Out of Frame
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C’s corner: This fic is loosely inspired by Mean Girls by KATSEYE, because sometimes the internet can feel like a glitter-covered battlefield where people forget there’s an actual person behind the screen. So if you’ve ever been belittled, picked apart, talked down to, or made to feel small by someone online, please know you’re not alone. Their words do not get to decide your worth. Their bitterness does not get to dim you. Keep shining like the queen you are. Fix your crown, take up space, and remember that you were never too much. They were just too small to hold all that light. 👑✨
WARNINGS: online hate, hate comments, cyberbullying, mean girl behavior, insecurity, self-doubt, reader feeling belittled, loss of appetite mentioned, emotional distress, crying, hurt/comfort, soft angst, protective Bucky Barnes, Thunderbolts found family being emotionally nosy.
✍🏽WC: 5K+
SUMMARY: You’re the Thunderbolts’ sunshine behind the camera, always capturing the team’s softer, chaotic moments for the public. But when cruel comments start tearing you down, your usual spark begins to fade, and Bucky is the first one to notice. What starts as quiet concern turns into soft comfort, found family protection, and feelings Bucky can’t keep hiding anymore.
The Thunderbolts were not easy to photograph. That was the polite way of saying it.
The honest way was that trying to make the team look approachable for the public was like trying to put a sweater on a raccoon with diplomatic immunity.
Someone always blinked. Someone always moved. Someone always threatened the camera.
Usually Yelena.
“Do not make me look friendly,” she warned from the couch, arms folded, legs crossed, expression flat enough to iron shirts on.
You lowered your phone. “You’re literally holding a juice box.”
“This is for intimidation.”
“It has a cartoon penguin on it.”
“Exactly. Nobody expects violence from penguin.”
Across the room, John Walker was attempting to look heroic near the window, which would’ve worked better if Alexei hadn’t been standing behind him with two thumbs up and a grin wide enough to qualify as federal infrastructure.
“Move,” John said without looking back.
“I am making you look powerful,” Alexei said.
“You’re making me look adopted.”
Bob drifted past in the background, holding a bowl of cereal at three in the afternoon, completely unaware he was about to become a blurry cryptid in another official Thunderbolts post.
Ava, sitting at the kitchen island, glanced up from her coffee. “You know you don’t have to post us every day, right?”
“Yes, I do,” you said, framing the shot. “The public needs to know you’re more than government-funded property damage.”
Bucky, who had been leaning quietly against the far wall with his arms crossed, lifted his brows.
You pointed at him. “You especially.”
“I don’t do property damage.”
“Barnes, you ripped a car door off last week.”
“It was locked.”
“That’s still not how doors work.”
His mouth twitched.
Not a full smile. Bucky Barnes didn’t give those away for free. His smiles had a waiting list, references required, possibly a background check. But you’d gotten good at catching the small ones. The corner of his mouth. The faint crease near his eyes. The little duck of his head when he tried to hide amusement and failed by half an inch.
You took the picture before he could stop you.
Bucky saw the phone go up and sighed. “Delete it.”
“No.”
“Please delete it.”
“No. You look broody and expensive.”
“I look tired.”
“You always look tired. This one has dimension.”
Yelena leaned over to look at your screen. “Post it. Caption should be, ‘Man allergic to joy survives another day.’”
Bucky pointed at her. “Don’t help.”
“I am helping the brand.”
The brand, according to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, needed softening. The team had too much baggage, too much blood on their boots, too many government meetings where people said words like optics and rehabilitation while avoiding eye contact with the people they were talking about.
That was where you came in.
You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t enhanced. You weren’t a spy, assassin, super-soldier, disgraced captain, ghost, god-adjacent being, or whatever category Bob fell into depending on the hour.
You were PR.
Which meant you spent your days following the Thunderbolts around with a phone, a camera, a tablet, and the constant exhausted hope that nobody committed a crime before lunch.
And you loved it.
