He narrows his eyes pensively. “Actually I find them to be the most irritating little shits on the planet.” He issues out a quick scoff and downs the rest of his drink before returning his gaze to Bucky. “Annie says they’re too much like me and that’s why I hate them. But I don’t buy that. I love me.” He shrugs. “Anyway… figured she could go unleash some of that insight on them. Help them all get their shit together and function like a team. Or, hell, I’d settle for just function.”

Bucky lets out a soft snicker, crooked smile blooming. “Want her to clean up more of your messes,” he muses thickly, taking another pull of bourbon.

Tony flattens him with an uncharacteristically serious stare. “It’s what makes us a good team.” He turns on his stool to bodily face the man before him, brows knitting tightly as a contemplative expression washes over his face. “I can only function in a world tempered with chaos… need it to be able to find the answers that just swirl around in the air. I make messes. It’s part of my process. Annie, she likes to… clean things up. Organize them. Fix them. She’s good at it too.”

Bucky’s lips pinch tightly together, his head slowly bobbing in a pensive nod as a sudden swell of doubt rises in his gut. “She likes order,” he says, almost to himself.

“Nah,” Tony mutters. “She just knows that sometimes order is what you need to make things more… palatable for others.” Bucky’s brows twist tightly together, utter befuddlement tugging at his features. Tony stifles a laugh as he catches the look. “What she likes is the mess. Because it gives her something to fix. She likes the challenge.”

“The challenge,” he repeats, his shoulders deflating, head drooping. “Great. Just what every guy wants to hear… I’m a challenge to be around,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Give her some credit,” Tony mutters drolly, pulling Bucky from his haze. “If she didn’t want to be challenged, she’d shack up with one of the boring-ass intellectuals down in accounting. Lord knows enough of them have tried. She saw your ramshackle little garage, saw you racing all over the place to fix things…”

“My garage isn’t ramshackle,” he interrupts with a frown.

“Every time I went in there the place was overbooked, you had some new project going on – ”

“You brought me those projects,” he defends a bit heatedly.

Tony merely shrugs. “Tools and grease everywhere,” he goes on. “A business partner who comes and goes as he pleases. Some teenager trying not to break shit in the back…”

“Hey, Peter’s a good kid.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard.” He stares Bucky down, his deep brown eyes holding a steely edge. “Barnes, I have heard everything about you. About how great you are with early model fuel-injection systems. How generous your are with your regulars… working out financing and payment plans and other nonsense that’s just gonna land you in the poorhouse. How patient you are with working around other people’s schedules. How wonderful you are with your kid,” he finishes with another overdone roll of his eyes. “Yeah, you got a little bit of chaos surrounding you,” he goes on with a tender note. “And she likes that.”

“You’re saying she likes me because my life’s a mess,” he mutters, only a hint of a question to his voice. “She wants something to fix.”

“Your skull really that thick?” he asks with a raised brow. “I know you’re not a genius like some people…” Bucky rolls his eyes and snorts, both actions being completely ignored by Tony as he goes on to say, “You fix cars. She fixes people. You clean up after a kid. She cleans up after me. You hold together a complicated little family unit, work to make it, well, work. She’s about to do the same with a group of arrogant young prodigies. She’s not trying to fix you. She’s not looking to be challenged by you. Barnes, you idiot… she wants to be challenged with you.”

000

As the party slows, the night growing long and stretching out towards its inevitable end, Bucky finally leaves the bar and returns to their table. The other Stark Industries’ workers that had been surrounding them before, smothering Bucky with their enthusiastic welcomes and long-winded inside jokes that drove him to the silent corner of the bar to begin with, had all filtered off to either take over the dancefloor or simply retire for the night. It’s only Annie now, a vision in pale pink, the loose curls around her face coiling tightly at her temples due the unseasonable humidity. She rests heavily in her seat at the empty table, head propped on her fist as her eyes trail along the smaller – yet still substantial – crowd before her. The sweetest smile rests on her lips as she placidly watches people dance, laugh, talk, and just be.

Bucky flops down in the chair beside her, scooting a plate piled high with two different types of cake and a heaping scoop of fruit covered in chocolate sauce – because apparently there had been a chocolate fountain sitting at yet another dessert buffet on the opposite side of the room all night – over between them. Her smile grows into an excited, toothy grin as she accepts the proffered fork and stabs through the mountain of sugar, trying to capture all of the sweet treats into a single bite.

