#redemptive-truth

GIF by everyhowlmarksthedead

Summary: Four years ago, she survived the impossible—going toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier and living to tell the tale. Now, Bucky Barnes is on her balcony, broken and bleeding. And her? She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes with blood on their hands.

Pairing: Post-CATWS!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Parts:

GIF from @whitedarkmoonflower

Summary: over a year after falling in love with Bucky Barnes and almost dying at his hands, Civil War threatens to break the Avengers apart. And now, she needs to track down the man who broke her heart and save him once again [sequel to a time to pretend]

Pairing: CACW into TFATWS!bucky barnes x f!reader

Chapter 5

✪ Summary: Over a year after falling in love with Bucky Barnes and almost dying at his hands, Civil War threatens to break the Avengers apart. And now, she needs to track down the man who broke her heart and save him once again.

✪Pariring: CACW! into TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

✪Word Count: 13.2k

✪ AO3 Link

✪ Warnings: trauma, violence, found family, ex’s to lovers, time jumps, mentions of death, heavy on the angst, lots of traumitized bucky, PTSD, warfare, angst, verbal sparring

✪ A/N: oh boy, was this a doozy to write. a couple of notes - I made some slight changes to the battle sequence in this chapter, so details are slightly different from the movie, but we don't need to read a scene everyone already knows. that would be far too anticlimatic. so, forgive me that this is not 100% canon.

also, i had to rewrite this part of the story because i had this going in a different direction - a much sadder one. i might post that as a deleted scene of sorts some day, because the chapter I wrote after that was super fun to delve into. essentially, bucky was going to force steve and sam to have the f!reader leave before the fight for her safety, creating another rift between them. but that would throw away the arc of their relationship, as you'll see in this chapter.

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She could see the war still raging in him. The waves that came in quick succession: fear, guilt, need, longing. And beneath all of it, the remnants of everything they had once shared. Maybe it was still too raw, too complicated for him to name. But for her, it was undeniable.

She loved him. She had known the moment they touched again.

Without another word, he surged forward again, kissing her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the present.

The kiss deepened. It became urgent, reverent. And in one stunning, clarity-filled moment, she understood why people went to war for love, why poets lost their minds over it. Bucky felt like all of that. Like everything she had ever wanted and needed, wrapped in one imperfect, beautiful man who kissed her like she was the air he’d been choking without.

His mouth moved over hers with bruising intensity, but the sounds he made—fragile, broken things—sent something aching and hot through her chest. Moans and half-whispers coated in years of longing spilled from him, so raw it almost hurt to hear.

He pulled her closer with his metal hand, fingertips curling against the small of her back, while the other cradled her jaw, callused fingers brushing her cheek as if he couldn’t believe she was real.

She didn’t remember how they ended up in one of the empty rooms—maybe he had pushed the door open, maybe they had stumbled through it blindly—but then they were on the floor. She lay back against the cold ground, his body above hers, lips claiming hers again and again like he was starving for her.

She pulled his bottom lip between her teeth, sucking gently until a groan tore out of him, low and guttural, and a jolt of heat coiled between her legs in response.

“Wanted you… so badly, sweetheart,” he breathed against her mouth, his hands slipping beneath her shirt to explore the curve of her waist, reverent and shaky. “Always have. Since the day you patched me up. You were so beautiful—so goddamn kind—”

She cut him off by yanking him down to her again, her hands sliding up under his shirt, skimming across the hard ridges of his abdomen and the scars that mapped his back. He trembled under her touch, shuddered like he might fall apart entirely if she kept going.

He pressed his forehead to hers, panting, his breath ragged like he was coming undone. She could barely see him in the dim light, but she didn’t need to. She knew the look in his eyes. Dark, hungry, worshipful. The same look he’d had that last night together, when the world felt soft and quiet for just a moment.

She broke away, breathless, her palms still pressed against his stomach. His head dropped into the crook of her neck, his breathing hot and desperate against her skin.

“What if Steve and Sam hear?” she managed, her voice uneven.

He lifted his head slowly, looking at her like she’d said something absurd.

“Then they can go somewhere else,” he said, and kissed her again fervently. 

He kissed her again. Slower now, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth, the way her hands felt against his skin. But when he pulled back just enough to breathe, his eyes dropped, caught on the metal chain around her neck, just barely visible beneath the collar of her shirt.

His expression shifted.

The pads of his fingers reached up and gently tugged the chain free, the familiar clink of dog tags echoing in the quiet room. He held the tags in his hand, letting them settle into his palm. His own makeshift replacements, the ones he’d made for her when the real ones were long gone.

“You still wear them,” he said softly, almost to himself. His thumb ran over the engraving.

She swallowed. “Of course I do.”

Something cracked behind his eyes. “After all that time… you still wore them.”

She pulled his forehead down to her own, gripping the hair at the back of his neck. Her lips traced him like a whisper. “Never stopped.”

He exhaled like the words knocked the wind out of him. His hands gripped her hips, lips brushing her skin.

“I’m so sorry I left,” he murmured. “I thought it was the only way to keep you safe.”

“Don’t think that I’m still not completely angry at you,” she breathed, tilting her head to give him better access to her neck.

“I know,” he murmured with a smile against her skin. “I’ll make it up to you.”

She let him press another kiss to her collarbone before nudging his face back gently. “Talk to me,” she said quietly. “Don’t just disappear into me. I want to know what happened. All that time… you didn’t reach out once.”

He hesitated, hands still on her, but eyes flickering away like the truth was too heavy to carry.

“I didn’t know how to,” he said. “Every time I thought about it—about you—I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I’d see your face and then remember the way you looked the night I… hurt you. It haunted me.”

“You still should’ve tried.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know. I thought I was doing the right thing…walking away, giving you space to move on. You deserve better than a man still trying to rebuild himself from rubble. I’m not… whole, sweetheart. I don’t think I ever will be.”

She softened, her hand lifting gently to his cheek. “But I didn’t want space. I wanted you. And you’re not broken, Buck. You’re still you. You just need to make peace with yourself and start moving forward.”

At that, Bucky drew back slightly. His face tightened, brows furrowing like the words physically hurt.

“It’s beyond that,” he said, voice low. “Anyone with the right book can say a few words and turn me back into him. You’ve seen it. You want to live with a man like that? With someone who doesn’t even have control over himself? And don’t lie and say you do. We both know the real answer.”

She didn’t respond right away. She just reached for his hand, weaving her fingers through his, grounding him as best she could. Because what could she say to that? He wasn’t wrong—not from where he was standing.

But he underestimated her. He always had.

What he saw as truth—his volatility, his danger—was fear wrapped in shame. The kind that came from years of being used, abused, and told he was nothing more than a weapon. That fear still spoke for him sometimes. And she knew, painfully so, that there was no argument that could undo what had been burned into his bones.

This wasn’t about her needing to reassure him. This was about him needing to believe it for himself. And until that happened, until he could truly see who he was now, there could be no convincing him. 

Not yet.

But still, her voice was steady when she spoke. “I’m not afraid of who you were, Buck. I never was. But you need to decide if you’re ready to stop running from who you are.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

“I was afraid,” he admitted. “Still am. Not just of hurting you again. But of what you made me feel. Being with you made me remember who I was… and that made everything else hurt more. When I was alone, I could just be a ghost. I didn’t have to face the man I’d become.”

She shook her head. “You’re the Bucky that Steve knew, the Bucky that I know. You’ve always been.”

A long pause passed between them. He studied her face like he didn’t believe she was real, like she might vanish again if he blinked. But she could see that he didn’t believe her. That he appreciated her words, but could not resonate. The hesitancy was tangible in his eyes. 

“I missed you,” he said finally, like it was being ripped from his chest. “More than anything. Every damn day.”

Something cracked open inside her.

Her breath hitched, and she stepped closer before she could stop herself. “Then why didn’t you come back?” Her voice was thick, threaded with hurt, but quiet. “Why didn’t you reach out? Even once?”

Bucky looked down, his expression shattering. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you anymore,” he whispered. “You don’t know how many times I almost did. Wrote messages, made plans. But then I’d remember everything I’d done. What I am. And I’d remember you smiling, or sleeping next to me, or laughing at something stupid I said... and I’d wonder how the hell someone like me ever got that lucky.”

She swallowed, the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill over.

“You left me with nothing,” she said, voice trembling. “You didn’t even give me the choice to decide if I still wanted you, if I still cared. You just disappeared, like we didn’t mean anything.”

“I know,” he rasped. “God, I know. And I hate myself for it. Always will..”

She exhaled hard, running a hand over his face. He leaned into her palm without a thought. “I waited, Bucky. I waited so long for you to come back. And I hated you for making me do it, for making me second-guess every day whether what we had was real. Because for me, it was. You were everything.”

He reached out this time, his metal fingers brushing her elbow, tentative, gentle. “It was real for me too. It still is. You helped me more than you know, doll.”

She looked away, trying to catch her breath, her voice smaller when she said, “I was so lonely without you.”

“I know,” he said again, and when she looked back at him, his eyes were glassy. “I was too. I… I’d lie awake every night, thinking about how your hair smelled, how we’d stay up just talkin’ at night.. I’d picture you cooking, humming under your breath, or the way you smiled at me first thing in the morning. Every quiet moment, you were there. Never could forget about you, even if I tried.”

She let out a small, broken laugh. “You could’ve just called.”

He smiled sadly. “I was afraid you’d tell me not to come back.”

She took a deep breath, chest rising, then stepped into him again, laying her palm flat against his heart. It was racing.

“I’m still angry,” she said honestly. “And hurt. Furious really.”

His hand covered hers. Held it there. “I’ll take whatever part of you you’re willing to give me.”

They stayed like that for a moment, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in.

“I don’t know how to move forward,” she admitted. “But I’m tired of standing still.”

He sighed deeply, pulling her into his chest and cradling her there, her face pressed against him. She breathed him in deeply, the feel of him a calming balm after all this time apart. “I don’t know either,” he murmured, stroking a hand through her hair. “But we’ll get out of this. And then we’ll figure it out.” 

___

They spent the night tangled together on what could generously be called a bed—nothing more than threadbare blankets spread across unforgiving concrete, two pillows so flat they might have been afterthoughts. Yet with her cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of Bucky's chest, his arm wrapped around her like a shield against the world, it became the safest harbor she had ever known.

When consciousness crept in, reality felt gossamer-thin. She held herself motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, certain that even the flutter of an eyelash might shatter this impossible dream. But her senses anchored her to the moment: the rasp of morning stubble against her temple, the complex scent of him, salt and sleep and that underlying note of sandalwood that had haunted her memory for months. Her face was nestled in the hollow where his neck met his shoulder, his lips unconsciously pressed to her hair, and the warmth radiating from his skin seemed to seep into her very bones.

Her throat constricted. How many nights had she woken from dreams exactly like this, her arms clutching empty air, the phantom weight of him dissolving with cruel sunrise? But this—his heartbeat thrumming beneath her palm, the solid reality of muscle and flesh curved protectively around her—this transcended every desperate wish she'd whispered into the dark.

She pressed her fingernails into the tender skin of her inner wrist, hard enough to leave crescent marks. Just to be certain.

"Testing the laws of physics, are we?"

His voice rumbled through his chest, sleep-rough and intimate, his mouth still moving against the crown of her head. She hadn't even realized he was awake.

"Making sure you're real," she murmured into the hollow of his throat, her words barely audible. "That I haven't finally lost my mind."

A sound escaped him—part laughter, part sigh—as his arms tightened until she wondered if she might simply dissolve into him. "Still feel like I’m a figment of your imagination?"

She burrowed deeper, memorizing the texture of his skin, the rhythm of his breathing. "In my dreams, you were always silent. Though, to be fair, you weren't exactly chatty before either."

His chest vibrated with suppressed laughter. "Still sharp as a blade, sweetheart. Some things never change."

"Someone has to keep you entertained." The grin spread across her face unbidden, and he responded with a gentle squeeze that startled a laugh from her lips.

She lifted herself slightly, chin resting on his chest, close enough that her exhales ghosted across his collarbone. From this angle, she could see the ghost of a smile softening the harsh angles of his face, though his eyes, those storm-blue eyes, remained fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel like the only solid thing in his world.

"What happens now?" Her voice dropped to barely more than breath. "We can't keep running."

The tenderness in his expression hardened, reality creeping back in like frost. But his fingers continued their gentle path through her hair, each touch a silent plea to stay in this moment just a little longer.

"Steve has a plan." His voice carried quiet conviction. "Sharon Carter's meeting us today—she'll return their gear. And he's called in reinforcements." His jaw clenched, tension bleeding into his voice despite his efforts. "But Zemo... the bastard who activated me... he's after something bigger. The other Winter Soldiers that HYDRA made. They've been frozen in Siberia for decades. If he wakes them..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

Ice settled in her stomach. "Are you certain you can handle this? The words still—"

"Work on me. I know." The admission scraped his throat raw. His fingers stilled against her skin. "God, I know. Every second I'm terrified of what I might become again. But I can't abandon Steve. And if stopping this means preventing more people from becoming what I was..." His eyes found hers again, naked fear replacing the steel. "But I need you safe. I can't function knowing you're in danger. If something happened to you—"

"I'm not leaving you." The words came out fierce, final. Her palm cupped his cheek, thumb tracing the line of stubble along his jaw. "Not again. Never again. Besides," her voice gentled, "Tony and T'Challa won't stop hunting us whether we run or fight. The Accords didn't disappear overnight. We're already targets."

His eyes squeezed shut as if her words were physical blows. "Every heartbeat, I'm terrified of losing you. The thought alone—" His voice cracked, vulnerability bleeding through every crack in his armor. "But you're right. It's not my choice to make. It's yours. And I have to live with whatever you decide."

Her smile was soft but immovable as steel. "Then we decide together. Because I'm not going anywhere."

Something shattered in his expression. Decades of loss, of believing he didn't deserve good things, of expecting everyone he loved to slip through his fingers. His hand cradled the back of her skull, fingers threading through her hair like she might vanish if he loosened his grip.

"I don't deserve this," he breathed, the words almost too quiet to hear. "I don't deserve you."

"You deserve everything." Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone, collecting the moisture that had gathered there. "And you're never losing me again. I won't let you."

The dam burst. He kissed her with months of suppressed longing, lips soft and hesitant at first, asking permission. But when she melted into him with a sigh that seemed to come from her soul, the kiss deepened into something desperate and reverent.

His arm tightened around her waist, molding her against him as her fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring them both to this moment. His mouth moved against hers with quiet urgency. Each brush of lips was a prayer, a promise, a plea for time to stand still.

When they finally broke apart, breathing unsteady, foreheads still pressed together, he let out a soft laugh tinged with disbelief. "Christ, I missed this. Missed you."

She smiled against his lips, voice hushed but unshakeable. "Then don't you dare disappear on me again."

The door's creak shattered their bubble like gunfire.

"Well, well. Should I come back with some Barry White to set the mood?"

They sprang apart, heads whipping toward the doorway where Sam stood with arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in obvious amusement.

"Maybe next time knock?" Heat flooded her cheeks as she pulled back slightly, though Bucky's hand remained possessively at her waist, his glare promising bodily harm.

Sam's grin widened, utterly unbothered by the death stare. "Trust me, I heard enough to know knocking wouldn't have helped." He pushed off the doorframe, clapping his hands together. "But playtime's over, lovebirds. Sharon's moving, Steve's wearing a hole in the floor, and we've got a frozen nightmare factory to crash before lunch. So..." He gestured toward the door. "Move it."