You loved the chaos. The noise. The accidental tenderness hiding under all the sharp edges. You loved showing people the little things. Yelena labeling everyone’s leftovers with increasingly specific threats. John making coffee exactly how everyone liked it but pretending he only did it because he was already there. Alexei falling asleep during movie night with his mouth open. Ava fixing the flickering hallway light because maintenance had taken too long. Bob leaving sticky notes on the fridge that just said things like, “Good morning. Sorry if I floated.”
And Bucky.
Bucky standing slightly outside the frame, always pretending he didn’t want to be included. Bucky holding doors open with his metal hand because he forgot he was doing it. Bucky looking at you when you laughed. Bucky watching you with a quiet focus that made your stomach trip over itself and land face-first in a field of wildflowers.
You told yourself it was harmless. A tiny little crush. A barely-there, totally manageable, definitely-not-consuming-your-entire-nervous-system crush.
Then one day you posted a picture of the team after a briefing.
It wasn’t even special.
John was mid-rant about scheduling. Yelena was stealing one of his fries. Alexei was wearing sunglasses indoors. Ava was half in frame, unimpressed as always. Bob had somehow ended up with three napkins stuck to his sleeve.
Bucky was behind you. Not really posing. Not really smiling. Just standing close enough that his shoulder almost touched yours, his eyes angled down toward you instead of the camera.
You didn’t even notice until after you posted it.
The internet did.
At first, the comments were normal. Cute. Funny.
A few people calling the team unhinged. A few people asking if Yelena’s jacket was thrifted. Someone demanding John drop his arm workout. Someone asking whether Alexei was single, which made you shut your phone off for twelve full seconds to recover.
Then the other comments started.
Not all at once. Just one here. One there. Tiny little knives wrapped in pink ribbon.
Why is she always in the pics?
She’s trying so hard to be one of them.
Does she actually do anything or just follow them around?
The way she’s standing near Bucky is embarrassing.
Some girls will do anything for attention.
You stared at the screen, smile fading before you even realized it was gone.
You told yourself not to care. You knew better. You worked in PR. You knew comment sections were little haunted forests where logic went to die wearing glitter lip gloss.
Still, your thumb moved. You kept reading.
She’s not even pretty enough to be acting like that.
Bucky would never.
Imagine being that desperate.
The words sank under your skin before you could stop them.
You turned off notifications. Then turned them back on. Then checked again. More comments. More usernames with cute profile pictures and cruel little hearts in their bios.
Girls with glossy hair and sharp opinions. Girls who didn’t know you. Girls who had never seen you coax Bob through a panic spiral, never watched you sit with Yelena in silence after a nightmare, never helped John fix a statement after an interview went sideways, never noticed Bucky leaving the room when cameras got too close.
They didn’t know you. But they knew exactly where to cut.
By dinner, you weren’t hungry.
By the next morning, you wore a hoodie and kept the hood up.
By the end of the week, you stopped putting yourself in pictures entirely. You stayed behind the camera. That was where you belonged anyway. At least, that was what the comments kept telling you.
The team noticed in pieces.
John noticed when you stopped stealing fries from his plate.
“Okay,” he said one afternoon, narrowing his eyes at you across the kitchen. “Who are you and what have you done with our tiny snack criminal?”
You forced a smile. “I’m just not hungry.”
He frowned like he wanted to argue with your entire digestive system.
Ava noticed when you stopped humming while editing.
“You’re quiet,” she said from the couch.
“Busy.”
“You’re never too busy to make that little victory noise when you fix lighting.”
“I don’t make a victory noise.”
“You absolutely do.”
Bob noticed when you didn’t laugh at the sticky note he left on your laptop that said, “You are doing a good job. Unless this is not your laptop. In that case, sorry.”
Yelena noticed because Yelena noticed everything. She watched you delete a draft three times, then leaned against your desk. “Who needs stabbing?”
You blinked up at her. “What?”
“You are sad. Someone caused this. I am offering solutions.”
“No stabbing.”
“Fine. Psychological warfare.”
“No.”
“Mild haunting?”
“Yelena.”
She held up both hands. “You are impossible to support.”
You laughed a little. It sounded wrong. Thin. Temporary. Paper pretending to be glass.