“Finally get tired of keeping yourself sequestered?” she asks just before popping the fruit-laden cake into her mouth.

He lets out a small chuckle and spears a chocolatey strawberry with his own fork. “Kinda backfired on me,” he murmurs, swiping his tongue around some of the dripping chocolate. “Your boss found me.”

She laughs indelicately, almost snorting around the massive bite of dessert as she chews and effortfully swallows it down. “Yeah,” she says with a nod. “I saw.” Her fork returns for another serving, playfully batting his away to get at a plump blueberry sitting atop a mass of vanilla buttercream. “Could’ve been worse. Gary from accounting found his way over here.” Her head drops dramatically back, a mocking – and loud – snore pulling from somewhere deep in her chest alongside a theatrical moan. “Sooooo boring.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at that, his wide smile settling into something fond and familiar as he watches her sigh and slouch forward and focus once again on the dessert, taking another too-large bite and leaving a smear of frosting along the corner of her mouth. “You tired?” he asks, reaching down and plucking a naked raspberry from the pile, raising it up to swipe along her lip, using it to clean her mess before he pops it into his mouth with a wink.

She cocks her head at him and grins, eyes crinkling at the edges as she finishes chewing. He reaches out with his thumb to clear off the remnants of icing and chocolate pocking her bottom lip, and she lets her eyes blink slowly shut, head drooping a bit once she swallows. Bucky unfurls his hand, palm opening to easily accept her flushed cheek as she nuzzles into him. “Is that a pickup line?” she asks, leaning over the edge of her seat, gradually fading into his warmth. “You want to put me to bed?”

He laughs – the sound light and airy and wonderfully melodic to her ears – and scoots his chair closer, wraps an arm around her and tugs her casually to his chest. “Maybe.”

Her eyes flit open and take in the twinkling fairy lights above, each tiny, haloed bulb melding masterfully in with the night sky. “Thanks for coming with me tonight, Buck,” she murmurs languidly as her head rolls back along his shoulder.

He lays a chaste kiss atop her head and pulls her a little closer with his left arm, his right hand still absently stabbing at fruit with his fork. “Any time, doll.”

She shifts beside him, turns her head just enough to be able to catch a glimpse of his face. Her eyes shine with something akin to mischief as she says, “I have a friend who’s getting married in December. We went to high school together so everyone I grew up with will be there.” Her eyebrows wiggle almost maniacally, the look equal parts terrifying and endearing.

“Great,” he deadpans, swallowing down a chortle. Then, “Ah, you know what?” oozes out of him in an easy cadence. “Yeah, I think I have Lana that night. Probably can’t make it.”

“I didn’t tell you the date,” she says, blank face just barely cracking as a sneaky smile threatens to tug at her lips.

“Yeah, well,” he breathes out. “I’m a busy guy, you know.”

She scoots a bit closer, her hip splitting his knees apart as she settles in and wraps her arms around his center. “You’re not that busy,” she intones, dropping her face to his chest and letting out a small yawn. “Or did you forget that I updated your calendar myself?”

No, he hadn’t forgotten. He actually – silently – thanks her daily. Every time he gets an alert on his phone… a reminder about swim lessons, soccer practice, a change of days with Lana. Or a notification – complete with embedded heart emoji – telling him exactly where to be and at what time for their date that evening. She had – now that he thinks about it – somehow managed to already calm the inherent chaos in his life, easing the strain of the everyday.

“Hm,” he hums out casually as his fingers weave into her hair. “You know, I’m pretty sure that calendar told me just the other day that Lana’s starting gymnastics next month…”

She pops up excitedly, coming to life in his arms as she presses her palms into his chest and pushes off of him. “I know!” she enthuses, turning a beaming smile his way. “I’m so excited for her!”

The corner of his mouth quirks up, soft chuckle spilling forth. “Well, that’s good, I guess,” he mutters cheerily, all the while shoving down the butterflies that so often burst to life in his gut when she’s around. She’s excited for my baby, he thinks, grin growing wider from just that one thought. “But I was trying to point out that I’m sure I’ll be way too busy for any more weddings.”

Her bottom lip pushes out into a pout, pensive look tugging at her features as her eyes narrow. “Nah,” she says after a moment of seeming contemplation. “We’ll make it work.”