As he turned away, they caught his muttered addendum: "Seriously though, get a room. You kiss like teenagers who just discovered each other."

____

The regrouping happened swiftly. Dawn painted the abandoned streets in shades of gray and gold as they made their way to the rendezvous point. Steve had retrieved their equipment from Sharon, and now Wanda and Clint waited with an enthusiastic stranger with strange tech that could make him grow as large as a skyscraper and as small as a bug — Scott Lang. Apparently, Sam had fought him one-on-one previously and, judging by his expression, lost to.

Wanda's arms were crossed, her expression drawn but resolute. Scott practically vibrated with excitement, while Clint was already checking his bowstring with professional efficiency.

"About time you joined the party," Clint drawled as Sam approached.

"Some of us had more important things to handle," Sam replied with a pointed look back at them. She fought the urge to throw something at his head.

They had barely finished making introductions and explaining the mission's stakes when harsh German echoed through the concrete expanse of the parking garage. The announcement bounced off oil-stained walls, each syllable sharp with authority.

Bucky's expression shifted like storm clouds gathering. His jaw tightened, muscles coiling beneath his jacket as he translated without being asked. "They're evacuating the airport."

Steve's eyes found hers, then Sam's, a silent conversation passing between them in the space of a heartbeat. Her stomach dropped to her boots. Steve had warned them this moment would come, had prepared them for the inevitable collision, but knowing and experiencing were vastly different beasts. The weight of what they were about to do, what they were about to become, settled on her shoulders like lead.

"Stark," Steve said, the single word carrying the weight of command and resignation. "Suit up, everyone."

The team scattered like leaves in a sudden wind, each member claiming shadows and corners with the practiced efficiency of people who'd lived on the margins too long. She slipped into a narrow restroom, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as she turned the lock with trembling fingers.

Civilian clothes fell away like shed skin. The tactical gear transformed her. Black combat pants that moved like liquid shadow, a fitted long-sleeve that breathed with her body, the vest settling against her ribs with familiar weight. Each piece of equipment found its home: knives kissing her thighs through leather sheaths, another blade riding her hip like a deadly secret, pistols sliding into holsters with whispered clicks that spoke of violence to come.

The cracked mirror above the grimy sink reflected a stranger back at her. She was all sharp edges and deadly purpose once again, someone her past self might have crossed the street to avoid. But she felt ready. Ready for war.

The stall door whispered open behind her.

She spun, adrenaline spiking, only to find Bucky sliding into the cramped space with predatory grace. He'd already transformed into something that made her breath catch—black tactical gear that seemed painted onto his frame, armor plates positioned with mathematical precision across vital points. Every line of him screamed weapon, from the way he moved to the cold gleam of his metal arm in the harsh light. This was the Winter Soldier's uniform, and wearing it, he looked every inch the ghost story HYDRA had crafted.

His vibranium arm braced against the wall beside her head, effectively caging her in. The metal caught the light like liquid mercury.

Her pulse hammered against her throat, but she managed a smile that felt only slightly strained. "Well," she said, letting her gaze travel deliberately from his boots to his storm-dark eyes, "if HYDRA ever needed a recruitment poster, they certainly knew how to pick their models. You're dangerously attractive in tactical gear, Barnes. It's been far too long since I've seen you suited up like this."

Something flickered behind his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or appreciation for her ability to find humor in the darkness. His mouth curved into that slow, devastating smirk that had probably stopped hearts across three decades. "Dangerously attractive?" The words rumbled low in his chest. "Should I be concerned you're only keeping me around for the uniform?"

"Wouldn't be the worst reason to keep someone around," she shot back, unrepentant, even as he stepped closer and the air between them seemed to thicken.

He leaned in then, bracketing her with both arms, and suddenly the cramped stall felt impossibly smaller. His body heat wrapped around her like a second skin, and she could smell leather and metal and something uniquely him underneath it all. When he spoke again, all traces of humor had fled.

"Jokes aside..." His voice dropped to something raw and intimate, the kind of tone that belonged to confessions in the dark. "I won't try to stop you from fighting, I know better than that, and I respect you too much. But when this goes to hell—and sweetheart, it will go to hell—you stay with me. Don't leave my sight, not for a second. Promise me."

The naked fear threaded through his words hit her like a physical blow. This wasn't the Winter Soldier talking, or even the confident man who'd kissed her senseless earlier. This was James Buchanan Barnes, terrified of losing someone else he cared about, someone else he'd failed to protect.

She lifted her hand to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the rough stubble there, anchoring them both. "I promise, James. But you have to meet me halfway…you have to trust that I can handle myself out there. I'm not some rookie who's going to get herself killed." Her voice gentled. "I'm not losing you either. Not again."

Something in his composure cracked at the sound of his name on her lips. The name that belonged to the man, not the weapon. Then his mouth crashed against hers with desperate hunger, nothing like the gentle exploration from earlier. This kiss tasted of fear and need and months of forced separation, of words they hadn't said and time they weren't sure they'd have.

He pressed her back against the stall wall, his metal hand spanning her ribs, fingers spread wide like he was trying to memorize the shape of her through tactical fabric. She fisted her hands in his vest, pulling him closer, needing to eliminate every inch of space between them. The kiss was all consuming fire, the kind that burned away pretense and left only truth in its wake.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping, he dropped his forehead to hers. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between them, and she could see herself reflected in his eyes flushed and wild-haired, thoroughly kissed.

"Stay with me," he whispered again, and it sounded less like a request than a prayer to whatever gods might be listening in airport bathrooms.

She brushed her lips against his once more, softer but no less certain, sealing the promise between them. "Always."

The words she really wanted to say crowded against her teeth—I love you, I love you, I've loved you since West Virginia, maybe since you collapsed on my balcony—but this wasn't the moment for declarations. After the mission, when the dust settled and they were somewhere safe, when they could finally be together without the world conspiring to tear them apart—then she would tell him everything. Then she would give him all the words she'd been hoarding like treasures.

"Time to move, people!" Sam's voice echoed down the hallway, cutting through the intimate bubble they'd created. "Show's about to start!"

They broke apart reluctantly, the spell fracturing but not quite breaking. Bucky's thumb traced her cheek one last time, a gesture so tender it made her chest ache, before he pushed open the stall door.

Together, they rejoined the team, falling into formation as they moved toward the tarmac. Steve would go out first to face Tony and his assembled team, creating the distraction they needed while she, Sam, and Bucky remained inside to locate their escape route. Clint and Wanda held the high ground on the parking deck, ghost-quiet and waiting for their moment to strike.

The air practically vibrated with tension, like the moment before lightning splits the sky. Everyone could feel it, that electric anticipation that came before everything went sideways. One wrong word, one sudden movement, and the powder keg they'd all been sitting on would finally explode.

The real question wasn't if the situation would detonate. It was how many pieces they'd all be in when the smoke cleared.

And then, inevitably, it did.

The battle erupted in explosive chaos. Energy blasts carving through concrete, the shriek of metal against metal, battle cries echoing across the tarmac like thunder. She instinctively flanked Bucky and Sam as their unit splintered off from the main fight, only to face an unexpected adversary who came crashing through the terminal's glass ceiling in a shower of sparkling debris.

The newcomer couldn't have been more than sixteen, wrapped in red and blue spandex that clung to his wiry frame. His voice cracked with adolescent enthusiasm as he swung down on impossible webs, movements defying every law of physics she knew.

"Hey everyone! Big fan of your work—uh, sorry about this in advance!"

Spider-Man. She'd seen the grainy YouTube footage, read the scattered news reports Tony had been obsessing over. But she'd imagined someone older, more seasoned. Not this kid who sounded like he should be worried about algebra homework.

Before she could process the absurdity, silvery webbing shot out like liquid lightning. Bucky, mid-stride toward cover, was yanked clean off his feet with brutal efficiency. The web wrapped around his metal arm and anchored to the concrete with the strength of industrial cable, pinning him in place.

"Whoa, hold up!" The kid crouched low, practically vibrating with excitement as he examined the vibranium gleam. "Is that arm actually real? Like, full metal? Oh man, Mr. Stark's intel was way off, this is so much cooler than—"

"Kid, shut up!" Sam roared, launching skyward with mechanical precision. His wings cut through the air in a silver blur, only to be intercepted by another web-line that caught him mid-flight and slammed him into a baggage cart with bone-jarring force. The metal crumpled around him like paper.

"Sam!" She was moving before conscious thought kicked in, combat knife clearing its sheath in one fluid motion. The blade sliced through the web-line just as it began to harden, freeing Sam before he could be completely immobilized.

"Much obliged!" Sam gasped, shaking off debris as his wings recalibrated.

Spider-Man landed in front of her with feline grace, head cocked with unsettling curiosity. "Wait, you're not in Mr. Stark's files. Who are you supposed to—"

She cut off his question with a vicious roundhouse kick that connected solidly with his ribs. The impact sent him skidding backward across the concrete, his surprised yelp almost comical.

"Someone you should've researched better, kid," she shot back snarkily, already moving as he rolled back to his feet with disturbing resilience.

"Mental note: scary knife lady hits really hard," he wheezed, but was already bouncing on his toes, ready for more.

Bucky tore free of the remaining webbing with a metallic screech, chunks of concrete still clinging to the restraints. He was beside her in three quick strides, vibranium fingers flexing as circulation returned.

"You hurt?" His eyes swept her for injuries, even as he kept Spider-Man in his peripheral vision.

She spun a knife between her fingers before sliding it home. "Better than you, apparently. Getting sloppy, Barnes, caught by a kid."

"Not funny," he muttered, but she caught the microscopic twitch at the corner of his mouth before his expression hardened back to pure focus.

They moved like dancers who'd rehearsed for years. Bucky's devastating strength, Sam's aerial superiority, and her lethal precision filling every gap in their formation. Spider-Man was fast, unpredictable, his precognitive reflexes making him nearly impossible to pin down. But every time those webs found their mark, trapping one of them, the others were already cutting them free.

The kid came at them again, this time using a loading crane as a springboard to build momentum. His web-shooters rapid-fired, laying down suppressing patterns that would have overwhelmed a less coordinated team.

"Incoming high!" Sam called out, diving low to avoid the spray.

Bucky ripped a steel support beam from nearby scaffolding like it was made of balsa wood. His timing was perfect. The makeshift bat caught Spider-Man at the apex of his swing, sending him tumbling through the air in an ungainly sprawl.

"Nice swing, slugger," she quipped, already moving to intercept web-lines targeting Bucky's legs. Her blade severed them before they could tighten.

"Just improvising," Bucky grunted, but his attention wasn't on the compliment. His eyes tracked every movement Spider-Man made, calculating threat vectors, positioning himself between the kid and her with military precision.

Spider-Man recovered with inhuman speed, landing in a crouch that immediately exploded into motion. This time he came at her directly, perhaps recognizing her as the most vulnerable target.

"Sorry, knife lady! Orders are orders!"

Webbing shot toward her center mass, but Bucky was already moving. His metal arm swept across her body like a shield, catching the web-line and yanking hard enough to throw Spider-Man off balance. In the same motion, he pivoted, putting his armored bulk between her and their attacker.

"Stay behind me," he ordered, voice tight with protective fury.

"Like hell," she shot back, but stayed close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to move with him as a unit.

Spider-Man adjusted his tactics quickly, using his wall-crawling abilities to scuttle up a nearby fuel truck with gecko-like agility that made her skin crawl. From the elevated position, he laid down a web-pattern that forced them to scatter. Or tried to.

Bucky grabbed her around the waist and dove right, rolling them both behind concrete barriers as webbing crisscrossed the space they'd occupied like a deadly net. His body covered hers completely, metal arm taking the brunt of the impact with the ground while his flesh arm cradled her head, protecting her from the rough concrete.

"You okay?" he asked urgently, blue eyes scanning her face for signs of injury with the intensity of someone who'd seen too many people he cared about get hurt.

"I'm fine, but you can't keep—"

"Yes, I can." His voice brooked absolutely no argument, carrying undertones of barely controlled desperation. "And I will. End of discussion."

Sam's wings roared overhead, drawing Spider-Man's attention skyward with mechanical precision. "Could use some help down here! Kid's got better reflexes than a cat on espresso!"

They emerged from cover together, but Bucky kept himself positioned as a human shield, his body language screaming protective tension. When Spider-Man dropped from above like a hunting spider, attempting to web her to the ground, Bucky's metal fist caught him mid-descent with enough force to crater the concrete where he landed, the impact echoing like thunder.

The kid groaned but was already trying to get up, his enhanced physiology letting him shake off damage that would have hospitalized a normal person. "Okay, that one really hurt... definitely felt that in my spleen. Do I still have a spleen?"

"Stay down," Bucky growled, advancing with the predatory focus of a man who'd been trained to end threats permanently. But Spider-Man's enhanced reflexes kicked in, sending him scuttling backward like an actual spider avoiding a boot.

"Can't do that, Winter Soldier guy! Mr. Stark said you're dangerous, but he didn't mention you were protective-dangerous! That's like a whole different category of scary!"

More webbing flew, this time targeting her from multiple angles in a coordinated assault. Bucky moved like liquid violence, his metal arm deflecting two lines while he grabbed her and spun, using his body as a shield against the third. The web splattered harmlessly against his tactical vest, hissing slightly as it tried to adhere.

"Getting real tired of this," she muttered, but her heart hammered with more than adrenaline. The fierce protectiveness in Bucky's every movement, the way he anticipated threats to her before she even saw them coming, the absolute determination in his eyes that nothing would touch her—it was overwhelming in the best possible way, and also terrifying in its intensity.

Spider-Man seemed to sense the dynamic and tried to use it against them, feinting toward her to draw Bucky out of position. But the Winter Soldier had been fighting asymmetric warfare longer than the kid had been alive. Instead of taking the obvious bait, he swept her legs, dropping her into a controlled fall while his metal arm caught Spider-Man's web-line and used it like a whip to slam him into a concrete pillar with bone-jarring force.

"Show off," she breathed, accepting his hand up with a grin that was equal parts appreciation and exasperation.

"Only for you, sweetheart," he replied, but his eyes never left Spider-Man's crumpled form, tracking movement like a sniper acquiring targets.

The kid wasn't finished yet. He leveraged his inhuman flexibility to spring back into action, but now he was favoring his left side, movements less fluid than before. Still dangerous, still faster than anyone had a right to be, but definitely feeling the accumulated damage.

"Okay, new strategy," Spider-Man muttered to himself, and suddenly his web-shooters were firing in rapid succession, not at them but at the structural supports around them. Metal groaned ominously and concrete cracked like breaking bones as debris began raining down in chunks that could easily kill.

Bucky's reaction was instant and instinctive. He tackled her to the ground, his body forming a protective cage over hers as chunks of concrete bounced off his shoulders and back like hail. His metal arm extended above her head like a canopy, deflecting the worst of the falling debris with metallic clangs that rang in her ears.

Through the chaos and dust, she heard Sam's wings engaging with their distinctive whine, the sound of his thrusters as he went after Spider-Man directly. But all she could focus on was the solid weight of Bucky above her, the way his breathing hitched each time debris struck him, the absolute certainty that he'd rather be buried alive than let anything happen to her.

When the dust settled and the last chunks of concrete stopped falling, he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his face streaked with dust and grim determination.

"You're not leaving my side for the rest of this fight," he said, and it wasn't a request or a suggestion. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the kind of finality that meant arguing would be pointless.

