#quiet reader

At first you smiled politely when people spoke to you. Then you only nodded. Eventually, even that stopped.

All of your movements felt as if they were in slow motion. Your gaze unfocused somewhere beyond the table. When someone asked you a question, you took a moment too long to answer, they repeated it three times before you could actually respond.

Xavier reached over quietly, brushing his fingers against your wrist beneath the table.

“Starlight,” he murmured, “do you want to leave?”

You looked at him with visible relief.

He stood immediately, making an excuse to the group before helping you gather your things. The moment you stepped outside, the cold air wrapped around you, and your whole body visibly relaxed.

“You noticed?” you asked quietly.

He simply nodded.

His voice was soft as he guided you down the quieter side street instead of the crowded main road.

“You don't have to force yourself to keep up with everyone else.”

You leaned lightly against his shoulder as you walked.

Xavier smiled faintly. “I like your silence too.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Rafayel:

Rafayel loved talking.

He bounced between topics like waves crashing against each other, one thought blending into the next before the previous one even finished. Most people struggled to keep up with him.

But you always listened so carefully in the beginning.

You laughed at all his dramatics, teased him back, rolled your eyes whenever he got distracted halfway through a story. He adored that look on your face.

Then slowly, over time, he saw the shift.

Your responses grew quieter. Your eyes glazed over. The spark in your expression dimmed under the weight of too much noise, too many people, too many overlapping conversations demanding pieces of your attention.

Tonight, the arcade was crowded and loud, lights flashing brightly enough to make your eyes ache.

Rafayel was halfway through complaining about losing a claw machine game when he noticed you had not responded in several minutes.

You were sitting beside him silently, shoulders slightly slumped, staring blankly at the floor while the sounds around you swallowed the room whole.

His expression softened instantly.

“Cutie,” he said gently, crouching slightly in front of you. “Battery dead?”

You gave the tiniest nod.

Without another word, he took your hand carefully and led you out of the arcade. The further you got from the noise, the more your body relaxed.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I know I got quiet.”

Rafayel stopped walking, turning toward you fully.

“Why are you apologizing for being tired?” he asked softly. “You stayed as long as you could.”

The city lights reflected softly in his eyes as he brushed his thumb across your knuckles.

You’ve perfected the art of slipping through rooms without being noticed, of answering only when necessary, of observing everything and offering nothing unless it matters. It isn’t loneliness. It isn’t sadness. It’s choice. Silence lets you hear things other people miss—the hesitation in someone’s voice, the lie wrapped in a joke, the patterns buried in data no one else has patience for.

It’s why they keep you in the Tower.

Intel. Patterns. Eyes where others have none.

And it’s why no one—not even Bucky—has ever heard you sing.

---

You wait until the quinjet is long gone.

You’d watched it take off from the window in the operations room, arms folded, expression neutral as always while the rest of the team filed out with their usual chaos. John tossed you a two-finger salute. Yelena told you not to miss her too much. Bucky lingered a second longer than the others, like he always does, like he’s about to say something—

He never does.

Just a nod. A quiet understanding.

Then he’s gone too.

Or so you think.

---

The water is hot, almost too hot, steam curling thick against the glass and fogging the mirror until the world disappears into something softer. Quieter.

Yours.

You rest your forehead against the tile for a second, letting the tension drain out of your shoulders. This is your other kind of silence—the one you keep just for yourself.

And then, slowly, it breaks.

It starts under your breath. Barely there. A hum, soft and careful like you’re testing whether it’s safe.

It always is.

Your voice isn’t something anyone expects from you. It isn’t sharp or clipped or efficient like the few words you offer during briefings. It’s warm. Full. It moves. It fills the space in a way your presence never does outside these walls.

You close your eyes and let it build.

The song spills out of you, something old and soft, something you don’t even remember learning. It echoes gently off the tile, wraps around you with the steam, turns the bathroom into something private and fragile and entirely yours.

You don’t hold back.

Not here.

Not when you’re alone.

---

Bucky wasn’t supposed to be there.

He’d doubled back—forgotten gear, or maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was that quiet pull he doesn’t quite understand yet. The jet hadn’t taken off by the time he realized, and John had rolled his eyes and told him to be quick.

So he’d come back.

Expecting silence.

Expecting you.

He always expects you.

Just…not like this.

He hears it before he even reaches your door.

At first, he thinks it’s music playing somewhere down the hall. Soft. Faint. Pretty enough to make him slow his steps without realizing.

Then it hits him.

It’s not a speaker.

It’s you.