“Oh, we will?” he questions amid a laugh.

She drops back into him, her head colliding with his collarbone and causing a harsh grunt to sound, cutting off his laughter. “Of course we will,” she mumbles into his chest, the sound of her voice muffled but the feel of it edging into him, vibrating through his chest and colliding with his heart.

He squeezes her a little bit tighter, his fingers trailing softly along the bare skin of her neck, swiping down over her shoulder in a delicate trace. He drops his lips to her hair once more, breathes in the now familiar scent of coconut shampoo… smiles when he gets a swift hit of Lana’s lavender detangler too.  

“I think,” he breathes out, low voice slowing trailing off. She curls deeper into him and gives a small hum by way of encouragement. But he doesn’t go on, can’t quite form the sudden, overwhelming thought into a coherent sentence. He releases a long, hot breath into her hair, the statement that had only just cracked forth and dropped through a chink somewhere in his armor now lodging in his throat.

I love you.

She pulls back and gives him a curious, almost worried look. “You want to go home?” she asks, her voice soft, achingly tender.

He offers a fond, closed-lip smile before tugging her back to his chest, nuzzling her close, and tucking her head beneath his chin. I love you. The words are now tickling the very tip of his tongue, smacking ceaselessly atop the roof of his mouth. I love you.

That would be funny. And you would have genuinely laughed, loud and unapologetic, if swallowing your own spit didn’t still seem like a challenge whenever your soulmate was around, if breathing didn’t seem so impossible. If you heart didn’t have that overwhelming ache that won’t seem to go away anymore.

You would have laughed, honestly, but nothing seemed funnier that your predicament anymore.

“Don’t give him any ideas,” you offer him a genuine smile, “he’d do that just to have the upper hand.”

Just to spite me, you thought bitterly.

Sam chuckled, shoving hands into his jean pockets as he wandered further into the room. He hated the situation just as much as you did, you knew that because he voiced it every time he had to pick you up. But he couldn’t do anything except offer his presence, keep you company until Bruce was done getting whatever he needed from you.

This time, just like the past last two times, he needed your blood.

As it turns out, your soulmate decided to be hero, as if he wasn’t already one, and used his body as a shield to protect his wife from sniper shot. He could have moved her out of the way, if he’s fast enough to get in the way then he’s fast enough to get her out of the way. But he’s an asshole.

He’s an asshole that could have just let her get shot at – she was wearing a bulletproof vest anywhere – but he didn’t, because he probably gets paid to make your life a living hell.

The previous time you had a tube attached to you, he had pushed Tony out of the way and ended up with a poisoned dart attached to his neck. Tony was in his iron man suit, so the dart would have just bounced off. But your mate is an asshole that got himself poisoned, so you had to be pulled out of your best friend’s wedding for a blood transfusion that ended up poisoning you.

Bruce claimed that the poison shouldn’t have been able to enter your bloodstream, that the antibodies in your system were strong enough to fight and render it harmless, that the injection he had given prior was supposed to make it impossible for the toxin to survive. You and Sam called bullshit, hydra base poison was hydra base poison and nothing to keep it from not being toxic, but that didn’t prevent you from being hospitalised for two weeks.

Because your soulmate is an asshole.

“They haven’t come back for more blood—” you frowned as you tried to look passed the lab doors, finding no movement outside of the glass. “—do you think he’s awake?”

Sam frowned at that, turning to face you fully.

You couldn’t feel him anymore, you haven’t been able to since the vows, and you hated yourself for finding some sort of comfort in that. In the fact that he, too, couldn’t feel you anymore.

Sam knew that. One look at the bruising around your neck and he knew that the ties that bind had been damaged for good. Which is why he hated this, more than he could ever put into words. He hated that they all ignored the signs, that they put you in danger, and still made you save his life every time.

“I hope so,” he said, his brown eyes gentle as they continued to watch you. “Because, honestly, you’re starting to look anaemic.”

At that, you grinned at him. “I was wondering why the room was starting to move.”

“Y/N—”

“It’s a joke, Wilson.” You chuckled, shaking your head as you finally removed the drip from your arm, having done so enough times to know what you need to do. “I think that’s enough blood for now, anyway.”