For once, she didn't argue. The look in his eyes—fierce, desperate, utterly uncompromising—told her that he was operating on pure protective instinct now, and trying to reason with him would be like trying to negotiate with a hurricane.

They rose together, moving as a single coordinated unit toward where Sam had finally managed to web Spider-Man's feet to the ground, the kid struggling against bonds that even his enhanced strength couldn't break immediately. The polymer had hardened into something resembling steel cable.

"Nice work, Wilson," Bucky called, but his metal hand remained planted firmly on her back, ready to shield her at the first sign of trouble.

"Just returning the favor," Sam replied, breathing hard and nursing what looked like a bruised shoulder. "Kid's tougher than he looks. And more annoying."

Spider-Man looked up at them, his web-pattern eyes somehow managing to convey sheepish embarrassment through the mask. "So... this is awkward. Little help? These webs are really stuck, and I think I might have pulled something important when scary knife lady's boyfriend threw me into that pillar."

"Boyfriend?" She raised an eyebrow, glancing at Bucky with amusement.

Bucky's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he didn't correct the assumption. Instead, he crouched down to Spider-Man's level, his voice dropping to something that would have made grown men reconsider their life choices and possibly their career paths.

"Kid, you came after her. That was your first mistake." His voice was soft, conversational, which somehow made it infinitely more threatening. "Your last mistake would be doing it again. Are we clear?"

Spider-Man's head bobbed frantically, his entire body language shifting to something far more respectful. "Crystal clear, sir. Definitely noted for future reference. Won't happen again. Ever. Like, seriously, message received loud and clear."

"Good." Bucky straightened, his hand finding the small of her back again as sirens wailed in the distance, the sound echoing off concrete walls like a countdown. "Because next time, we wouldn't be having a conversation."

They sprinted across the tarmac as a group, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of combat. She glanced over at Bucky beside her, unable to hide the grin tugging at her lips despite everything. "Boyfriend, huh? They have that term back in the forties?"

Bucky didn't look at her, but she caught the smile transforming his profile, chasing away the last shadows of Winter Soldier coldness. "You really like that designation, don't you?"

"Well, I didn't see you correcting the kid, did I?" She bumped his shoulder playfully, their tactical gear making a soft rustling sound.

"Why would I need to?" He spared her a glance, a full grin spreading across his face now, and his eyes were brighter than she'd seen them in... maybe ever. "Sounds about right to me, sweetheart."

If her heart hadn't already been racing from the fight, she was certain the thundering in her chest would have been audible to everyone within a fifty-foot radius. She couldn't even attempt to suppress the lovesick grin that spread across her face, warmth flooding her cheeks at the flush creeping up Bucky's neck. It was ridiculously mushy and yet... it felt perfect. Like a missing piece clicking into place.

Sam groaned beside them, his wings adjusting with mechanical whirs. "Seriously, you two think now is the time to be having this conversation? You're both sickening. And I mean that in the most supportive way possible."

But their moment of lightness couldn't last. The distant rumble of engines grew louder, and when she looked up, her stomach dropped.

Iron Man's repulsors lit up the sky like falling stars.

"Going somewhere, Cap?" Tony's voice boomed across the tarmac through his suit's external speakers, the electronic distortion making him sound more machine than man.

The armored figure descended like an avenging angel, landing with enough force to spider-web cracks across the concrete between Steve's team and the Quinjet. Behind him, the rest of his assembled team spread out in a tactical formation that spoke of countless hours of coordination and planning.

Rhodey hovered overhead in his War Machine armor, targeting systems painting red dots that danced across their chests. Vision floated with his cape rippling in the jet wash, his expression serene but ready, like a god preparing to pass judgment. T'Challa moved like liquid shadow given form, vibranium claws extending with soft metallic whispers as he took position with predatory grace.

And there was Natasha.

She stood slightly apart from Tony's group, red hair catching the harsh airport lights like fire, her expression carefully neutral but her posture speaking volumes. When their eyes met across the battlefield that had once been neutral ground, something passed between them. Something that felt like an acknowledgment of old friendship tested by impossible choices, of loyalty strained to its breaking point.

Natasha's gaze flickered to Bucky beside her, taking in their proximity with the trained eye of a spy, noting the protective way his hand hovered near her back, the way they moved together like a single unit. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, approval mixed with something that might have been relief. She gave the subtlest of nods.

Hell erupted in slow motion.

Sam launched skyward toward Rhodey with mechanical precision while Clint's arrows flew in perfect arcs toward Tony, their fletching whistling through the air. Wanda's scarlet energy blazed to life, painting the concrete in shades of red that looked too much like blood, and suddenly the tarmac became a war zone of impossible proportions where physics bent to accommodate superhuman conflict.

She found herself moving instinctively toward T'Challa as the Wakandan king zeroed in on Bucky with single-minded focus that spoke of personal vengeance. The Black Panther moved like death incarnate, vibranium claws extended, every line of his body radiating lethal intent and barely contained grief.

"He's mine," T'Challa snarled, the words carrying the weight of a son's promise to his dead father as he lunged at Bucky with feline grace.

"Like hell," she shot back, intercepting his path with a flying tackle that sent them both rolling across the concrete in a tangle of limbs and fury.

T'Challa recovered with inhuman speed, claws slashing where her head had been a split second before, carving gouges in the concrete that sent sparks flying. She rolled away, combat knife clearing its sheath as she gained her feet, the familiar weight of it grounding her in the chaos.

"You defend a murderer," T'Challa said, his accented voice thick with barely contained rage and the kind of pain that came from watching your world crumble in real time.

"I defend someone I love," she replied, circling him with predatory caution, her blade held in a reverse grip that spoke of intimate familiarity with violence.

Bucky appeared at her shoulder like a guardian shadow, his metal arm gleaming as he deflected T'Challa's next strike. The impact rang like a bell tower tolling midnight, vibranium against vibranium, sparks flying from the contact in showers of gold and silver.

"Two against one?" T'Challa's cowled head tilted, and she could hear the disapproval in his voice even through the mask's modulation. "You believe this makes you honorable?"

"Honor doesn't enter into it," Bucky growled, launching into a brutal combination that T'Challa flowed around like water over stone. "I'm not letting anything happen to her. End of discussion."

The Wakandan's fighting style was unlike anything she'd encountered in her years of training—part martial arts precision, part predatory instinct, enhanced by the heart-shaped herb's gifts until he moved with fluid grace that made him nearly impossible to pin down. But his focus remained laser-sharp on Bucky, tunnel vision born of grief and the need for justice.

She flanked left while Bucky pressed forward, trying to divide T'Challa's attention between multiple threats. Her knife work was precise, seeking gaps in his suit with the kind of systematic approach that spoke of studying blueprints and architectural weaknesses, but the vibranium weave turned aside her strikes like they were mere scratches against diamond.

T'Challa spun with inhuman speed, claws raking across Bucky's tactical vest, tearing through reinforced fabric like it was tissue paper. Bucky stumbled back, dark fabric parting to reveal the pale skin beneath, and T'Challa pressed his advantage with the ruthless efficiency of a born warrior, going for what would have been a killing blow.

She threw herself between them without conscious thought, both knives crossed to catch his descending claws. The impact drove her to one knee, T'Challa's enhanced strength overwhelming her smaller frame, but she held the block long enough for Bucky to recover, her arms shaking with the strain.

"Stay back!" Bucky grabbed her shoulder, pulling her clear as T'Challa's retaliatory strike carved gouges in the concrete where she'd been kneeling, sending chips of debris flying like shrapnel.

"Not happening!" She rolled under T'Challa's guard, coming up inside his reach where his claws couldn't effectively target her without risking damage to himself. Her knee drove up toward his solar plexus with all the force she could muster, but the suit's padding absorbed most of the impact like she was striking armor plating.

T'Challa backhanded her with casual brutality that spoke of enhanced strength held barely in check, sending her skidding across the tarmac in a sprawl of limbs. Stars exploded across her vision like fireworks, and the taste of copper flooded her mouth, metallic and warm.

Bucky's roar of rage was inhuman, a sound torn from somewhere primal and violent. He launched himself at T'Challa with berserker fury that transformed him back into the weapon HYDRA had forged, metal fist connecting with the Wakandan's jaw hard enough to stagger someone wearing a vibranium-weave suit. They grappled in a blur of black tactical gear and gleaming metal, each seeking a decisive hold that would end the fight.

She shook off the dizziness, spitting blood as she regained her feet on unsteady legs. Through blurred vision, she saw T'Challa had managed to get behind Bucky, vibranium claws pressed to his throat in a chokehold, victory within his grasp.

Her knife flew true, striking T'Challa's shoulder joint where the suit's articulation created a narrow gap in the armor. He snarled in pain, releasing Bucky to deal with the blade, but it was the opening they needed.

Bucky swept T'Challa's legs while she crashed into him from the side, sending all three of them tumbling in a tangle of limbs and weapons that ended with them sprawled across the concrete. They separated slowly, each breathing hard, circling like wary predators reassessing their opponents.

"This changes nothing," T'Challa panted, pulling her knife free and dropping it with a metallic clatter. "Justice will be done."

"Justice?" Bucky's voice cracked with bitter laughter that held no humor. "You want to kill me for something I did while I wasn't even myself. While I was a prisoner in my own mind. Where's the justice in that?"

T'Challa's claws retracted slightly, the first sign of hesitation he'd shown since the fight began.

The acrid smoke from collapsed scaffolding still clung to the air, stinging her throat and making her eyes water as she and Bucky broke into a desperate sprint. Sam's voice crackled in her earpiece—cut off abruptly, replaced by static as his communication was disabled. She risked a glance back, her heart sinking as she saw him being forced to the ground by overwhelming numbers.

"Sam!" she shouted, every instinct screaming at her to go back for him, but Bucky's metal hand closed firmly around her wrist with irresistible strength.

"There's no time," he rasped, his eyes dark with the kind of urgency that came from understanding tactical situations on a visceral level. "Steve's already moving for the jet—we have to go now or we lose our only chance."

Her jaw clenched, helpless anger burning in her chest like acid, but she nodded through the pain of leaving friends behind. The three of them—her, Bucky, and Steve—cut across the tarmac toward the hangar where the Quinjet waited like salvation made of metal and hope. Every step thundered with the echo of pursuit and the weight of everything they were leaving behind.

Then a familiar silhouette stepped out ahead of them, blocking their path with practiced ease. Natasha.

They skidded to a stop, her chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline. Natasha raised one hand, the tasers on her wrist crackling with electricity as her sharp gaze flicked between Bucky, Steve, and her with the assessing look of someone calculating odds and outcomes.

"Nat—" she began, taking a careful step forward despite the weapons trained on them.

"You really want to do this?" Natasha's voice was calm, almost weary, like someone who'd seen this scenario play out too many times before. Her eyes softened for just a flicker, a ghost of their old friendship, as they landed on her. "You're on the wrong side of this. You know what comes next if you keep running."

She swallowed hard, her pulse hammering against her throat. "Maybe we are. But you know what happens if we don't try. Steve's right about this. About the other soldiers, about what Zemo's really planning, about Bucky. And deep down, you know it too."

For the briefest moment, something shifted in Natasha's expression. Conflict warred with duty, recognition battling against orders, maybe even a sliver of agreement with their cause breaking through her professional mask.

The thundering footsteps behind them snapped them all back to immediate reality. T'Challa closed the distance with inhuman speed, his claws catching the harsh lights as murder gleamed in his stride, grief transformed into lethal purpose.

"Go," Natasha muttered under her breath, so quietly she almost missed it.

"What?" Steve asked, stunned disbelief coloring his voice.

Natasha flicked a glance over her shoulder, then thrust both batons back without warning, a crackling surge of electricity shooting into T'Challa as he lunged for Bucky's throat. He stumbled, his body locking up as voltage coursed through the suit's systems, buying them precious seconds.

"That's all you're getting," Natasha warned, her eyes hard as granite now, all traces of softness gone. "Run. And don't make me regret this."

Steve didn't hesitate. He grabbed Bucky by the shoulder, jerking him forward with military efficiency. She locked eyes with Natasha one last time, a wealth of gratitude and understanding passing between them in a look, before sprinting after the others toward their only hope of escape.

They hit the Quinjet's ramp at full speed, alarms wailing as the engines whirred to life with increasing urgency. Steve rushed to the controls, his fingers flying over systems as he worked to override security lockouts. Bucky pulled her inside, slamming the hatch behind them just as security forces began swarming the hangar like angry wasps.

The jet shuddered, then roared with mechanical thunder, wheels leaving the ground in a moment that felt like flying and falling simultaneously.

She collapsed into the nearest seat, adrenaline finally catching up to her in a wave that left her shaking. Her hands trembled as she pulled her weapons free, the familiar ritual of securing gear helping to ground her in the aftermath of violence.

Bucky dropped beside her heavily, breathing hard, his own hands not entirely steady. His hand—warm flesh, not cold metal—slid over hers with infinite gentleness. He pulled her against his chest, his arm banding around her shoulders protectively, as though he could still shield her from everything waiting in the uncertain future beyond this moment.

She let herself sink into him completely, her forehead pressed to the crook of his neck where she could feel his pulse hammering. His scent, sweat and leather and tactical fabric and something that was purely, uniquely him, anchored her to the present moment. For the first time since the fighting had begun, she felt like she could actually breathe.

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. "I'm not letting go. Never again."

Her throat tightened with unshed tears, everything she'd been holding back during the fight threatening to spill over, but she only nodded against his shoulder, gripping his tactical vest like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to sanity.

The Quinjet sliced through pewter clouds like a blade through silk, its engines thrumming a steady lullaby that seemed to echo in her bones. Through the small porthole windows, the world below had become nothing but an endless expanse of gray. Fitting, somehow, for the limbo they found themselves suspended in.

Steve's hands remained rock-steady on the controls, but she could see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was grinding down words he couldn't say. Every one of them carried the weight of what they'd left behind, what they'd been forced to abandon. The ghosts of their choices sat heavy in the recycled air.

She had tucked herself against Bucky's side, her forehead finding the hollow of his collarbone like it belonged there. His heartbeat thrummed against her temple, too fast, betraying the calm facade he wore like armor. The silence between them pulsed with unspoken truths, electric and dangerous, pulling at the frayed edges of everything they'd been pretending not to feel.

"Damn it." The words scraped out of her throat, raw with guilt that wouldn't ease. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of Bucky's shirt, anchoring herself to something solid. "We left Sam behind. He's probably in cuffs by now…or worse. Ross is not exactly known for his restraint when he's angry." She exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the cabin's white noise. "And we just...we just flew away like cowards."

From the cockpit, Steve's voice carried that familiar edge of unwavering conviction, the tone that had led men through hell and back again. "Sam knew the risks. Every single one of us went in with our eyes wide open." A pause, softer now but no less certain. "He's tougher than most of us combined. He'll find a way through this. And we’ll get him back."

She wanted to believe him—needed to believe him—but the knot in her stomach remained stubbornly tight. Sam Wilson had become family somewhere along the way, and family wasn't supposed to be collateral damage.

Beside her, Bucky shifted restlessly. His metal hand flexed against his thigh, fingers catching the dim cabin light like liquid mercury, each movement betraying the turmoil he kept locked behind careful walls. When he spoke, his voice came out barely above a whisper, hoarse with self-loathing.

"I don't think..." He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet space. "I don't think I'm worth all this destruction. All this pain."

Her head snapped up so fast her neck protested, but Steve's voice beat her response by half a heartbeat. His tone had gentled, carrying decades of friendship and forgiveness that Bucky had never learned to accept.