He stops dead outside your room, hand hovering midair like he forgot what he was doing entirely. The door is slightly ajar, and the sound—your voice—spills through the gap, unguarded and impossibly you in a way he’s never seen.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Just listens.

Because he’s heard you talk—short answers, quiet observations, the occasional dry comment that catches him off guard—but this? This is something else entirely. Something softer. Something that makes his chest feel too tight.

You sound…free.

And he realizes, with a jolt, that no one else has ever heard this.

That this is yours.

And he’s standing here, stealing it.

He should leave.

He doesn’t.

---

You don’t hear the door.

You don’t hear anything but the song, the water, your own voice filling up the space you’ve carved out just for yourself.

By the time you step out, wrapping a towel tight around your body, your hair dripping down your shoulders, you’re still humming the last note under your breath.

You push the bathroom door open and freeze.

Bucky is standing in your bedroom doorway.

Just…standing there.

Looking at you like the world tilted.

For a second, neither of you move.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Your brain catches up all at once, horror flooding your chest so fast it almost knocks the air out of you.

“Oh my god—”

You clamp your mouth shut immediately, like you can shove the moment back in.

Too late.

Bucky blinks, like he’s snapping out of something. His mouth opens, closes, and then—

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your stomach drops.

You grip the towel tighter. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“I know,” he says quickly, hands lifting like he’s surrendering. “I—I came back for something. I didn’t know you were—” He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. Toward everything.

Your face burns.

“I wasn’t—” you start, and then stop because there’s no version of that sentence that doesn’t make this worse.

He takes a step forward, cautious, like you might bolt. “You sing.”

You look like you want the ground to swallow you whole.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do,” he says, softer now. Not teasing. Not pushing. Just…certain. “And you’re—” He huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head like he doesn’t have the words. “You’re really good.”

You close your eyes.

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

It comes out quieter than anything you’ve ever said to him.

That gets him.

Really gets him.

Because you don’t ask for things.

Ever.

He softens instantly, something warm settling into his expression. “Hey. Hey, I wouldn’t do that.”

You open your eyes just enough to look at him, searching for any hint of a joke.

There isn’t one.

“I mean it,” you insist, stepping forward now despite yourself. “If Walker finds out, he’ll—”

“He won’t,” Bucky cuts in gently. “No one will. It’s not… it’s not mine to tell.”

You exhale, shoulders dropping just a fraction.

“Okay.”

A beat passes.

He doesn’t leave.

You don’t move.

And then, quieter—almost like he’s asking permission—he says, “Can I hear you again sometime?”

Your eyes widen.

“No.”

He huffs a soft laugh, the sound low and fond. “Worth a shot.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. Just embarrassment, still lingering, still warm under your skin.

He shifts back toward the door, like he’s finally remembering why he shouldn’t be here. “I’ll, uh… go. Let you—” another vague gesture, less awkward this time. “Do your thing.”

You nod, grateful and mortified all at once.

He pauses in the doorway.

Glances back.

And then, softer than you’ve ever heard him—

“Hey… it was really beautiful.”

The door clicks shut behind him before you can respond.

You stand there for a long moment, heart still racing, the silence settling back into place around you.

It feels different now.

Not broken.

Just…shared.

And somewhere down the hall, Bucky leans against the wall, dragging a hand over his face with a quiet, disbelieving smile—

he’s like your own personal chaos generator, pulling you into adventures you’d never go to on your own. like tonight, when he shows up at your door unannounced, grinning like he’s up to no good (per usual).

“let’s go,” he says, leaning casually against your doorframe.

you blink at him clutching the blanket you were very much planning to stay under all night. “go where?”

“to watch the meteor shower,” he replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you hesitate, glancing down at your pajama pants. “rafe, it’s late and cold”

he rolls his eyes but steps inside, completely ignoring the fact that you haven’t technically invited him in. “it’s not that cold,” he argues, grabbing a hoodie off the back of your couch and tossing it at you. “come on, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

you mumble something about not regretting staying warm, but he’s already dragging you out the door.

you end up at some quiet spot by the water, the two of you sitting in the bed of his truck. he’s talking a mile a minute, pointing out random constellations and telling you random stories. one specifically about how his dad once tried to convince him shooting stars were alien spaceships.

you just nod and smile, your hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, which is way too big for you. it smells like him, cologne and bonfires and you’re trying really hard not to think about it too much.

at some point, he notices how quiet you’ve gotten. “you okay?” he asks, turning to look at you.

you nod quickly, your cheeks heating up under his gaze. “yeah, just tired.”

he doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t press either. instead, he reaches over and tugs the hood up over your head. “there,” he says softly, his voice quieter than usual. “that should fix one problem.”

you laugh. “you’re so dumb.”