It wasn’t a joke. The room had been moving since you stepped into the Tower, but they needed blood and the thought of declining didn’t sit well with you. It continued to move as you made your way to the lab, your feet taking you there on instinct, as if going to the lab was as routine as going to bed. Even now, as your heart rate had finally calm down and Sam’s presence had eased your anxious stomach, it still moved at the thought of the idiot you’d let get under skin.

Assholes and idiots were truly your Achilles’ heel.

 He was awake.

You found out an hour later, after Bruce had cleared you and Sam had successfully convinced you to stay the night. You were too dizzy to be trusted on your own, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to force Sam to take you back home. So, you gave in.

He was still recovering, too weak to leave his bed. A part of you silently hoped he remained that way for the rest of the night, while a part of Sam vocally hoped he didn’t make it through the night.

Everyone else laughed and took that as a joke.

You laughed because you knew it wasn’t.

Sam stayed in the living room with everyone else, while you chose to go to your designated room for the night. You had accepted a little while back that this - whatever friendship you were trying to form with the group - would never work. It would never - could never, be genuine.

You wanted a soulmate, your soulmate, and they wanted a peaceful living environment. Resentment made for a terrible working environment and your presence brought about a truck load of it. So, naturally, they couldn't side with you even if they wanted to.

You hadn't noticed at first, the shift in the room whenever you were around. You just assumed it was the result of your nerves, or their unfamiliarity with you. So, you tried to ease the tension, to make it bearable for everyone involved. They had dealt with people trying to dismantle them, turn them against each other, and you just needed them to understand that that wasn't who you were.

Then, as the trips to the lab became more frequent, and Sam remained the only constant, you realised what the problem really was - you.

It didn't matter how good of a person you thought you were. Or needed them to know you were. Bucky would marry Wanda, and they would do nothing to help you stop that.

Bruce entertained your small talk because he was just nice, not because he was your friend.

Steve remained by your side only when necessary, only after your fights with Bucky, as if to ensure that you wouldn't lash out. As if you were that kind of person.

Natasha and Clint, in the brief moments that you had shared with them, were polite but always quick to leave the room. According to Sam, your entire situation was scary to them.

Tony only ever greeted in, only ever in passing. You were almost certain that you had talked more with Jarvis, than you had with him.

Sam was the only one that actually bothered with you, which was a problem for the team. Bucky didn't trust him to have his back anymore - not when he would side with you at any chance he got - and that made it impossible to send them both into field together.  You tried to avoid him, he was an Avenger before he was your anything, figuring that you were doing the both of you a favour.

Rather drift apart than lose his friendship in the worst way, you figured.

But he was persistent. And patient. And had terribly good taste in music, and a great humour. And you were lonely and weak, and in desperate need of a friend.

So, you stopped ignoring his call as much as before. Stopped ignoring him every time he showed up at your place. You stopped denying yourself his consistency and started accepting that he wasn't terrible company for someone who hated labs.

You knew where you stood with everyone, at least you no longer had to force things.

 --

 "You're not even gonna say bye?"

Blue eyes stared back at you, trapping you in his gaze as your hand remained frozen over the car door handle.

He shouldn't be awake. You were quiet. You had woken up an hour earlier than usual to avoid bumping into any one of them, but clearly you weren't quiet enough for the super soldier to not hear you.

Bucky shrugs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. "Figured you'd stay for breakfast, at least."

He says that so casually, so naturally, as if this was okay. As if what you two had - could have had, should have had - didn't fall apart at his hands. As if the marks on your neck would disappear within a couple of weeks, as if this was normal.

"I have things to do." Is your quiet response, neutral, as if your heart isn't beating painfully against your chest.

He frowns, taking a step forward, a step that has your eyes widening slightly at his movement.

"It's four a.m.," he states, eyebrows furrowing and face churning with a hint of disappointment. Disappointment with you, always you. "Calm down, doll, I can feel your heartbeat from here."

It's your turn to frown. He shouldn't be able to feel you, not anymore. Not after he chose her.

He seems to think that too, because he shrugs and lets out a sigh. "It's kinda hard to stay on bed rest when your anxiety is stronger than that coffee you drink."

You don't respond. You never do lately, and he understands that, knows that it's his fault. But you had moved to a different place, gotten a new number, changed workplaces, and he had to find all that out the hard way. With changed locks that his key no longer unlocks, sympathetic looks from the receptionist when she tells him that you quit over a month ago, and a different voice in the voicemails everytime he calls your old number. Despite both of your histories, you were still bonded to each other and you could at least talk to him.