"Buck." Just the one word, but it held everything. Understanding, absolution, unshakeable loyalty. "You're not the weapon HYDRA forged. You never were."

A bitter laugh escaped Bucky's throat, the sound like breaking glass. "Doesn't change what these hands have done. Doesn't erase the blood." His metal fingers curled into a fist. "The families I destroyed, the lives I—"

"Stop." Her voice cut through his self-destruction like a blade. She reached up, cupping his jaw with both hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. His eyes were the color of winter storms, beautiful and broken and too full of ghosts that shouldn't have been his to carry. The sight of them made something crack open in her chest.

"That's not fair to yourself," she whispered fiercely, pouring every ounce of conviction she possessed into the words. "You weren't in control. You were a prisoner in your own mind, a victim just as much as anyone else." Her thumbs traced the sharp line of his cheekbones, feeling the slight tremor that ran through him. "The blame belongs to HYDRA — to the monsters who stole you, who broke you down and rebuilt you into something you were never meant to be. It doesn't belong to you, James. It never did."

He stared at her like she was speaking a foreign language, searching her face for any hint of doubt or deception. His jaw worked beneath her palms, but for once, his protestations seemed to die in his throat.

Then, so quietly she almost missed it: "What you said back there. On the tarmac, when T'Challa had me pinned." His voice cracked like ice under pressure. "You said...you told me you loved me."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Heat flooded her face, her stomach dropping somewhere around her boots. The confession had torn itself from her chest without permission during the fight, three words that changed everything. She hadn’t even realized it had slipped out.

"I—" She faltered, suddenly hyperaware of Steve's presence in the cockpit, of the way Bucky's entire body had gone still beneath her touch. "I wasn't exactly planning on having that particular revelation in the middle of a superhero showdown," she managed with a weak laugh that fooled no one. "But yes. I said it. And I meant it." She drew in a shaky breath, meeting his eyes without flinching. "I love you, Bucky. I love your terrible jokes and your protective streak and the way you make coffee like it's a military operation. I love how gentle you are despite everything they tried to make you into."

Something fundamental shifted in his expression, like watching ice melt in real time. The sharp edges of his pain softened, replaced by something that made her chest tight with hope. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, boyish and utterly disbelieving.

"I love you too." The admission came out rough as gravel, but certain as sunrise. "Christ, I think I've been in love with you since that night on your balcony. Haven't been able to get you out of my head since…the way you looked at me like I was still human, still worth saving." His flesh hand came up to cover hers, fingers threading together. "You've been haunting me in the best possible way."

The words crashed over her like a tidal wave, stealing her breath and short-circuiting her brain. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she was sure he could feel it. Without conscious thought, she surged up and kissed him, soft at first, lips barely brushing — a question more than a statement. But then he kissed her back with quiet desperation, and the kiss deepened, became something urgent and necessary, speaking all the words they'd been too afraid to voice.

His vibranium arm wrapped around her waist like a steel band, holding her against him while his flesh hand cradled her face with devastating tenderness. She could taste the salt of unshed tears—his or hers, she couldn't tell—and something that was purely him, warm and familiar and right.

Her fingers fisted in his shirt, trying to eliminate every inch of space between them, losing herself in the impossible sweetness of finally, finally, having him like this. Real and solid and choosing her despite every reason he had to run.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, their foreheads came together like magnets finding true north. His breath ghosted across her lips as an unsaid prayer.

From the cockpit, Steve's voice cut through their bubble of intimacy, bone-dry with barely contained amusement. "Just so you know, I'm still up here. Still flying this death trap. And I've heard every single word of this touching declaration."

She groaned, heat flooding her face as she buried it against Bucky's chest. His heartbeat thundered beneath her ear, solid and reassuring. "God, Steve, do you have to—"

"Some things never change," Bucky murmured, his chuckle rumbling low in his chest as he pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. The sound wrapped around her like a blanket, warm and steady and home.

Steve caught their reflection in the windshield and shook his head, his smile taking any sting out of his words. "I'm happy for you both, truly. But maybe we could table the epic love confessions until after we stop Zemo from tearing the world apart? Just a thought."

She lifted her head just enough to glare toward the cockpit, though her heart wasn't really in it. "Absolutely no promises, Rogers."

Bucky's lips found her hairline, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear, intimate as a prayer: "I'm not letting you go again, sweetheart. Not ever. They'll have to kill me first."

She curled closer into his warmth, closing her eyes against the steady thrum of the Quinjet's engines, and let herself believe it. Let herself believe in forever, in second chances, in love that survived brainwashing and battles and the end of the world.

Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing glimpses of blue sky ahead.

___

The facility groaned like a dying beast as the heavy doors scraped open with the protest of rusted metal. Inside, the air hit them like a physical wall. It was somehow colder than the Siberian winds outside, thick and stagnant with the metallic tang of old machinery and industrial oil that coated the back of her throat. Their footsteps rang hollow against steel corridors that stretched into darkness, each echo bouncing off walls that had witnessed unspeakable horrors. Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered like dying fireflies, casting sickly shadows that danced with every tremor of failing electricity.

Her pulse hammered against her ribs with every step they took deeper into the bowels of the place. This wasn't just a building — it was a mausoleum of pain, a shrine to everything HYDRA had perfected in the art of breaking human beings. The walls seemed to press closer with each corridor they traversed, heavy with the weight of screams that had long since faded but somehow still lingered in the recycled air.

Bucky moved ahead of them like a man walking toward his own execution, his expression locked down into that impenetrable soldier's mask she'd learned to hate. Every line of his body screamed tension. His shoulders were rigid, movements too controlled, like he was fighting against muscle memory that wanted to drag him back to this place. Steve stayed close behind, shield raised and ready, his eyes sharp as broken glass as they swept every corner, every shadow that could hide an enemy.

And then a sound cut through the oppressive silence. Heavy footsteps, metallic and deliberate, echoing down the corridor like a death knell.

Steve dropped into a defensive crouch instantly, shield snapping up to cover them both. Bucky's reaction was pure instinct. He shoved her behind him with his flesh hand while the metal one brought his weapon up in a fluid motion, finger already on the trigger. She drew her own gun, muscle memory taking over even as her heart hammered against her sternum.

Tony Stark stepped into the chamber like he owned it, the Iron Man armor gleaming dully in the flickering lights. The arc reactor's blue glow cut through the shadows like a lighthouse beam, and when his faceplate retracted with a soft hiss, it revealed eyes that were exhausted, haunted, and carrying something darker than she'd ever seen in them before.

"You seem a little defensive," he quipped, but there was no real humor in it. Just weeks of weariness wrapped in his usual snark as he stepped closer, repulsors powered down but ready.

Steve's surprise was visible as he slowly lowered his shield, the metal scraping softly against his arm. She felt Bucky's entire body coil tighter beside her, his breathing shallow and controlled. Steve glanced back at them, catching her eye with a look that held equal parts relief and confusion, before turning to face Tony fully.

"It's been a long day," Steve said simply, but the understatement carried the weight of everything they'd been through.

"At ease, soldier. I'm not after you." Tony's gesture toward Bucky was almost casual, but she caught the way his eyes lingered, assessing, calculating. Then his gaze found hers over Bucky's protective stance, and one eyebrow quirked upward with something that might have been approval. "I see you got your girlfriend back. I really was always rooting for you crazy kids."

She didn't lower her weapon, couldn't quite trust this turn of events yet, but managed a sardonic smirk that felt more natural than it should have. "We could always use another member of our fan club. But Tony..." Her voice sharpened, cutting through the false levity. "Why are you here? And please tell me you're not about to try fighting us, because I'm really not in the mood to do this again."

Tony looked around the facility with what appeared to be lazy interest, but she'd known him long enough to recognize the razor-sharp focus hidden beneath the casual facade. When he spoke, his voice carried an edge of grudging admission.

"Turns out your completely insane story might not be so crazy after all." He shrugged, but the movement was tight with tension. "Ross has no idea I'm here, and I'd really prefer to keep it that way. Otherwise, I'll have to arrest myself, and that's just awkward for everyone involved."

"Sounds like a lot of paperwork," Steve replied, his tone dry but carrying the first hint of warmth she'd heard from him in hours. He lowered his shield completely, a gesture of trust that didn't go unnoticed. "It's good to see you, Tony."

Tony's smirk was sharp as a blade, but there was something almost fond underneath it. "You too, Cap. And you too, Sarah Connor." His eyes found hers again, and despite everything, she felt her lips twitch upward. "We missed you back at the Tower. Place isn't the same without someone calling me an idiot on a regular basis."

She finally lowered her gun, shooting him a grin that felt rusty from disuse. But Bucky remained statue-still beside her, weapon trained on Tony with unwavering precision, every muscle in his body screaming threat assessment. The silence stretched until Tony's patience apparently ran out.

"Hey, Manchurian Candidate," he called out, voice dripping with sardonic exasperation. "You're killing me here. There's a truce happening. You can stand down now."

Steve caught Bucky's eye and gave him a subtle nod, while she pressed her palm flat against the small of Bucky's back as a silent anchor. A wordless promise that she was there, that he wasn't alone in this nightmare. The tension in his spine was like touching live wire, but after a moment that felt like eternity, he exhaled slowly and lowered his weapon.

With his faceplate snapping shut again with mechanical precision, Tony strode forward, leading them deeper into the facility's heart. The massive chamber they entered was a cathedral of industrial horror. Steel walls stretching up into darkness, the air so cold their breath came out in visible puffs, every sound echoing like whispers in a tomb.

"I'm reading heat signatures," Tony announced, his voice mechanically filtered through the suit's speakers as he scanned the area with systematic thoroughness.

"How many?" Steve's question was sharp, shield already moving back into position.

"One."

Banks of lights flickered to life with electrical hums that seemed obscenely loud in the silence, illuminating what could only be described as a nightmare made manifest. Rows of capsules stretched out before them, each one filled with hazy yellow mist that hissed downward like poisonous rain. Through the condensation on the glass, she could make out figures—soldiers, suspended in what looked like cryogenic sleep.

Her breath caught in her throat, ice forming in her veins. For one terrifying heartbeat, she thought they were about to face an army of Winter Soldiers. But as they moved closer, her stomach lurched with sickening realization. Each figure bore a neat, precise bullet hole in the center of their forehead. Execution-style kills that spoke of cold efficiency.

"If it's any comfort," a voice drifted down from hidden speakers, cultured and conversational, "they died in their sleep."

Bucky went rigid beside her, his face cycling through horror, recognition, and rage so quickly it was like watching someone shatter in real time. She moved closer instinctively, her fingers finding his forearm, trying to ground him to the present, to her, to anything that wasn't the nightmare unfolding around them.

"What the hell?" The words scraped out of Bucky's throat like broken glass.

"I'm grateful to them, though," the voice continued with the kind of calm that only came from complete certainty of purpose. Above them, in a control booth that looked like it had been carved from the facility's bones, a slight figure appeared—Zemo, she realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. "They brought you here."

Steve's shield flew through the air with deadly precision, but it rang uselessly against reinforced glass before spinning back to his waiting hand. The sound echoed through the chamber like a gunshot.

"Please, Captain," Zemo said with the patience of a professor addressing slow students. "The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets."

"I'm betting I could beat that," Tony shot back, repulsors charging with a whine that promised violence.

"Oh, I'm sure you could, Mr. Stark. Given time." Zemo's smile was visible even through the glass, cold and satisfied. "But then you'd never know why you came."

Steve's jaw tightened, every line of his body radiating barely contained fury. "You killed innocent people in Vienna just to bring us here?"

"I thought about nothing else for over a year," Zemo replied, his voice carrying the weight of obsession distilled into purpose. "I studied you. I followed you. But now that you're standing here, I just realized..." He paused, head tilting with the curiosity of a scientist examining specimens. "There's a bit of green in the blue of your eyes. How nice to find a flaw."

Her lip curled in disgust that tasted like bile. She leaned closer to Bucky, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried all the venom she felt. "He's enjoying this. Every single second of this."

Steve tried again, searching for some human connection, some crack in Zemo's armor. "You're Sokovian. Is that what this is about?"

"Sokovia was a failed state long before you blew it to hell," Zemo dismissed with a wave. "No. I'm here because I made a promise."

"You lost someone?" Steve's voice gentled, recognizing the language of grief.

Zemo's expression shifted, becoming something raw and terrible. "I lost everyone. And so will you."

The screen beside him flickered to life, and a date appeared that made Tony's entire body go rigid: December 16, 1991.

"I know that road," Tony said, his voice hollow with dread. "What is this?"

The video began to play, and with it, the systematic destruction of everything they'd been fighting for. A black car swerved through the night, tires screaming against asphalt before it slammed into a tree with a sickening impact. Her pulse hammered against her temples as a figure on a motorcycle rode into frame. Bucky, unchanged and ageless, dismounting with the fluid precision of a predator.

Steve's eyes found Tony's, and she could see the exact moment understanding hit him like a physical blow. Beside her, Bucky had gone so still he might have stopped breathing entirely.

On the ground beside the mangled car, Howard Stark lay broken and bloodied but still conscious, still human enough to plead.

"Help my wife," Howard's voice cracked with desperation. "Please. Help."

The Winter Soldier—because that's what he was in this moment, not Bucky, never Bucky—lifted Howard by his hair with mechanical efficiency, his face a blank mask devoid of anything recognizably human.

"Sergeant Barnes?" Howard's voice carried recognition, confusion, hope that was about to be brutally extinguished.

From the passenger seat, Maria's scream cut through the night: "Howard!"

Tony's glare burned into Bucky like a brand, and she felt Bucky's body lock up completely, every muscle rigid as if bracing against an inevitable blow. On screen, the Winter Soldier's metal fist connected with Howard's skull with a sound like breaking concrete. Howard's body went limp, then was shoved into the driver's seat like discarded trash.

Maria's screams filled the audio as the Winter Soldier circled the car with predatory purpose. When his metal fingers closed around her throat, the silence that followed was somehow worse than her cries had been. Clinical. Efficient. Utterly without mercy or hesitation.

Her own hand trembled as she reached for Bucky's, her chest constricting so tightly she couldn't breathe. She could feel him coming apart beside her, his breathing shallow and rapid, his skin clammy with cold sweat.

Tony's eyes squeezed shut for one agonized moment before forcing themselves open, and when they did, they held a grief so raw it was almost unbearable to witness. Then that grief crystallized into something harder, more dangerous.

The final image was the Winter Soldier raising his weapon toward the surveillance camera, and then the feed cut to black, leaving them all suspended in suffocating silence.

The tension in the chamber was so thick it was almost solid.

Steve watched Tony carefully, anxiety written across his face. He could see it, they all could. Rage and grief were coiling inside the man, shaking him apart. And then Tony snapped, lunging at Bucky with murder in his eyes.

“Tony!” Steve barked, shoving himself between them, holding Stark back.

“Tony, stop!” she shouted, rushing forward instinctively. She planted herself beside Steve, one arm outstretched in front of Bucky as though she could shield him with her own body. Bucky had gone rigid, staring at the floor, shame weighing him down like chains.

Tony turned sharply on Steve, tears glistening hot in his eyes, voice breaking.

“Did you know?”

Steve froze, lips parting but no answer immediately coming.

“Did you know?” Tony screamed, his voice tearing out of him like shrapnel.

Steve’s shoulders sank. His face was stricken, but his voice was steady, low.

“I didn’t know it was him.”