Bucky noticed that too. He noticed everything about you, apparently.
You found that out late on Thursday night, sitting alone in the media room with your laptop open and your untouched tea cooling beside you.
Everyone else had gone to bed. Or wherever people like the Thunderbolts went after midnight. Possibly vents. Possibly rooftops. Possibly government-mandated emotional containment chambers.
You were editing a new post. No faces this time. Just a picture of the conference table after a briefing. Coffee cups. Notebooks. A sunbeam across the polished wood.
Safe. Boring. Empty enough that nobody could accuse you of wanting attention.
You stared at the caption box until the words blurred.
Then a voice came from the doorway. “You’ve been hiding.”
Your fingers froze over the keyboard.
Bucky stood there in a black shirt and sweatpants, hair loose around his face, metal hand catching the dull light from the hall. He looked soft around the edges, sleep-warm and tired, but his eyes were awake.
“I’m working,” you said.
“You always work.” He stepped inside. “You don’t always disappear.”
“I’m not disappearing.”
“You haven’t posted yourself in eight days.”
You swallowed.
Bucky took another step closer. “You stopped taking pictures with us,” he said quietly. “You stopped eating lunch in the kitchen. You stopped making fun of Walker’s tactical pants.”
You tried for a smile. “That last one was personal growth.”
“No.” He pulled out the chair beside you and sat, turning toward you. “That was a warning sign.”
Your throat tightened.
It was ridiculous. You knew it was ridiculous. You were grown. You had survived worse than strangers on the internet. You’d handled crisis statements, hostile press, mission leaks, Valentina before coffee.
But something about Bucky noticing made all your careful stitching come loose.
“I’m fine,” you said.
His eyes softened.
You hated that.
Not because it was bad, but because it was kind. Because he didn’t look unconvinced in a dismissive way. He looked patient. Like he already knew the lie had thorns, and he was willing to wait until you stopped gripping it.
“Who said something?” he asked.
You looked down at your laptop. “Nobody.”
“Doll.”
That did it. One word, low and gentle, and your eyes burned. You pressed your lips together hard.
Bucky’s posture changed instantly. Not dramatic. Not panicked. Just focused, every piece of him shifting toward you like you’d become the only signal in the room.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Talk to me.”
You gave a small, miserable laugh. “It’s stupid.”
“I’ll decide that.”
“Bucky.”
“I’ve got a lot of experience with stupid.” His mouth twitched, but his voice stayed careful. “Try me.”
You stared at the screen. The post was still open. You hadn’t meant to click the comments again, but there they were, stacked beneath the picture from last week like mold blooming on something clean.
You turned the laptop toward him before you could talk yourself out of it.
Bucky read.
You watched his face change.
It didn’t twist into anger right away. That would’ve been easier. Louder. Something you could push back against.
Instead, he went very still. Winter still. The kind of still that made the room feel suddenly aware of him.
His jaw tightened. He scrolled once. Then again. Then he stopped.
You reached for the laptop. “Don’t.”
He let you close it.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Those are children with Wi-Fi and no home training.”
A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it. It cracked halfway through.
Bucky’s expression softened again, and somehow that was worse.
“I know I shouldn’t care,” you said quickly. “I know that. I tell the team not to care about this stuff all the time. I literally build public strategy around ignoring noise, but then it’s about me and suddenly I’m twelve years old again wondering if I’m too much or not enough or standing wrong or smiling wrong or breathing in a way that looks desperate.”
Your voice shook. You looked away, embarrassed.
“I just wanted people to see you guys the way I do,” you whispered. “That’s all. I didn’t think they’d look at me and decide I was the problem.”
Bucky was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “You’re not the problem.”
Your eyes stayed on your hands. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You’re biased.”
“Extremely,” he said.
That pulled your gaze back to him.
His face was calm, but there was something naked in his honesty. Something that made your heart trip again, softer this time, less wildflower field and more candle flame in a dark room.