You hate that he's doing this, to you, again. That he pushes you away, tells you he loves another woman, but still wants you to dance to the tune he's playing. You hate yourself even more for being too weak for this, too much for him.

His hair was still tousled and messy, his shirt wrinkled, and you hated seeing this part of him. Because this is the part that she gets, the part that should have been yours. The part of him that isn't fights and holes in walls and panic attacks in the middle of a shower.

This is the part that didn't have demons and freightcar and rusted and shattered glass every time you opened your mouth. This is the part that you don't get to have, because he could never give it to you, because Hydra was good, so damn good at making Winter Soldiers that the Soldat could never really leave Bucky.

Not while you're still alive.

"Breakfast?" he asks, after a moment of watching you. "Steve and I could drive you to work afterwards, I'm sure you still have some of your formal clothes here."

You shake your head at him, not able to find the words. Because this isn't how you pictured your relationship with your mate would be.

But this was the card you were dealt.

"Lunch?"

You frown.

"Come on, doll--" he runs his fingers - flesh, because metal is only ever reserved for you - through his hair, "--I'm trying to make up for everything."

"I have to go." You insist and get into your car before he can drag the conversation out, talk you into staying, into giving him parts of yourself he could never give back.

You leave and he lets you, for once. His chest heavy with the weight of your emotions, an ache for something he could never understand.

He couldn't be what you wanted, as much as he wishes he could. But he still wanted you to be happy. He'd give anything for you to be happy - almost anything.

Weren't you tired of being lonely?

 --

 You should have known who he was.

Who else could still stand after being hit by a car, at the speed you were driving?

But your vision was bleary, your stomach was cramping, and you weren't sure if your periods were early or if you were about to have another episode.

You should have known who he was. Who else could have been his height, had his strength and still asked if you were okay?

You don't usually cry when you first meet someone. But you cried when you met him.

You had rushed out of your car as soon as your actions registered in your head, practically stumbled your way to him, and wheezed as you fell on your knees in front of him.

"Are you alright?' His voice is deep, way too deep, as deep as the pit in your stomach it seemed.

You continued to wheeze, eyes wide with trepidation, struggling to find the strength to repeat his words to him.

You were having a panic attack; you were sure of it. You had left Bucky on an uncomfortable note and spent the entire day driving around in circles, avoiding your apartment. Scared that he had put a tracker, that he was following, that he would be waiting for you inside, vaguely aware that that line of thought wouldn't do you any good. Especially on your day off.

"Dead!" Is the first word that comes out of your mouth as your eyes frantically scan over him. "So dead! Oh, my, god--"

"Uh--"

"Gonna be attached to a tube in a prison cell--" your crawled closer to him, frantically feeling at him in search of any broken bones. "--I can't do prison. I couldn't-- I can't-- I'm not--oh, my, god!"

You couldn't calm down, not even as he assured you that he was fine, that he had survived far worse than a little bump.

Your car was dented where it had hit him, but he still got up without any difficulty. He helped you up as you gaped at him, still in shock and still rambling about things that neither of you understood.

He parked your car for you, took out your grocery bags - you didn't need to buy any of the things in them, but you were stalling so you bought whatever you thought you needed - and carried your things up the staircase with you.

You were still shaking and rambling and terrified. He took your keys and unlocked your door for you, letting you go in first.

You should have been terrified of him, he was a complete stranger and he could overpower you. He could do with you as he pleased.

But he told you a story about his brother pretending to be a snake when they were kids, and how his best friend would be proud to know that she wasn't the only one that could knock him off his feet.

Then he told you about his pet rabbit while extending his hand mid-air, caught an umbrella that flew in through the door and smiled at you.

Blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched you watch him, waiting.

You should have known who he was. What other human looked like him?

"Holy shit--" You cry again, harder than before, than earlier, because you hit an Avenger with your car and now, they knew where you lived.

Thor's smile disappeared slowly, then all at once. His eyebrows furrowed as he watched you back away from, his chest tightened when you started rambling about nearly killing him, and he was holding you before he even realised he had crossed the room.