“yeah, but you love it,” he teases, bumping his shoulder against yours.

you don’t say anything, but your heart’s doing that stupid fluttery thing it always does when he’s being sweet. and when a shooting star finally streaks across the sky, you can’t help but glance over at him instead of the sky, thinking that maybe you don’t need to make a wish after all.

It all started when she walked into the saloon you worked at. You were a saloon girl there. The staff and customers love you, as you were so kind to everyone who deserved. Though, you were also shy and quiet so most customers didn't pay you too much mind. The cookies who knew you well were so taken by your kindness that they gave you a nickname, Sweetie girl. Your shyness meant you somewhat relied on your co workers if someone was bothering you, which is how you ended up in the situation you're currently in.

It was a regular evening. Juice was flowing, people were merry, and things had been relatively calm. They a cookie with a long ponytail the color of grain walked in. The Wild Gun they called her. She took her seat at a corner table and ordered a juice on the rocks. The other saloon girls were busy so you'd have to be the one to deliver the drink. Gulping down the saliva forming in your throat, you approached the Wild Gun's table.

"Well, thanks for the drink, darlin' " she says as you place the glass on the table.

You get a bit flustered and scurry off to serve another patron. Rye cookie couldn't help by chuckle. She had been coming to this saloon for a good while but she never paid too much attention to you or the other saloon girls. She was a decent customer, but not overly friendly or chatty while on the job. That's why she was here after.

Pulling the crumble wanted poster from her pocket she scans the saloon for a cookie matching the description of a well known gun slinger that terrorized these parts. So, she drank her juice and waited for him to show his face.

Well, she didn't have to wait long as the outlaw bursts through the saloon doors, causing deathly silence to settle over the once rowdy saloon. He walks over to the booth Rye Cookie is sitting at, glaring down at her.

"Move it! This is my table," he demands.

Rye Cookie smirks under her hat as she stays right where she is. The outlaw gets angry, slamming his fists on the table as he shouts at Rye Cookie to move. When she doesn't he begrudgingly sits at a different table, demanding a drink.

The energy slowly comes back, though not as cheerful as it was moments before. You're the unfortunate soul who has to deliver him his drink, so you just stay quiet and place the drink on the table before going to scurry off. He grabs you, asking you to stay and chat for a bit. You try to get away but his grip is unrelenting. Rye Cookie stands up and walks over to the table, looking at the outlaw.

"Now, I do believe that darlin' asked you to let her get backed to work. So, let her go and we won't have a problem," she says, her accent and low voice making your face turn the color of a sugar gnomes' mustache.

"Or what?" The outlaw mockingly asks.

Rye Cookie looks him dead in and eyes and she can see the fear and recognition within them. She smirks, demanding the outlaw come quietly. He doesn't listen, instead he pulls out his gun as he pulls you against him. Tears start to leak from your eyes as the outlaw backs his way to his waiting horse. Rye Cookie follows behind carefully, waiting as he ties you up before tossing you onto his horse. She gets on her own horse and starts following the moment he takes off.

The chase is intense as Rye Cookie tails the outlaw like a bloodhound. She wants her bounty, but she also wants her new favorite saloon girl to be safe. She pulls out her lasso and manages to get the outlaw. Though, once he's pulled off the horse it stops and you're bond body falls and almost hits the group.

"I got ya darlin'" Rye Cookie reassures as she holds you bridal style in her arms.

Your face is red and tear stained by the time she brings you back to the saloon with her target in tow. Patrons and coworkers alike ask if you need anything and if you're OK. You reassure them, saying all you need is a moment to break and some water. A fellow saloon girl leads you to the back while the bartender makes you the fanciest water he can.

Rye Cookie has already collected her reward when she comes back to check on you. She saw you working as normal and sat down at a table. When you came by with her drink she asked if you were doing alright. You tell her you're fine and she softly chuckles.

"Whats so funny?" You ask.

"Nothin', it's just that you're such a sweetheart I thought you'd faint like a baby deer. Well, nice to know you're alright," Rye Cookie explains.

You giggle a bit and go to turn away but Rye Cookie gently grabs your first. Turning you nervously ask if everything's OK.

"Yeah, I was just winderin' if you'd want to go out sometime," she badly admits.

Your face is now a new shade of red as you cover it with your tray. Rye Cookie laughs, saying that your blush makes you look so much cuter. That makes you blush more but you do accept her invitation.