Bucky leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You know what I see when you’re around us?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“I see Walker stop talking like he’s on a podium. I see Yelena let somebody take pictures of her without threatening murder every five seconds. I see Ava stay in the room longer. I see Bob smile more. I see Alexei try harder to be gentle.” His gaze held yours. “And I see myself wanting to be where you are.”
Your breath caught.
Bucky glanced down, almost shy for half a second, before looking back at you. "So no,” he said. “You’re not desperate for standing near me. I’m usually the one finding excuses to stand near you.”
The room went quiet. Your pulse was suddenly everywhere. Throat. Wrists. Fingertips. The hollow behind your ribs.
“That’s not funny,” you whispered.
“I’m not being funny.”
Your eyes searched his.
Bucky didn’t look away.
He looked nervous, though. That undid you a little. The great James Buchanan Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current professional brooder, sitting beside you at midnight looking like your answer could crack him open.
“You like me?” you asked.
His mouth lifted faintly. “That what you got from that?”
“I’m in a fragile emotional state. Be direct.”
That made him smile for real. Small, but real.
“Yes,” he said. “I like you.”
Your heart flopped over like a fainting couch actress. “Oh.”
“You don’t have to say anything back right now.”
“I like you too,” you blurted.
His eyes widened a fraction.
You looked horrified with yourself. "I mean, obviously. Terribly. Annoyingly. I’ve been very normal about it.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
His smile warmed, and something inside you loosened so quickly it almost hurt.
Then the comments came crawling back.
Your smile faded. “But they’re going to keep saying things,” you said.
Bucky’s expression settled. "Probably.”
You laughed weakly. “Comforting.”
“I’m not gonna lie to you.” He reached out slowly, giving you enough time to pull away. When you didn’t, he covered your hand with his. His right hand. Warm. Calloused. Careful. “People like that don’t stop because they find truth. They stop when they get bored. Or when they find someone else to bite.”
Your fingers curled under his. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Don’t hand them the keys to your life.”
You swallowed.
Bucky looked at your closed laptop.
“You taught us that publicity isn’t the same thing as permission,” he said. “You get to decide what people see. You get to decide what they don’t. But don’t erase yourself because some mean girls got loud in a comment section.”
The phrase stung.
Mean girls.
It sounded so small. Almost childish. But cruelty didn’t need to be big to bruise. Sometimes it wore lip gloss and heart emojis and knew exactly how to make a person fold inward.
“I feel stupid,” you admitted.
“You’re hurt,” Bucky corrected. “That’s different.”
You looked down at your joined hands. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles. Soft. Barely there.
“I don’t want everyone to know,” you said.
“They won’t.”
“I don’t want Yelena to go hunting.”
“She might.”
“Bucky.”
“I’ll talk her down to light intimidation.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
He looked pleased, like that one tiny sound had been worth digging for.
Then he squeezed your hand. "Come on.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know.” He stood, still holding your hand. “You’re gonna sit there while I make toast badly.”
You blinked. “Badly?”
“I’m trying to set expectations.”
“You’re over a hundred years old and can’t make toast?”
“I can make toast. I said badly because last time I used the toaster, it smoked.”
“Bucky, that’s not making toast. That’s starting a tiny appliance rebellion.”
He tugged gently until you stood. “Good. Insult me more. You’re coming back online.”
You followed him into the kitchen, wrapped in your oversized hoodie and the leftover ache of a bad week. Bucky moved around the cabinets like he knew where everything was because of course he did. He pretended not to care about domestic spaces, but he learned them. Memorized them. The coffee mugs, the tea you liked, the snacks Bob panic-bought, the bowl Yelena always stole.
He put bread in the toaster with theatrical suspicion.
You sat on the counter.
“That thing has personally wronged me,” he said.
“It’s a toaster.”
The toast popped up two minutes later, slightly too dark on one edge.
Bucky looked at it.
You looked at him.
He sighed. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face has freedom of speech.”
He buttered the toast, added cinnamon sugar from the container John claimed nobody knew about, then handed you a plate.
You took a bite. It was fine. A little burnt. A little too sweet. Perfect in the way midnight food could be perfect when someone made it because they noticed you hadn’t eaten.