He had been on Earth long enough to know that midgardian women had a habit of crying out of nowhere or for the oddest of reasons. They cried when they were happy, and sad, and angry, and holding them seemed to work every time.

So, he held you as you cried in the middle of your doorway, with the door wide open. He held you as you wheezed so hard, you passed out. Then he set you gently on your couch and waited for you to wake, to make sure you were alright.

 You woke up to a dry throat, swollen eyes, a headache and the god of Thunder hovering over you, staring.

His smiles as you groan, eyes lighting up as you attempt to sit on your couch.

You used to have a couch big enough to fit two, comfortable enough for two to cuddle, because you were preparing for two. You sold that couch when you moved, you sold everything when you moved, and replaced it with furniture for one - and the annoyingly comfortable armchair for Sam, because why not.

You narrow your eyes at Thor, which entices his smile to widen as he leans back and sits upright on your coffee table.

"I made you something to eat." He's grinning proudly, and the cynic in you is almost certain that whatever it is, it's probably poisoned.

He made you cereal. He must have made it a while ago as well because it's swollen and soggy from the milk it absorbed, and it looks like it had been left out in the open the entire time. It probably has been.

You look between him and the bowl, then narrow your eyes at him further.

"Did you eat that?" You ask, your voice sounding croaky and disgusting to your ears.

He shakes his head, frowning at the bowl. "The milk smelled curiously funny. Is it flavoured?"

"It's rotten." You forgot to get milk while you were shopping, you also forgot to throw away the carton that was in the fridge.

"Thought as much." He hums, setting the bowl back on the floor. "Midgard does have peculiar things, so I just assumed this was another one of it."

You blink at him, his eyes startlingly warm, too warm for him to be an Avenger.

"Midgard is what we call Earth," he continues, taking your silence for confusion. "We, as in Asgardians."

You know. You had been to the Tower enough times to know.

He watches you, sky blue scanning over your frame, and you suppress the urge to shudder. You're hugging the thin blanket that had been thrown over you, assumingly by him, feet still stretched out on the couch as you subconsciously attempt to sink further into it.

His eyes fall at the cotton on your arm, an expression that you can't quite read cross his face.

He must have been so used to people welcoming him with open arms, that he didn't think this situation was odd.

"You know--" he scratches at his stubble, eyes still glued to your arm, "--the last time I got hit by a car, I ended up in a hospital and woke up to eat pop tarts."

You blame the headache. You're hearing things and seeing Avengers in your apartment because of the headache. Plus, you were low on blood at the moment, so it must be that as well.

"Are you--" you pause to swallow, suddenly aware of how achingly dry your throat is. He seems to notice and is handing you a bottle of water before you can finish.

You frown, sure that he poisoned it as well, but still drink the water because there are worse ways to go -- and you survived poisoned once, maybe you could again. Best two out of two.

You let out a relieved sigh, the water cool as it trickles down your chin and soothes your throat. You're about to use the back of your hand to wipe at the water, but his hand presses a napkin to you before you can even lift it.

"I'm not sick," you tell him, and he shushes you as he continues dabbing at your chin. "I can do that myself."

"I witnessed you drop your key three times in a row before I intervened, so I seriously doubt it."

 He stayed until he was certain that you would be alright on your own.

He stayed until you were half-asleep on the couch and practically kicked him out.

Then he stayed the night when he had accidently walked in while you were in the middle of another panic attack.

He stayed until you started meeting each other during your lunchbreaks, at a cafe a few blocks from your work.

He stayed, with your hand in his hair and on his cheek, with his lips on yours and his arms around you.

He stayed, with his body on yours, connected in ways only lovers know. With his heat surrounding you, between you, within you. Chest to chest, lips to lips, he stayed.

He stayed, in your home, and then you woke up one morning to find him everywhere all at once. The toothbrush next to yours, shirts mixed up with his, beer next to the juice. He was in the warmth waiting for you on the couch and in your bed everyday - you, no longer shocked but expecting to find it every time.

He stayed, filling in the gaps, fixing the showerhead and the creak of your door and that window that wouldn't budge.

He stayed until you couldn't remember why you had cereal for dinner, while you waited for the food you ordered.

He stayed until he answered the door, and Bucky stood on the other side of it.

He stayed, until he didn't.

You should have known who he was. Who else could build you up and break you back down like an Avenger?

-----------