Her chest tightened. The words felt heavy, like they weren’t enough of the true story.

Tony’s gaze darkened, raw disbelief etched across every line of his face. “Don’t bullshit me, Rogers! Did you know?”

Steve’s jaw clenched. He hesitated for a fraction too long, and that was all Tony needed.

“Yes,” Steve admitted.

The word cracked the air like lightning.

Tony’s breath hitched, grief contorting into fury. “You son of a—” His voice broke before he could finish. He staggered back a step, his hands curling into fists. “You were supposed to be my friend.”

Her heart clenched at the sight of him, broken and furious all at once, but her eyes slid to Bucky—her Bucky—who stood stone still, not even defending himself, like he accepted every ounce of blame. She couldn’t bear it.

“Tony,” she said, stepping forward, her voice raw with urgency. “It wasn’t him. Not the man standing here. HYDRA made him into that monster—you saw it. You know what they did to him. Blame them, not him.”

Tony’s gaze cut to her, sharp as a blade. “He killed my mom.”

The words landed like a punch to her gut.

She swallowed hard, her voice trembling but firm. “And if you kill him now, then you’re no better than the people who made him do it. Please, Tony…” She reached for him, almost daring to touch his arm, but he jerked away before she could.

“Stay out of this,” Tony snapped, his voice raw. His repulsors hummed to life, glowing bright. His grief had tipped fully into rage, and she knew there was no stopping it now.

Behind her, she felt Bucky stir, finally lifting his eyes from the floor. They were shadowed, pained, but when they landed on her, something flickered there. Fear. Not for himself. For her.

He said her name quietly, voice hoarse with pain. “Stay behind me.”

But she didn’t move. She squared her shoulders, staying at his side.

And then Zemo's voice sliced through the chaos like a scalpel.

"Fascinating," he drawled from his perch above them, calm and measured, like a conductor savoring the symphony of destruction he'd orchestrated. "I expected Stark's reaction, of course. But you, my dear..."

Her head snapped toward him, bile rising in her throat at the way he spoke her name like it was something precious and poisonous all at once.

"You," Zemo continued with the satisfaction of a man revealing his masterpiece, "are the wild card I never could have anticipated. The woman to tame the beast." His eyes glinted with malicious delight. "Tell me... have you never wondered how Sergeant Barnes found his way onto your balcony that day? Why he looked at you as though he already knew you, when by all rights you were complete strangers?"

The world tilted sideways. Her stomach dropped into freefall, every instinct screaming danger, denial, desperate hope that this was just another mind game.

"Shut up," she spat, but the words came out weaker than she wanted, already contaminated by growing dread.

Zemo's smile was the expression of a man about to deliver a killing blow. His fingers moved over the controls with artistic precision.

"I'll show you."

The screen flickered back to life, and another date appeared in the corner like a tombstone: January 25, 1992.

Her breath stopped in her lungs. She knew that date. How could she ever forget it?

The footage was grainy, shot from a street camera positioned across from a house she knew better than her own heartbeat. Her childhood home, the yellow door with its peeling paint, the oak tree her father had hung a swing from when she was five. And there, stepping out into the cold morning air in his work clothes, was her father.

He looked exactly as she remembered. strong shoulders that had carried her on piggyback rides, kind eyes that crinkled when he laughed, hands that smelled of coffee and sawdust and safety. He was adjusting his coat against the cold, probably running late for work at the construction site, probably thinking about the grocery list her mother had given him or whether he'd remembered to kiss them both goodbye.

And then, from the edge of the frame, a figure emerged from the shadows. Silent. Efficient. Inhuman.

The Winter Soldier—Bucky, her mind whispered traitorously—moved with the fluid precision of a machine designed for one purpose. His face was blank, emotionless, his movements economical and practiced.

"No..." The word tore from her throat like a prayer, like a denial of reality itself. Because she knew what was coming.

On the screen, her father barely had time to register the approaching figure before the Winter Soldier drew his weapon in one smooth motion and fired. Once. Point-blank. Merciless.

Her father crumpled into the snow like a marionette with cut strings, his blood spreading in stark crimson against the white, and her world ended for the second time in her life.

Chapter 1

✪ Summary: Over a year after falling in love with Bucky Barnes and almost dying at his hands, Civil War threatens to break the Avengers apart. And now, she needs to track down the man who broke her heart and save him once again.

✪Pariring: CACW! into TFATWS!bucky barnes x fem!reader

✪Word Count: 8.3k

✪ AO3 Link

✪ Warnings: trauma, violence, found family, ex’s to lovers, time jumps, mentions of death, heavy on the angst, lots of traumitized bucky, PTSD, warfare, angst, verbal sparring

✪ A/N: welcome to the first chapter of the sequel to “A Time to Pretend”! Fair warning, if you have not read "A Time to Pretend", you will most likely be very confused. Went to work posting this as fast as possible due to all the love I received on ATtP. You guys are awesome. I hope the sequel lives up to expectations! This starts over a year after the events of the first story. The timeline will follow CACW, into Endgame, and end during TFATWS.

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She stirred to the weight of a hand on her waist, the slow rise and fall of a steady chest against her back. Warm breath caressed the curve of her neck, each exhale sending tiny shivers across her skin like whispered promises. She smiled without opening her eyes, her body instinctively melting into the familiar embrace. 

She shifted slightly beneath the arm wrapped around her middle, recognizing immediately the cool press of metal fingers against her hip bone.

"'Mornin'," she mumbled, her voice rough and honeyed with sleep. The comforting scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him filled her senses, wrapping around her like a security blanket she never wanted to lose.

There was no response, but she didn't mind. He was always quiet in the mornings when he stayed. Slow to surface from whatever dreams haunted him, content to lie there with her tangled up in his arms as if she were the only anchor keeping him tethered to the present moment.

Her hand reached back blindly to touch him, expecting the soft brush of worn cotton and warm skin. Instead, her fingers met nothing but cold, empty sheets.

Her eyes snapped open and reality crashed back into her like ice water.

She flipped over slowly in her tangled bedding, her heart already sinking even as she held onto the last threads of hope. The right side of her bed was empty, untouched except for a pillow she must have flung over there during the night in her restless sleep. No indent in the mattress. No lingering warmth. No one to be found.

She was alone. Her bedroom in Avengers Tower stretched out around her in the early morning darkness—silent, sterile, untouched by the warmth of the dream that had felt so achingly real. The same dream she'd had far too many times in the past seventeen months. Nobody pressed against her back. No metal arm curled protectively around her waist. Just the distant hum of New York City awakening forty floors below and the accusatory blinking light of her phone on the nightstand.

She swallowed thickly, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead as she sat up slowly, trying to push away the phantom sensation of his touch that still seemed to linger on her skin. The sheets were twisted around her legs like restraints, damp with perspiration, her pulse still racing from the ghost of something that had never been real—at least, not anymore.

God, she hated that fucking dream.

It had been over a year. Seventeen months and twelve days, to be exact—not that she was counting—since Bucky had disappeared. Since he'd left her bleeding in that hospital for Steve to collect, vanishing into the wind like smoke before she'd even regained consciousness. No goodbye except for a note written in his careful handwriting that Steve had found. A note she still hadn't found the strength to throw away, hidden now in the bottom drawer of her dresser like a splinter she couldn't quite dig out.

And still, despite what she told the team—that she rarely thought about him anymore, that she was moving on, that she was fine—he haunted her dreams with relentless persistence.

With a shaky sigh, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing at her tired eyes with the backs of her hands. Somewhere down the hall, she could hear Sam's familiar laughter echo faintly through the steel corridors, followed by Steve's voice—low and serious, probably already on a morning call with someone important. The sounds of life continuing around her, of her found family starting another day, while she remained stuck in this endless loop of grief.

This was her life now. Tower walls instead of green horizons. Shared breakfasts with superheroes instead of with a former brainwashed assassin. Missions that kept her busy and bruised, surrounded by people with abilities she could never match. 

Everyone thought she was doing fine. She'd become an expert at wearing the right expression, at deflecting concern with self-deprecating humor and practiced smiles.

Only Steve and Natasha knew she was lying through her teeth.

The Widow had an uncanny knack for sensing when someone wasn't being entirely truthful—probably came with the territory of being a former spy—and Steve... well, he'd found her sitting on her balcony too many times at three in the morning, staring blankly out at the city skyline, lost in memories of a man who'd walked away from everything they'd built together.

The team had welcomed her without hesitation when Steve brought her back from that godforsaken hospital in West Virginia, her body broken and her spirit even more so. They'd given her space to heal, included her without question, made room for her in their strange little family. She trained with Natasha almost daily when the redhead wasn't off on classified missions, spending hours on the mats learning to channel her pain into something useful. She'd shared more drinks and half-sincere attempts to unwind with Sam than she could count, his easy humor a balm she hadn't realized she'd needed. Even Tony had grown on her…eventually. Once she'd gotten past the ego, the constant quips, and the genius-billionaire bravado, she'd seen what Pepper had probably recognized all along: a man with a heart bigger than his sarcasm, someone who'd gathered this fractured group of people and somehow made them into something that resembled a family.

And Steve... Steve had become something like a brother. Protective in that quiet way of his, always watching her with barely concealed worry. Maybe it was guilt over what had happened to her. Maybe it was the thread that tied them both to Bucky, this shared love for a man who'd chosen his own guilt over their devotion. Either way, Steve was always there—checking in without being obvious about it, showing up with coffee when she looked particularly exhausted, watching her with that careful kind of concern he never spoke aloud.

They were both grieving, after all. He'd lost someone too. A woman from his own time, long gone, a love story interrupted by ice and time and circumstances beyond anyone's control. She supposed that kind of bone-deep pain made you recognize it in someone else, like a secret language only the heartbroken could speak.

But none of it—not the training, not the missions, not the friendship and found family—could fill the space Bucky had carved out inside her chest before abandoning her to figure out how to exist with the hollow. No matter how hard she tried to push it down, to convince herself she was healing, every morning she woke up reaching for a ghost.

She tugged a worn sweatshirt over her head, her fingers automatically brushing against the chain that never left her neck. Bucky's dog tags. Well, the ones he'd had made specifically for her, with her name etched into the metal in his careful handwriting—rested against her sternum beneath the fabric. The cool metal had become as familiar as her own heartbeat, a weight she'd grown so accustomed to that she felt naked without it. She wore them like armor now, hidden beneath her clothes where no one could see. A reminder of what she'd had, maybe. Or just a wound she wasn't ready to let scar over.

She pulled her hair up into a messy ponytail and tried to shake the lingering wisps of sleep and dreams from her mind as she made her way out of her room. The halls of the Tower were already coming alive with the sounds of morning — FRIDAY's gentle announcements, the distant whir of the coffee machine, footsteps echoing off polished floors. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Everything she had wanted with Bucky, even if he hadn't been brave enough to stay and be part of it.

The communal kitchen was already buzzing by the time she stepped into it, drawn by the scent of fresh coffee and something that smelled suspiciously like Sam's attempt at gourmet pancakes. The man in question sat perched on the marble counter like he owned the place, casually munching on a banana while gesticulating wildly with his free hand. Steve stood by the industrial-grade coffee machine with his arms crossed, his blonde hair still mussed from sleep, listening to whatever animated story Sam was mid-telling with that fond, exasperated expression he got when dealing with their resident smartass.

When she entered, Sam's eyes immediately lit up with mischievous delight, his grin widening as he took in her rumpled appearance.

"Well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty herself," he said, his voice warm with affectionate teasing. "Dream about me again? I know I'm irresistible, but you gotta give other guys a chance."

She snorted, grateful for the familiar banter that helped push away the lingering shadows of her nightmare. "Only if I'm having a nightmare, Wilson."

"Ouch." Sam clutched his chest dramatically, his face a mask of mock devastation. "Right in the heart. You wound me, GI Jane. Here I am, being charming and devastatingly handsome at—" he glanced at his watch "—seven-forty-three in the morning, and this is the thanks I get?"

"Don't be too hurt," she replied, unable to suppress a genuine smile as she grabbed her favorite mug from the cabinet. "You're still cute when you pout. Like a sad puppy."

Steve made a face somewhere between amusement and exasperation, pouring his coffee with the kind of precision someone with enhanced senses would have. "Please don't encourage him. His ego is already insufferable."

"I live for female encouragement," Sam declared smugly, eyeing her over the rim of his steaming mug. "Especially from the most beautiful woman I know. Did I mention you look particularly radiant this morning? That whole 'just rolled out of bed' look really works for you."

She rolled her eyes with a smirk. Sam had known from day one that he didn't have a chance with her, but that had never stopped him from laying the charm on thick. She'd spent years stationed with mostly men in various desert outposts; a little harmless flirting was not only familiar territory, it was almost comforting on mornings like this when she felt particularly fragile. She smirked and bumped her shoulder against Steve's arm in a gesture that had become as natural as breathing.

"Does he always turn the charm up this early in the morning?"

"Only when you're around," Steve replied dryly, not even looking up from his methodical coffee preparation. But she caught the slight upturn of his lips that suggested he was more amused than annoyed. "He's been awake for exactly nineteen minutes and you're already his third compliment recipient."

"Who were the other two?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"FRIDAY and his own reflection in the elevator doors," Steve deadpanned.

"Hey, FRIDAY appreciated it," Sam protested, pointing his banana at Steve accusingly. "She even said 'thank you, Mr. Wilson' in that sexy British accent of hers. And my reflection always looks good, that's just facts."

"You're ridiculous," she laughed, the sound surprising her with its genuine warmth.

"You jealous, Cap?" Sam wiggled his eyebrows at Steve, clearly enjoying himself. "I could throw some compliments your way if you're feeling left out. Those pajamas are really working for you, man. Very... patriotic."

Steve shot him a look that was equal parts protective older brother and exasperated father figure — an expression she'd seen him perfect over the months of dealing with Sam's particular brand of chaos — just as Natasha glided into the kitchen looking impossibly put-together for not yet eight in the morning. Her red hair was pulled back in a perfect ponytail and her green eyes were already sharp and alert as they danced between the three of them.

"God, you're all loud," she muttered, heading straight for the coffee machine with the single-minded determination of someone who hadn't had nearly enough caffeine yet. "Some of us were trying to enjoy a peaceful morning meditation before training."

Sam's grin widened impossibly. "Let me guess…meditation while hanging upside down from the roof, simultaneously doing target practice with throwing knives?"

"Close," Natasha replied, taking a long, deliberate sip of her coffee and sighing in satisfaction. "Yoga on the roof while reviewing three different assassination scenarios. One of them might be yours if you don't stop talking before I've finished my first cup."

"Use your legs for that one," Sam winked at her, completely unperturbed by the threat. "I hear they're your best weapon."

"They are," Natasha agreed pleasantly, and something in her tone made Sam's grin falter slightly. She just rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched with barely suppressed amusement.

Natasha's sharp gaze found her over the rim of her mug, and she knew immediately that the redhead was cataloging everything—the dark circles that had become a permanent fixture under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands that always lingered after the dreams, the way she held herself just a little too carefully, like she was afraid of falling apart. Natasha missed nothing. It was infuriating and comforting in equal measure.

"Sleep okay?" Natasha asked, her tone casual but her eyes intent.

The question was innocent enough, but she could hear the layers beneath it. Did you have the dream again? Are you still letting a ghost dictate your rest? How long are you going to keep pretending you're healing when we can all see you're stuck?

She nodded, chewing the inside of her cheek — a nervous habit she'd never quite managed to break. "Yeah. Mostly. You know how it is."