Bucky leaned against the opposite counter, watching you with a careful softness that made your chest ache again.
“What?” you asked around a small bite.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a very intense nothing.”
“I missed you,” he said.
The words landed gently, but your breath still caught. “I was here.”
“No,” Bucky said. “You were around.”
Your eyes burned again. You looked down at your toast. “I didn’t know anyone would notice.”
“I noticed first day.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Thought maybe you needed space.” He paused. “Then you gave Walker your fries and I knew it was serious.”
You snorted. “Medical emergency.”
“Near fatal.”
You sat there together in the kitchen, eating toast under the low light while the tower slept around you.
At least, you thought it slept. Until the fridge opened.
You and Bucky both turned.
Yelena stood there in pajama pants, holding a spoon. She looked at your joined hands.
Because at some point, Bucky had reached for you again. Because at some point, you had let him.
Yelena’s eyes narrowed. "Finally,” she said.
Your face went hot. “Go away.”
“No. I am getting yogurt.” She grabbed a cup from the fridge, then pointed the spoon at Bucky. “If you make her sad, I’ll put you in the wall.”
Bucky nodded solemnly. “Fair.”
“And if internet gremlins make her sad again, I would like names.”
“No names,” you said.
Yelena looked offended. “You’re very controlling about my hobbies.”
“Your hobbies are crimes.”
“Some are misdemeanors.” She left with her yogurt, muttering in Russian.
Bucky watched her go. Then he looked back at you. “You okay?”
You nodded, but it wasn’t entirely true.
He seemed to know. “Come here,” he said quietly.
You slid off the counter.
He opened his arms, giving you a choice.
You stepped into him.
Bucky held you carefully at first, like you were made of cracked porcelain and stubbornness. Then your hands fisted in the back of his shirt, and he tightened his arms around you.
Solid. Warm. Real.
His chin rested lightly on top of your head.
You closed your eyes.
For the first time in days, your body unclenched.
“I hate that they got to me,” you whispered into his chest.
“I know.”
“I hate that I believed them.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I stopped being myself.”
Bucky’s hand moved slowly up and down your back. "You’re still yourself,” he said. “You just got quiet for a minute.”
That made the tears come.
Not dramatic, no cinematic sobbing. Just a few hot tears against his shirt while he held you in the quiet kitchen, one hand on your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
He didn’t tell you to stop crying. He didn’t tell you they didn’t matter. He just stayed. That was the thing about Bucky. He didn’t always know what to say, but he knew how to stay.
Eventually, you pulled back and wiped your face with your sleeve. “I’m sorry.”
His brows drew together. “For what?”
“Crying on you.”
“Doll, I’ve been shot at by aliens.”
“That doesn’t make my tears less gross.”
“They’re very polite tears.”
You laughed wetly.
Bucky smiled again, and this time he didn’t hide it.
The next morning, you woke up to chaos. Not regular Thunderbolts chaos. Organized chaos. Which was worse.
You came into the common room to find John standing in front of a whiteboard with the words OPERATION COMMENT SECTION written across it in aggressive blue marker.
Ava sat at the table with coffee.
Bob looked concerned.
Alexei wore a blazer over his pajamas.
Yelena was sharpening a knife with no clear reason to be doing that in a PR meeting.
Bucky stood near the window, looking deeply guilty.
You stopped in the doorway. “No.”
John held up a hand. “Before you say anything, this is a measured response.”
“Nothing about this room says measured.”
Alexei nodded gravely. “We are defending honor.”
“My honor does not need a war room.”
Yelena lifted the knife. “Agree to disagree.”
“Put that down.”
She did not.
You turned to Bucky. “You told them?”
Bucky winced. “Not exactly.”
Ava raised her hand. “I figured it out.”
“Yelena eavesdropped,” John added.
“I gathered intelligence,” Yelena corrected.
“Bob saw you crying,” Ava said gently.
Bob gave you an apologetic little wave. “I didn’t mean to. I was trying to find cereal.”
“And I,” Alexei announced, “felt disturbance in little family.”
You blinked. The room blurred slightly. Not from hurt this time. From something warmer.
“Oh,” you said softly.
John cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “Look, we’re not gonna make it worse. We know you know this stuff better than we do.”
“That has never stopped any of you before.”
“Correct. Growth is happening.” He tapped the whiteboard. “But we thought maybe today’s post could be about you.”
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
“Not like that,” Ava said. “Not forced.”
“Absolutely not,” you said again.
Bucky stepped forward. “Not your face if you don’t want,” he said. “Not your name. Nothing you don’t approve.”
You looked around. They were all watching you.
Even Yelena, knife lowered now.
Bucky continued, “But maybe people should know the team doesn’t happen without you.”
Your throat tightened.
John scratched the back of his neck. “I was thinking a behind-the-scenes post. Your desk. The camera. Some of the pictures you’ve taken. Caption about the person who keeps us from looking like a felony lineup.”
“That’s actually not terrible,” you said.
John pointed at you. “Thank you.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
He lowered his hand.
Alexei leaned forward. “Can I say you are tiny brave captain of image machine?”
“No.”
“But it is true.”
“You may not say that publicly.”
He looked devastated.
Yelena slid a paper toward you.
You glanced down. It was a handwritten caption draft.
The first line read: Our PR person is scarier than us.
You looked at her.
She shrugged. “Compliment.”
Your lips trembled. Then, somehow, you started laughing. Not the fake laugh you’d been wearing all week. A real one. Messy. Bright. Yours.
The room seemed to breathe again.
Bucky’s eyes stayed on you, soft and relieved.
You spent the next hour building the post with them.
No pictures of your face.
Just your camera strap on the table. Your color-coded folders. A shot of your hand holding a marker beside the whiteboard. A carousel of photos you’d taken over the last few months, each one catching the team in moments no official press photographer ever could.
Yelena asleep with Lucky the pizza dog’s head in her lap.
John burning pancakes while insisting the smoke alarm was too sensitive.
Ava laughing at something Bob had said, blurry because you’d taken the picture too fast.
Alexei crying during a nature documentary.
Bucky standing in the doorway with a mug in his hand, smiling at someone outside the frame.
You.
He had been smiling at you.
You stared at the picture for too long.
Bucky leaned beside you. “Use it.”
Your cheeks warmed. “It’s a good photo.”
“Not why I said it.”
You looked up.
He was close. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
“Why did you say it?” you asked.
“Because that’s how I look at you.” His voice dropped. “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
The room behind you went suspiciously silent. Very suspiciously.
You turned.
Every Thunderbolt suddenly became fascinated by something else.
John studied the ceiling.
Ava looked into her empty coffee cup.
Bob pretended to read a napkin.
Alexei covered his face with both hands, delighted.
Yelena whispered, “Kiss, kiss, kiss.”
“Yelena,” Bucky warned.
“What? I am boosting engagement.”
You covered your face. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Ava said.
You didn’t. That was the problem. You loved them.
This strange, dangerous, badly adjusted group of people who had somehow become your favorite place to land.
The post went up at noon.
The caption was simple.
Behind every mission, interview, briefing, and public disaster we barely survive, there’s someone making sure the world sees more than the damage. Today’s post is for the person behind the camera.
John insisted on adding: Also, she keeps us from looking like a felony lineup.
You let him.
Alexei was allowed one comment from the official account.
He wrote: TINY BRAVE CAPTAIN OF IMAGE MACHINE.
You regretted many things immediately.
The comments came fast.
Most were kind. Some were funny.
Some people recognized your work. Some thanked you for showing the human side of the team. Some said the photos made the Thunderbolts feel less untouchable. Less frightening.
And, of course, a few mean comments still slipped through.
Because the internet was the internet.
But this time, before the words could sink their claws into you, Bucky sat beside you on the couch and took your phone gently from your hand.
“Break,” he said.
“I have to monitor engagement.”
“You’ve monitored enough.”
“That’s my job.”
He set the phone on the coffee table, then slid it out of reach with two fingers.