Natasha arched a single eyebrow, her face remaining perfectly impassive even as her eyes clearly communicated: Don't lie to me. I can see right through you, and we both know it. She'd learned to read that particular expression within a week of knowing the former Widow. It was nearly impossible to get anything past her, and frankly, she'd stopped trying months ago.

As the only other woman on the team besides Wanda—who was still young and dealing with her own trauma—she and Natasha had grown close without much conscious effort. Though if she was being completely honest, that was mostly because Natasha had decided it would happen, and when the Black Widow made a decision, resistance was generally futile. Unlike Steve's gentle brand of comfort, all quiet conversations and patient understanding, Natasha had taken a more hands-on approach to helping her heal. Literally.

The moment she'd been cleared from her physical injuries following the HYDRA incident, Natasha had cornered her in the medical wing and informed her—not asked, informed—that she'd be sparring daily. No exceptions. Rain or shine, mission or no mission, good day or bad day.

And so, for the past year and a half, her mornings usually started on the training mats, getting her ass thoroughly and repeatedly handed to her by the infamous Black Widow. It had been humbling at first, going from decorated Army sergeant to feeling like a complete novice again. But these days, they were mostly evenly matched, and she'd grown to love the ritual of it. Training with Natasha—and with Steve and Sam between missions—had transformed her into a sharper, more strategic fighter. Her hand-to-hand combat skills had progressed far beyond anything the Army had taught her, incorporating techniques from half a dozen different disciplines.

She needed every edge she could get. She didn't have powers like Wanda's reality-bending abilities. No super-soldier serum pumping through her veins like Steve's. No wings and advanced tech like Sam's. No billion-dollar suit like Tony's. Just grit, muscle memory, and the stubborn refusal to stay down that had kept her alive in Afghanistan and would hopefully keep her alive here too.

She wasn't officially an Avenger, something she actively tried to avoid despite Tony's increasingly creative attempts to recruit her, but she needed to fight like one to earn her place in this group. At least, that's what she constantly told herself during the long hours of training, the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her father reminding her that she had to prove she belonged here. She had no interest in carrying imposter syndrome on top of everything else she was already trying to shoulder.

After breakfast and the usual round of good-natured banter—Sam with another outrageous wink, Steve with a quiet nod of encouragement that somehow managed to convey both affection and concern—she and Natasha said their goodbyes and headed for the training wing of the Tower.

The gym was all sharp lighting and gleaming steel, every piece of equipment state-of-the-art and probably worth more than most people made in a year. The best that Tony Stark's seemingly endless fortune could buy, and he spared no expense when it came to keeping his team in peak condition. It was quiet this early in the morning, save for the low hum of ventilation systems and the soft squeak of rubber soles on polished floors. This was her sanctuary now—the one place where she could lose herself completely in the rhythm of movement, where the constant chatter in her head could finally go quiet.

They circled each other now in practiced silence, feet sliding across the familiar blue mats, arms loose and ready, eyes locked in the kind of intense focus that came from months of this same dance. Natasha struck first—a quick, low sweep aimed at dropping her flat—and she barely managed to leap back in time to avoid being taken down. She retaliated immediately with a sharp jab combination, testing Natasha's defense, but the Widow blocked each blow with the kind of effortless precision that made it look like a choreographed performance.

"You're distracted," Natasha observed flatly, grabbing her wrist mid-strike and twisting until she had her locked in a hold that sent sharp pain shooting up her arm. "Again."

She grunted, using her weight and leverage to shift the angle, breaking free with a move Natasha had taught her months ago and spinning around to attempt a takedown of her own. Natasha dodged it easily, stepping back with fluid grace, barely even breathing hard.

"I'm fine," she said, slightly winded but trying to hide it. "Just tired. Didn't sleep great."

"You're always tired." Natasha's tone was matter-of-fact rather than accusatory, but somehow that made it worse. "I've been letting it slide, but you haven't slept a full night in weeks. I can see it in the way you move, the way you hold yourself. Steve notices too."

She opened her mouth to argue, to deflect with humor or change the subject entirely, but Natasha took advantage of her momentary distraction and swept her legs out from under her in one smooth motion. She hit the mat hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a sharp exhale, and before she could recover, Natasha was there, pinning her down with a knee pressed firmly against her sternum.

"Don't lie to me," Natasha said evenly, her voice calm but her eyes intense. The pressure against her chest increased just enough to make breathing slightly difficult. "We've been through too much together for bullshit, and you're terrible at it anyway."

She shoved Natasha off with more force than necessary, her breath catching in her throat from a combination of frustration and the lingering ache in her ribs. "I'm not lying. I'm just not broadcasting every fucking thought in my head for everyone to analyze."

Natasha stood smoothly and offered her a hand up, which she accepted after a moment's hesitation. "You don't have to broadcast anything. But you're still waiting for him."

The words hit like a physical blow, direct and unflinching in the way only Natasha could manage. 

She paused, her gaze dropping to her feet like a coward. Which she was, truly. Over a year without so much as a rumor of a sighting, and she was still here feeling sorry for herself, affecting her training, letting her team down. Her father would have been so disappointed in the woman she'd become.

"I get it," Natasha continued, her voice softer now but no less pointed. "I do. He was important. And I know what it's like to lose someone you loved — really loved, not just cared about or had feelings for."

She looked up sharply, eyes narrowing with a flash of defensive anger. "I never said I loved him—"

Natasha cut her off with a look so pointed and knowing it silenced her instantly, the words dying in her throat. "You didn't have to say it. Just because you never told him doesn't mean it wasn't written all over your face every time someone mentioned his name. You've been pining after a man you haven't seen in over a year and a half, wearing his dog tags like a wedding ring, dreaming about him every night. You loved him. Past tense or present tense, doesn't matter. The feeling was real."

She felt her jaw tighten, heat rising in her cheeks, but Natasha didn't soften her approach. If anything, her tone grew firmer, more insistent.

"But it's been over a year, and you're still barely functioning some days. You go through the motions, you train, you smile at jokes, but you're not actually living. Something has to give. If you don't find a way to let him go, you'll never move forward. And honey, you deserve so much more than spending the rest of your life mourning someone who chose his guilt over your love."

None of it was cruel, not really. Natasha had never been one to twist the knife for sport. She was simply voicing what had already been echoing in her own head for months now, the brutal truth she'd been too scared to acknowledge aloud. But hearing it spoken so bluntly, laid out like evidence in a case she'd been refusing to face, hit like a slap across the face.

The bitterness flared in her chest, hot and immediate. She was so damn tired—tired of people telling her how to feel, how to grieve, how to move on, as if any of them had the first clue what she'd actually gone through. None of them had been there during those long nights when Bucky couldn't sleep, when he'd wake up screaming from nightmares about the things he'd been forced to do. None of them had seen the way he flinched at loud noises in those early days, or witnessed the first time he'd dared to brush his metal fingers across her cheek like she was something precious and fragile. They hadn't heard the way he said her name—like a prayer, like an anchor, like she was the only real thing left in his fractured world.

Maybe she sounded like a fool. Maybe she was lovesick and pathetic and everything people whispered about women who couldn't let go.

But they hadn't been the one to help piece him back together, fragment by fragment, for nearly a year—only to watch him shatter completely and disappear into the wind.

"Nat, I get it," she snapped, her voice tight with barely contained emotion. "Believe me, I want to move on. God, do I want to forget all of it sometimes. But how the hell do I just erase every moment I shared with someone I spent nearly every day with for a year? Someone I let see every broken part of me? Someone I trusted completely, who I thought trusted me back? And now I'm just... left with nothing. No goodbye that meant anything. No closure. No explanation that makes sense. He could be dead in a ditch somewhere for all I fucking know, and I'd never find out because he made sure no one could ever find him."

Her voice cracked on the last sentence, the words scraping her throat raw, but she forced herself to meet Natasha's eyes even though she was sure every ounce of pain she'd been hiding was visible on her face. They'd all seen enough of her breaking down—even when she did her best to hold it together, to be the strong soldier her father had raised her to be.

"I'm not saying forget him," Natasha said gently, taking a step closer, her expression softening with something that looked almost like maternal concern. "I'm not saying pretend it didn't happen, or that what you had wasn't real. But you have to find a way to live your life now. In the present. You have to let him go—not the memory, not what you learned from loving him… but the hope that he's coming back. Wherever he is, whatever he's doing... he made a choice. And you're still here. You owe it to yourself to start showing up for the life you actually have instead of the one you wish you could have."

There was a long beat of silence, heavy with unspoken truths and the weight of everything they both knew she needed to hear.

"I have been showing up," she muttered finally, but the words felt hollow even to her own ears. "I'm trying. I went on those dates with that guy, remember?"

Natasha's lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. "The blind lawyer."

"Matt," she corrected, though she couldn't help but snort at the description. "Yeah. Him."

"You like him?"

She shrugged, suddenly feeling exhausted by the conversation, by the constant pressure to be better, to be healing, to be anything other than what she actually was…a woman still in love with a ghost. "He's... good. Smart. Charming as hell. Attractive, obviously. And he gets the whole 'complicated past' thing in a way most people don't. But..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "We're not each other's person, you know? We both know it. It's like we're both trying to feel something that just isn't there, and it's not fair to either of us."

Natasha nodded like she understood completely, which she probably did. "Still. You tried. That's more than you were doing six months ago. You just have to keep trying, keep putting yourself out there. Your person is out there somewhere."

She glanced over at her friend, studying the certainty in Natasha's green eyes. "Are you always this emotionally insightful before nine in the morning?"

"Only when I'm beating the truth out of someone I care about," Natasha replied, offering her a teasing smile that took some of the sting out of their earlier exchange. "Now get up. You're still telegraphing that right hook, and if I can see it coming from a mile away, so can anyone who actually wants to hurt you.".

___

The halls of the Tower felt different when she made it back to her room an hour later. Quieter, somehow more oppressive. Natasha had been called away to some urgent meeting downstairs with Steve, Sam, Tony, and the others. Something about a briefing with Secretary Ross, she'd caught in passing, though she hadn't been invited to participate. Something political and tense, something that made Steve's jaw clench and Tony's eyes flash with barely contained anger. She was honestly grateful to be left out of it. She didn't need to hear more about control, oversight, or threats lurking in the shadows.

She had her own ghosts to wrestle with.

She closed her door behind her with perhaps more force than necessary and leaned against it for a moment, letting her eyes drift over the space that had somehow become home despite never quite feeling like it. 

The room was neat and impersonal, decorated in the kind of expensive minimalism that screamed 'Tony Stark's interior designer.' The only signs of the woman she used to be—the soldier, the daughter, the lover—were hidden away like shameful secrets. Her father's Purple Heart in the top drawer of her dresser. A photo of her unit from Afghanistan tucked between the pages of a book she'd read a dozen times. And the dog tags she wore against her skin every day, the only part of Bucky she couldn't bring herself to put away.

She crossed the room slowly and sank onto the edge of her bed, her fingers automatically finding the familiar weight of the tags beneath her shirt. She pulled them out, letting them catch the light filtering through her windows, watching the way her name gleamed against the brushed steel.

She wore them every day, keeping them carefully hidden beneath her clothes where curious eyes couldn't see and ask questions she wasn't ready to answer. Especially around the Tower, where everyone was so goddamn perceptive and well-meaning. She wasn't ready for the gentle concern, the carefully worded suggestions that maybe it was time to move on. Wasn't ready to explain why she still clung to something—someone—who'd left her bleeding in more ways than one.

Why was she still so hurt by this? Why can't she just... let go?

She stared at the tags, watched them sway gently with each breath, and tried to understand the woman who'd become so completely undone by losing someone. There were nights she still heard his voice in the spaces between sleep and waking. Mornings when she'd roll over expecting to find him there, her hand reaching across cold sheets for a warmth that would never return. Dreams so vivid she could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips against her neck hours after waking.

It was pathetic. She was pathetic. A grown woman, a decorated soldier, reduced to pining after someone who'd made it clear that his demons mattered more than whatever they'd built together.

She clenched her jaw and forced herself to look away from the tags, swallowing hard against the familiar tightness in her throat. Natasha had said something during training that kept echoing in her mind, words that had burrowed under her skin and refused to be dislodged.

"You loved him."

She hadn't answered at the time, had pretended the words rolled right off her like water. But now, sitting alone in her too-quiet room with nothing but his memory for company, she couldn't deny how deeply they'd sunk in.

Was it love? Had it really been that simple and that complicated?

She thought back to the way he'd held her in those early days—like she might disappear if he didn't hold tight enough, like she was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet. The sound of his laugh when she'd actually managed to coax a smile from him, rare and precious as sunlight. The way they'd danced in the living room of their safe house to music only they could hear, swaying together in the lamplight like they had all the time in the world. The way he'd kissed her—desperate and reverent and achingly tender, like she was oxygen and he'd been drowning for decades.

When HYDRA had forced him to become the Winter Soldier again, the look of absolute devastation on his face when the programming broke and he realized what he'd done to her. The way he'd held her broken body in his arms, tears streaming down his face as he whispered apologies she'd tried to tell him he didn't owe her. The way he'd cried when he understood the full scope of what his past had taken from both of them…and then walked away anyway.

God, she was still so angry. Furious, really, though she'd never admitted it out loud. He'd promised her he wouldn't run again, swore he was done punishing himself for crimes he'd been forced to commit. Swore he was choosing her, choosing them, choosing the possibility of something better than the darkness he'd known. And then he'd vanished like smoke, leaving her bleeding in more ways than just the physical, leaving her to pick up the pieces of a heart she'd never fully given to anyone before him.

But still... still, she loved him. She must have, because there was no other explanation for why her chest felt this hollow, why his absence had carved such a deep canyon inside her that she sometimes felt like she might fall into it and never find her way out. Why she couldn't let him go, even when holding on was slowly killing her.

She squeezed the tags tight in her fist until the edges bit into her palm, using the sharp pain to anchor herself in the present. The rational part of her mind knew it wasn't Bucky's fault for him leaving — not really. It was the programming, the decades of torture and brainwashing, the systematic destruction of everything that made him human. 

She knew it wasn't his fault. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it in your bones were two very different things, and she was starting to understand that maybe she'd never fully recover from loving someone whose past was so intricately woven with her own tragedy.

She just wished he'd stayed. Wished he'd been brave enough to fight for what they'd had instead of running from it. Wished he'd trusted her enough to believe that love could be stronger than guilt, that they could have found a way to build something beautiful from the ashes of everything that had tried to destroy them.

A soft knock at her door broke through her spiraling thoughts, causing her to startle. She quickly wiped beneath her eyes, checking for any moisture that might have gathered there despite her best efforts, and cleared her throat.

"Yeah?"

"It's me," Sam's voice came from the other side, sounding more serious than she was used to hearing him. None of his usual playful energy, no teasing undertone. That alone was enough to put her on high alert.

She quickly tucked the dog tags back beneath her shirt and stood, crossing to open the door. Sam stood in the hallway with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically somber. No easy smile, no natural charm, just the kind of gravity that usually preceded very bad news.

"What's going on?" she asked immediately, her military training kicking in as she searched his face for clues.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing back toward the elevator down the hall before meeting her eyes again. The hesitation in his movements, the careful way he was choosing his words—it all screamed that whatever he'd come to tell her was going to change something fundamental about her day, maybe longer.

"You should probably come downstairs," he said finally. "There's been a development. Something big."

She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. "That sounds ominous as hell, Sam. What kind of development?"