“Your job gets boundaries today.”
You stared at him. “Did you just PR my PR?”
“Maybe.”
“That was hot.”
He froze.
You froze.
Across the room, John made a strangled noise.
Yelena slowly lowered her book.
Ava whispered, “Incredible.”
Your face burned hotter than a server room fire.
Bucky recovered first. He leaned closer, eyes bright with quiet amusement. “Yeah?”
You covered your face. “No.”
“No?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“I’m walking into traffic.”
He laughed. Bucky Barnes laughed, warm and low and almost surprised by itself.
Then his fingers circled your wrist gently, pulling your hands away from your face.
“Don’t hide,” he murmured.
Your breath caught.
The room faded a little.
Still there, unfortunately, because the Thunderbolts had the collective subtlety of a marching band in a library.
But softer around the edges.
Bucky’s thumb brushed the inside of your wrist.
“You don’t have to be happy all the time,” he said. “You know that, right?”
You swallowed. “I don’t?”
“No.” His eyes moved over your face. “You’re allowed to have bad days. Quiet days. Angry days. Days where you don’t sparkle for anybody.”
Your chest tightened.
“But don’t let people who don’t know you convince you the sparkle was fake.”
You stared at him. “That was very poetic for a man who fights appliances.”
His mouth twitched. “I contain multitudes.”
“You contain burnt toast.”
“And affection.”
Your heart stumbled.
He looked nervous again.
You loved that too.
“So much affection,” he added quietly, “that it’s getting inconvenient.”
Your voice softened. “For who?”
“Everybody, apparently.”
“Finally,” Yelena muttered.
Bucky didn’t look away from you. “Mostly me,” he said.
You reached for him before courage could abandon you. Just your fingers at first, touching the edge of his sleeve. Then his hand.
Then you leaned in.
Bucky met you halfway.
The kiss was soft. Careful. Sweet in a way that made your ribs ache.
Not dramatic. Not movie-perfect. No swelling music. No rain against the windows. Just Bucky’s hand at your cheek, his thumb gentle near your jaw, his breath catching like he’d wanted this longer than he knew what to do with.
Behind you, Alexei made a sound that was suspiciously close to a sob.
John whispered, “Do we clap?”
“No,” Ava hissed.
Bob clapped once.
Yelena threw a pillow at him.
You pulled back laughing against Bucky’s mouth.
He smiled at you, real and unguarded, and for a second the ugly comments felt far away. Still out there, maybe. Still buzzing somewhere beyond the walls.
But they weren’t in the room.
In the room, there was Bucky.
There was his hand holding yours.
There was Yelena threatening to delete the internet.
There was John pretending he wasn’t emotional.
There was Ava smiling into her coffee.
There was Bob apologizing to the pillow.
There was Alexei declaring that love had saved public relations.
And there was you.
Not behind the camera. Not erased. Not too much. Not desperate. Not whatever strangers had tried to make you believe.
Just you.
A little bruised. A little brighter. Still here.
Bucky leaned close, his lips brushing your temple. “Post whatever you want,” he whispered. “Hide whenever you need. But don’t disappear on me again, okay?”
You looked up at him.
His eyes held yours, blue and steady.
You squeezed his hand. “Okay.”
Yelena raised her phone from across the room.
You pointed at her immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
She paused.
Bucky turned slowly.
Yelena lowered the phone with the expression of someone making a great personal sacrifice. “Fine,” she said. “But for the record, this would’ve healed the nation.”
You laughed, tucking yourself against Bucky’s side.
He wrapped an arm around you like it belonged there.
Maybe it did.
Maybe tomorrow there would be more comments. Maybe next week you’d have another bad day. Maybe the world would always have girls with pretty profile pictures and sharp little teeth.
But tonight, Bucky’s thumb moved lazily over your shoulder.
Tonight, the team argued over whether your first couple photo should be tasteful or “deeply humiliating for brand authenticity.”
Tonight, your phone stayed face down on the table.
And for the first time all week, you didn’t reach for it. You reached for Bucky instead. He was already reaching back.