"The kind that's going to split this team right down the middle," he replied grimly, running a hand over his jaw. "The UN wants to regulate us. The Avengers. Enhanced people, missions, oversight — the whole damn thing. They're calling it the Sokovia Accords, and basically it means no more independent action without government approval."

Her stomach dropped, a cold dread settling in her chest. She'd seen what government oversight looked like in the military. The red tape, the politics, the way bureaucrats who'd never seen combat made decisions that got good people killed. "Are you serious? They want to put you all on a leash?"

"Pretty much," Sam nodded, his expression growing darker. "After what happened in Lagos... Crossbones set off that bomb, and Wanda tried to contain it, redirect it away from the crowd. But she accidentally launched the explosion into a building full of civilians instead. There were…casualties."

She winced, remembering the mission briefing that had gone sideways so fast. Wanda was still so young, still learning to control abilities that most people couldn't even comprehend. The weight of those deaths, the guilt she must be carrying...

"The media's having a field day," Sam continued, his voice heavy with frustration. "Politicians too. They're saying it's the last straw. First Sokovia gets lifted into the sky and dropped, now this. All caught on camera, all happening in crowded cities with innocent people paying the price. The pressure's coming from everywhere, and something had to give."

She shook her head, feeling the familiar anger that came with watching good people get blamed for impossible situations. "So their brilliant solution is to micromanage a team that's saved the world multiple times? That makes perfect sense."

"Tony's already signed on," Sam said quietly, and something in his tone made her stomach clench. "Steve... not so much. It's gotten pretty heated down there."

She ran both hands through her hair, trying to process the implications. Steve and Tony at odds — again. The team divided over something this fundamental. It felt like watching a family tear itself apart, and she'd had enough of that kind of heartbreak to last several lifetimes.

"What are the others saying?" she asked, though she was almost afraid to hear the answer.

Sam hesitated, his jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say. "Mixed reactions. Nat's being diplomatic, which probably means she's already picked a side but isn't ready to show her hand yet. Wanda's... well, she's blaming herself for all of it. Rhodey's backing Tony, which isn't surprising. Vision's trying to stay neutral, but you know how that usually goes."

She pressed her lips together, feeling the familiar weight of impending disaster settling on her shoulders. "And you?"

"I'm with Steve," he said without hesitation. "Always have been, always will be. But this thing... it's going to tear us apart. I can feel it."

Her throat felt dry. She swallowed hard, trying to push down the panic that was starting to claw at her chest. This team, they'd become her family, her anchor — the thing that kept her tethered when everything else felt like it was falling apart. The thought of losing them, of watching them turn against each other...

"That's not the only reason you came to find me, is it?" she asked, studying his face. There was something else there, another layer of grief that made her stomach twist with dread.

His expression shifted, becoming somehow even more somber, and she recognized the look immediately. She'd seen it too many times before, on the faces of commanding officers about to deliver news that would change everything. The carefully controlled expression of someone who had to be the bearer of terrible tidings.

"Steve got a call about an hour ago," Sam said quietly, his voice gentler now. "Peggy Carter passed away this morning. In her sleep."

The words hit her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. Peggy Carter. Steve's first love, the woman who'd waited for him to come home from a war that had stolen decades of his life. She'd never met Peggy personally, but she knew the history, knew how much Steve had loved her. Still loved her, if she was being honest. She knew he visited regularly, had been watching helplessly as Alzheimer's slowly stole away the sharp, brilliant woman who'd helped found SHIELD.

"Oh God," she breathed, her heart breaking for Steve. "How is he handling it?"

"About as well as you'd expect," Sam replied softly. "He didn't say much when he got the news. Just... stood there for a minute like he couldn't quite process it, then walked out of the room. We haven't seen him since. Tony thinks he went up to the roof, but nobody's been brave enough to check."

She could picture it perfectly. Steve standing alone somewhere high above the city, probably staring out at the horizon and trying to reconcile the loss of someone who'd been both his past and his anchor to the present. Steve, who carried so much grief already, now having to shoulder the weight of losing the last real connection he'd had to the life he'd left behind when he went into the ice.

"He loved her so much," she whispered, more to herself than to Sam.

"Still does," Sam agreed. "Always will, I think. That's just who Steve is. He loves completely, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."

The parallel wasn't lost on her, and from the way Sam was looking at her, she could tell he'd made the same connection. Steve, mourning a love that had been interrupted by circumstances beyond anyone's control. Her, still grieving a love that had been destroyed by trauma and fear and the weight of an impossible past.

"We're heading to London for the funeral," Sam continued. "Steve didn't ask yet, but I know he'd want you there. If you want to come, of course. I think... I think he could use having people who understand what it's like to lose someone important."

She nodded without hesitation, the decision immediate and absolute. Steve had been there for her every day since Bucky had left, had held her together when she was falling apart, had never once made her feel like a burden despite all the times he'd found her crying on her balcony at three in the morning. Now it was her turn to return that support.

"Of course I'll be there," she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. "Just tell me when and I'll be packed and ready to go."

Sam studied her quietly for a moment, his dark eyes full of understanding and something that looked almost like pride. Then he stepped closer and placed a warm, steady hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze that somehow managed to convey both comfort and strength.

"You holding up okay?" he asked, and she could hear the layers beneath the simple question. How are you handling all this upheaval? Are you going to be able to support Steve when you're barely keeping yourself together? Do you need someone to take care of you too?

She blinked, caught off guard by the directness of his concern. Most people danced around her emotional state, tiptoed around the subject of Bucky, treated her like she might shatter if they said the wrong thing. But not Sam. He'd always been the kind of person to meet problems head-on, to ask the hard questions because he genuinely cared about the answers.

"I'm..." she started, then stopped, reconsidering. Sam deserved honesty, especially now when everything felt like it was balanced on a knife's edge. "I'm trying. Some days are better than others. Today's been kind of rough, actually, but hearing about Peggy..." She shook her head. "It puts things in perspective, you know? Steve's dealing with real loss, final loss, and I'm still over here feeling sorry for myself over someone who chose to leave."

Sam's expression softened, his grip on her shoulder tightening slightly. "Hey. Your pain doesn't become less valid just because someone else is hurting too. Grief isn't a competition, and what you went through with Bucky... that was real. The love was real, the loss was real, and the fact that he's still alive somewhere doesn't make it hurt any less."

She felt her throat tighten dangerously, tears threatening for the second time that day. "Everyone keeps telling me I need to move on, that I need to let him go. And they're right—I know they're right. But I don't know how to stop loving someone just because they're not here anymore."

"You don't have to stop loving him," Sam said gently, his voice carrying the kind of wisdom that came from his years as a counselor, from helping other veterans navigate trauma and loss. "Love doesn't just disappear because someone leaves, and anyone who tells you it should doesn't understand what real love actually is. But you can love him and still choose to live your life. You can honor what you had while still being open to what might come next."

She looked up at him, studying the earnest expression on his face, the genuine care in his dark eyes. Sam Wilson had one of the biggest hearts of anyone she'd ever met, and right now she felt incredibly grateful that he'd chosen to share some of that warmth with her.

"You really think so?" she asked, hating how small and uncertain her voice sounded.

"I know so," he replied firmly. "Look, I've seen a lot of people try to move on from losing someone they loved—in the war, in counseling sessions, hell, in my own family. The ones who make it through aren't the ones who forget or pretend it didn't matter. They're the ones who figure out how to carry that love with them while still making room for new experiences, new connections, new possibilities."

She nodded slowly, letting his words settle into the spaces between her ribs where the constant ache lived. "That sounds terrifying."

Sam's smile was soft and understanding. "Yeah, it really does. But you know what's even more terrifying? Waking up five years from now and realizing you've spent all this time waiting for someone who's never coming back while life passed you by completely."

The truth of it hit her like a punch to the gut, because that was exactly what she was doing, wasn't it? Waiting. Always waiting. Keeping her heart locked away in case Bucky decided he wanted it back, building her entire emotional life around the possibility of a reunion that might never come.

"Besides," Sam added, his tone shifting back toward the gentle teasing she was more familiar with. "You're way too incredible to spend the rest of your life pining after some broody super soldier who doesn't know a good thing when he's got it. Even if he is my best friend's oldest friend and I'm probably supposed to be on his side."

Despite everything, she found herself laughing. A real laugh, not the brittle thing she'd been producing for months. "You're not supposed to bad-mouth him, Wilson. Isn't there some kind of bro code about that?"

"Bro code gets suspended when said bro hurts someone I care about," Sam replied with mock seriousness. "Besides, Steve would probably agree with me, even if he's too polite to say it out loud. We both think you deserve someone who's brave enough to fight for you instead of running away from you."

The words were meant to be comforting, she knew, but they stirred up a fresh wave of pain that she wasn't quite prepared for. Because the thing was, she didn't want someone else. She wanted Bucky. The real Bucky, the one who'd danced with her in empty rooms and held her through nightmares and looked at her like she was something miraculous. She wanted the man who'd been brave enough to love her despite everything he'd been through, not the broken shadow who'd been too afraid to stay.

But Sam was right about one thing: she couldn't keep waiting for that version of Bucky to come back. Maybe he never would. Maybe the man she'd fallen in love with had been buried too deeply under layers of trauma and guilt to ever fully resurface.

"You know what the worst part is?" she said quietly, not quite meeting Sam's eyes. "I keep thinking that if I'd just been better somehow, if I'd loved him harder or been more patient or said the right things... maybe he would have stayed."

Sam's expression turned fierce, protective in a way that reminded her why he'd been such a good soldier, such a loyal friend. "No. Absolutely not. Don't you dare blame yourself for his choice. You gave that man everything you had. Your trust, your heart, your forgiveness for things most people couldn't even begin to understand. You were exactly what he needed, exactly when he needed it. If he was too scared or too damaged to appreciate that gift, that's on him, not you."

She felt tears prick at her eyes again, but for the first time in months, they didn't feel entirely hopeless. "You really believe that?"

"With everything I've got," Sam said firmly. "And I'll keep reminding you until you believe it too. You're not broken, you're not too much, and you're sure as hell not responsible for fixing someone else's trauma. You're just a woman who loved someone deeply and got hurt because of it. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."

She took a shaky breath, feeling something shift inside her chest. Not healing, exactly, but maybe the beginning of it. Like the first tiny crack in a dam that had been holding back too much pressure for too long.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For saying that. For... all of this. I know I haven't been the easiest person to be around lately."

Sam squeezed her shoulder one more time, then let his hand fall to his side. "You don't have to thank me for caring about you. That's what family does. We show up, even when it's messy, even when it's hard. Especially then."

The word 'family' settled around her like a warm blanket, a reminder that she wasn't as alone as she sometimes felt. She had Steve and Sam and Natasha, had Tony's gruff affection and Wanda's quiet understanding. She had a place here, people who valued her not because of who she'd been before or who she might become, but because of exactly who she was right now, grief and all.

"Now," Sam continued, his tone shifting back toward something lighter, "why don't you get yourself together and come downstairs? We could probably use your help talking Steve through this Accords situation, and I have a feeling the next few days are going to be complicated as hell."

She nodded, wiping quickly at her eyes and straightening her shoulders. "Give me ten minutes to shower and change, then I'll be down."

"Take your time," Sam replied, already turning to head back toward the elevator. "And, hey. We're going to get through this. All of it. The Accords, the funeral, whatever else comes next. We're stronger together than apart, and that includes you."

As he disappeared around the corner, she closed her door and leaned against it again, letting his words wash over her. For the first time in months, she felt like maybe—just maybe—there was a path forward that didn't involve waiting for someone who might never come home.

It was terrifying and hopeful and heartbreaking all at once.

But it was a start.

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Summary: Four years ago, she survived the impossible—going toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier and living to tell the tale. Now, Bucky Barnes is on her balcony, broken and bleeding. And her? She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes with blood on their hands.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post-CATWS Series Masterlist AO3 Link Warnings: N/A Word Count: 4.8k

Author's Note: This one is a bit shorter, mostly fluff really, but it'll be a nice bridge into the more serious stuff (oooo). This is also my actual first time writing fluff in general/a kiss scene, it's definitely a lot harder than reading some of the masterpieces author's create.

______________________________________________________________

Part 7: September 2014, West Virginia

Her hands gripped the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric as she yanked him toward her and crashed her mouth into his. The force of it knocked him back a half-step, his boots scuffing against the pavement.

There was nothing gentle about the kiss. It was fierce, urgent — heavy with every word left unsaid. Every sleepless night spent aching for him. Every glance that lingered too long, every brush of skin that should’ve meant nothing but never did.

He froze for just a second, stunned by the shock of her, and then he was kissing her back like it was the only thing keeping him alive. One hand flew to her waist, firm and sure, the other tangled in her hair at the nape of her neck, anchoring her to him like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.

His mouth was hot, hungry — all desperation and heat and aching relief. She moaned softly against him as he hauled her in tighter, and the sound made him shudder, his grip tightening like it nearly undid him.

Her back hit the brick wall behind her with a muted thud, but she barely registered the impact. His metal hand slid to her hip, fingers digging through the denim with bruising certainty, like he needed to feel every part of her — like if he didn’t hold her down, she might disappear again.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, nails scraping lightly against the back of his neck as she pulled him impossibly closer.

There was a faint bitterness on his tongue — beer — but underneath that, there was something that was just him. Familiar and real. The rasp of stubble scraped her jaw, rough despite the recent shave, and she could feel the flex of muscle beneath his shirt as he shifted against her, pressing in like he still hadn’t gotten close enough.

He kissed like he fought — all heat and focus and singular intent. Like the rest of the world had fallen away and this, right here, was all that remained.

The taste of him was dizzying. The weight of him against her, the heat of his body, the way his touch was both careful and frantic — it was everything she had imagined in a thousand what-ifs, but sharper, deeper. Better.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead falling to hers as both of them gasped in the quiet between them. Her heart thundered in her chest. His fingers didn’t leave her waist.

She blinked up at him, her lips still parted, her hands still tangled in his shirt. For a moment, they just stared at each other — stunned, breathless.

Then she smirked, lips curling as her voice came out low and a little shaky. “Well… you’re not exactly rusty, Sergeant.”

A breath of laughter escaped him, soft and rough, and he closed his eyes, brushing his nose lightly against hers.

“Renewed beginner’s luck,” he murmured, voice a rumble against her mouth.

She could feel the smile in it — warm, familiar, like coming home

—————————————-

The drive back was quiet.

Not the kind of silence that settled in comfort, but the thick, suffocating kind—loaded with tension, unsaid words crackling like static between them. She stared out the passenger window, hands folded tight in her lap, watching the dark trees blur past. Every nerve in her body was still humming, every breath laced with the memory of his kiss. Her lips still tingled from it. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing since.

Beside her, Bucky gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the road, knuckles white. The truck rumbled beneath them, the radio was off, and neither of them dared break the silence.

By the time they pulled up the gravel drive, the headlights cutting a path through the darkness to her porch, she couldn’t tell if the tightness in her chest was nerves… or regret.

Inside, the air was no better. Tense, fragile. She slipped off her jacket, placed her keys in the bowl by the door, and tried to act like everything was fine—even though her skin still buzzed with the ghost of his hands.

He stood just inside the entryway, jacket slung over one arm, looking like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Well,” she said awkwardly, not quite meeting his eyes, “thanks for tonight. For the ride. And…everything else.”

She started to move toward the hallway, fingers trailing the edge of the wall as she passed.

He caught her wrist as she went by. Gently. Firmly.

Her breath stalled. Slowly, she turned back to face him.

He said her name, low and rough, his blue eyes dark with a heat she knew burned in her own. There was something different in the way he said her name now. Like it mattered.

Before she could speak, he stepped in. One fluid motion, backing her gently into the wall. Not forceful, just sure. His metal arm braced beside her head. His other hand landed on her hip.

And then his mouth was on hers again.

She responded instantly, kissing him back with a hunger that caught her off guard. Her fingers found his shoulders, his chest—anywhere she could hold onto. His body pressed against hers like he couldn’t bear the space between them.

The kiss didn’t carry a single ounce of hesitation this time. It was months of longing, months of silence and aching and almosts. It was everything they hadn’t said, poured into a single, burning touch.

When his fingers slid under the hem of her shirt, brushing the bare skin of her waist, she gasped into his mouth. The sound made him groan softly, his hand tightening around her like it grounded him.

When he pulled back, it was barely—just enough to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, forehead resting against hers. “I tried not to think about you. I really tried. But I can’t anymore.”

Her chest rose and fell against him, fast and shallow. She blinked up at him, lips parted.

“Then don’t,” she whispered. “I want this. I want you.”

His face crumpled slightly at her words, tension leaking into something softer. His fingers skimmed her cheek, slow and reverent. “I’m not a good man, sweetheart. I’m not whole.”

She caught his hand, pressed it to her chest—over her heart.

“I don’t want the man you were,” she said softly. “I want the one standing in front of me. Exactly as you are.”

He looked at her like he wasn’t sure he deserved to hear that. Like it hurt just to let himself believe her.

“You think I don’t carry my own scars?” she added. “We all bleed, Bucky. Some of us just know how to hide it better.”

He let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes. And then he kissed her again.

This time it was slower. Deeper. Less about desperation and more about connection. His hands roamed—waist, ribs, spine—like he was relearning her shape. She tugged him closer, kissed him harder, the air between them fevered and electric.

His mouth grazed her jaw, her throat, and she melted under him, heat spreading in waves beneath her skin. She was already unsteady by the time he eased her backward, guiding her step by step down the hall, never breaking contact.

They reached his bedroom. The door clicked softly shut behind them.

She paused, breathless. “If you need to stop, tell me.”

He leaned his forehead to hers. “I was going to say the same thing.”

But he kissed her again, like stopping wasn’t even on the table. She didn’t want it to be, anyways. Her fingers slid under the hem of his shirt, splaying across his abdomen. He shuddered at the contact.

He pulled back.

“Wait,” he murmured, breathless.

She stilled, lips tingling, heart racing. His hands didn’t leave her. His eyes searched hers.

“I want this. God, I want you. But not like this. Not yet.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t want to stop. But his voice… it was so gentle. So full of something that nearly broke her.

“Why not?”

His hand found her face again, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Because I want to do this right. I don’t want this to be some impulsive thing. You deserve more than that.”

Her heart clenched. The Bucky she had known before would have never said that. This Bucky—this version of him—meant it.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Then we wait.”

The words felt right. Even if her body was still humming, her body was still aching for more. She would wait though. For him, she could.

Later, after changing into soft pajamas, she found him standing awkwardly in the dim bedroom, dressed in gray sweatpants and a worn T-shirt, his hair tousled.

He looked… young. Vulnerable.

She smiled. “You always sleep in jeans, Barnes?”

He rolled his eyes, but the color in his cheeks betrayed him. “Funny.”

She slid into the bed, patted the space beside her. “Come on. I don’t bite.”

He crawled in beside her, tentative at first, but relaxed when she curled into him. Her head rested on his chest. His arms came around her naturally.

It was warm. Safe.

“You sure you’re not scared?” he murmured.

She reached for his hand—his metal one—and placed it gently over her heart.

“No,” she said. “Not of you.”

And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes fell asleep with someone in his arms.

And no nightmares followed.

—————————————-

The next month was, without question, the happiest—and most terrifying—of her life.

After that night, she started sleeping in Bucky’s bed. Not for sex, not for anything tangled in lust or impulse—just to be near him. To fall asleep with the warmth of his body pressed to hers, to wake with his hand still resting against her stomach or tucked beneath hers like a lifeline.

It shook her more than she’d expected.

Sex had always been easier. A transaction, a controlled burn. Something she could offer or take without giving too much of herself. But this? The quiet intimacy of sharing breath with someone through the night, of drifting off while listening to another heartbeat? That had always been too raw, too real.

And yet, with Bucky, it came naturally. Her body had trusted him before her mind did. Before she could rationalize it or guard against it, she was reaching for him in the dark. Curling into his chest. Letting herself feel safe.

Most mornings, she’d wake alone—his side of the bed warm, the covers mussed, evidence of where he’d been. Sometimes, though, he’d still be there. His arm wrapped securely around her waist, his face buried in her neck, his breath steady and soft against her skin. She never told him, but those mornings—when he didn’t pull away, when he clung to her like she was the tether keeping him grounded—those were the ones she cherished most.

And she wasn’t the only one changing.

During the day, they traded kisses like secrets. He’d come up behind her at the sink, pressing lazy, unhurried kisses to her shoulder until she leaned back into him. She’d surprise him out in the yard at times, throwing herself at him with a laugh, and he’d catch her with a grunt, a grin, and a kiss that left them both breathless.

He started out tentative at first, like he was afraid to be vulnerable — or maybe he just wasn’t confident enough yet in himself — but as the weeks passed, he grew more bold, more intimate.

When they drove into town, his hand always found her thigh. In the grocery store, he laced his fingers through hers like it was instinct. She caught him smiling more. Laughing more. Watching her like she was the only thing in the world he had left to believe in.

He asked her questions now. Simple ones. Personal ones. What dessert she craved most on bad days. Whether she hated mornings or just the way they started. If she preferred tulips or wildflowers. Questions no one had thought to ask her in years. Questions that made her remember she was more than her trauma.

And slowly, gently, she watched Bucky return to himself. Not the ghost she’d found bleeding on her balcony. Not the haunted silhouette she’d once seen crouched in the woods like a shadow from someone else’s war.

The Winter Soldier continued to fade away with each laugh, each kiss. Until just Bucky began to emerge.

And in caring for him—without expectation, without condition—she softened, too. She found parts of herself she thought had been lost to grief or guilt. She laughed louder. Took up space. Let her guard down, inch by inch, in the comfort of his presence.

They were healing. Together.

He didn’t have nightmares anymore. He talked more. His voice had more texture, more life. His shoulders no longer carried the same weight. The scars of his past were still there, but in their little corner of the world, they quieted. Some days, she dared to believe they could even fade.

One night, they lay tangled beneath the sheets, the hum of insects outside their only soundtrack. Her body fit perfectly along his, their limbs a tangle beneath the covers. His arm curled possessively around her waist, thumb tracing lazy arcs along the dip of her hip.

They hadn’t talked for a while. The silence between them was a familiar one, companionable and safe. But then she spoke, her voice soft, almost embarrassed, like it had slipped out without permission.

“Bucky?”

“Mm?” His voice was already heavy with sleep, gravel-soft.

She hesitated, fingers absently toying with the edge of his shirt where it had ridden up. “What made you…” She swallowed, cheeks burning in the dark. “God, this sounds so high school, but… what made you want this to be more than friendship? I mean… I never thought you saw me that way. Not in a… physical way.”

The question floated there between them. Raw. Unexpected. Vulnerable.

He didn’t answer right away. She turned slightly to glance up at him, already regretting it.

But then he shifted, breathing deeply, and said, voice rough but honest, “I think it started the night you didn’t shoot me.”

She snorted quietly. “Low bar, Barnes.”

“No,” he said, with quiet weight. “You didn’t just not shoot me. You looked at me like I was a person. You treated me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just some broken thing.”

His hand moved to her face, fingers brushing her cheek with startling gentleness.

“And then you stayed,” he murmured. “You stayed when I was angry. When I was quiet. When I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. You never tried to fix me. You just… saw me. And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to be seen.”

He paused, then added, voice nearly a whisper, “You made me feel like I had a home. Like I wasn’t something to be afraid of.”

Her heart twisted. She gripped him tighter with each sentence, swallowing down her emotion with touch.

“And one day,” he continued, “I woke up and realized the only time I didn’t feel like a monster was when you were lying next to me.”

She blinked, eyes stinging.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them. Like they cost him something. Like he didn’t expect them to be heard.

She shifted to face him fully, her hand sliding to rest against his chest, over the steady thump of his heart.

“Not too easy for a soldier to open up, is it?”

His mouth twisted into a faint smile. “Felt like stepping into enemy fire.”

She smiled softly. “You don’t have to be anything other than yourself with me.”

“I know,” he breathed, his eyes seeking something in her own that she couldn’t see. “That’s what terrifies me.”

They lay like that in the dark, forehead to forehead, breath mingling.

“I’ve never stayed like this before,” she admitted. “Not in someone’s bed. Not in the quiet like this. It always felt too… exposed.”

“You’re not scared now?”

She hesitated. “I am,” she said truthfully. “But not of you.”

He didn’t speak, but his hand squeezed her hip gently, anchoring her there.

“I’m scared of how much I want this,” she whispered. “Of what happens if it ends.”

He let out a quiet breath, his thumb brushing over her ribs. “I think about that, too.”

She smiled, small and tentative. “You do?”

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his mouth twisted into a sad smile. “All the time.”

They stayed like that, tucked into each other, the air thick with all they still hadn’t said.

And even if neither of them dared to say it yet, the truth settled between them anyway. They were in this.

And she didn’t want to go back.

—————————————-

Summary: Four years ago, she survived the impossible—going toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier and living to tell the tale. Now, Bucky Barnes is on her balcony, broken and bleeding. And her? She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes with blood on their hands.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post-CATWS Series Masterlist AO3 Link Warnings: N/A Word Count: 5.7K

Author's Note:

Back with an update! This was one of my favorite chapters to write :) Hoping we all like this series enough because I'm in the middle of writing the sequel now.

______________________________________________________________

Part 6: Late Summer of 2014, West Virginia

Another month passed in a quiet rhythm.

By now, Bucky hunted with her regularly, always keeping a respectful distance at first, but slowly, he’d begun moving beside her, learning the same terrain, mimicking her stance with the rifle, even gutting and dressing when it needed to be done. He went into town with her without hesitation now, trading curt nods with the butcher, even holding brief conversations with the cashier at the general store. They were rarely apart, and while their routine had become steady – easy, really — the space between them remained charged with something that neither of them dared to touch.

At least, that was how she felt every goddamn day she spent second guessing herself around a man for the first time in her life.

Still, nothing had progressed past what it was — close, but not quite crossing that invisible line.

Until one lazy afternoon, just after she’d come in from the back porch with muddy boots and a half-written report for Maria on an old case, Bucky stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, looking strangely uncertain.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little rougher than usual. “Would you… wanna go into town tonight? Grab dinner? Maybe a drink?”

She froze mid-step, grabbing her computer before it tumbled out of her hands in shock. “Like…like an alcoholic drink?”

His lips twitched at her in amusement. Meanwhile, she was kicking herself internally. “Yeah. Like a normal night out.”

She blinked. “You want to go out?”

“I think I’m ready,” he said, quietly. “If you want.”

She paused, the surprise slowly melting into something warmer. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He looked genuinely relieved, even if he tried not to show it. His eyes flickered, something obviously crossing his mind. He scratched the back of his neck, looking hesitant. “Uh, would you mind helping me clean up a little before we go? I could…probably use a haircut. And a shave.”

Her eyebrows shot up despite herself, surprised. The request sent a flare of surprise through her, and she was sure Bucky could tell based on the way he was staring at her a bit nervously. The request was rather intimate — totally normal and domestic, but for him, a big deal in more ways than one. “You trust me with scissors?”

Bucky smirked, tapping his fingers restlessly against his leg. “You’ve stitched up bullet wounds and resetted my shoulder. I think I can survive a trim from you.” She set him up in the kitchen chair near the window where the natural light spilled across the wood floor. He sat rigidly, back straight, expression serious—but she could tell he was nervous. About the cut? About the night? Maybe both. She was nervous too, though she was still trying her absolute best to mask it.

“You’re acting like I’m about to take a knife to your throat,” she joked, slipping a towel around his shoulders and gently combing through his hair with her fingers. She could have sworn he shivered a little when her fingers ran across his scalp.

“You might,” he deadpanned. “Depends on how the date goes.”

Her hands paused for a second—just a second—before continuing. “So it’s a date now?”

He tensed beneath her hands, and she wished she could see his face. “Doesn’t have to be romantic to be a date. Could just be a practice round.” His voice sounded tight, a bit strained.

She bit back a smile, ignoring the wave of disappointment that flared within her at his words. Good, honestly, that he didn’t consider it a true date. She didn’t need any reason to get attached.

At least, that’s what she had told herself all her life. No reason to stop now.

She started snipping carefully, her fingers brushing the back of his neck every few seconds. He was warm. Solid. His hair was thick and still slightly damp from the quick rinse he’d taken earlier, and she found herself lingering more than necessary as she worked.

Each time her fingers grazed his skin, she felt it — like static. He didn’t flinch, but she could feel the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his breath changed just slightly when her hands paused.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured.

“You’re playing with scissors near my skull,” he muttered back. “Sorry for being cautious.”

She laughed under her breath and moved around to face him. “Hey, you’re just lucky I like you.”

His gaze met hers at that, steady, unreadable, but there. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

She swallowed, then picked up the trimmer she had uncovered from some things her father had left behind, and leaned in to shave the edge of his jaw. He tilted his head slightly, but she noticed that when she grabbed his chin in her hand, he blinked quickly. Like the intimacy of it was catching up to him in real time.

She worked slowly, carefully, barely breathing as she moved the blade along his cheek.

“You smell like that soap I keep getting you,” she said without thinking. Immediately, she cringed internally, but the damage was already done. Why would she just blurt that out? What was wrong with her?

Bucky didn’t seem to mind, just raising his brows slightly in response. “Is that a compliment?”

She shrugged, pushing down her anxiety. “Better than sweat and deer blood.”

He smirked but said nothing. Her hand steadied his jaw again, and for a moment, their faces were just inches apart. She could feel the heat of his breath. See the line of his mouth. Her pulse jumped, fast and traitorous — she swore she could hear every beat of her heart. She always did when she was around him.

He just watched her silently, blue eyes locked on her own, and for a second, it felt like the whole house held its breath.

But then she stepped back, clearing her throat. “Done.”

He blinked, like coming out of a trance. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, grabbing a clean towel to dust off his shoulders. “Wait ‘til you see your reflection.”

“You mean the part where I look respectable?” he asked.

She smiled. “For what it’s worth, I like the long hair. Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes.”

She tossed the towel into the sink, turned on her heel, and made a quick retreat to her room before she did something stupid — like turn around and meet his eyes and forget how to speak. Or worse, show him the flush currently painting her cheeks.

Picking out an outfit for a casual night out took far longer than she’d ever admit. She would rather fight a HYDRA agent than confess to Bucky that she had, at one point, dumped her entire wardrobe onto the bed in a moment of fashion-induced panic.

After an embarrassing amount of internal debate, she finally settled on a clean pair of dark jeans—no rips, no tactical wear-and-tear—and a silk tank top in a deep slate color. It was modest enough, sure, but still flattering. Feminine. Different from her usual utilitarian style. She threw on a light jacket and added some makeup—nothing dramatic, but enough to remind herself she still knew how to try. She pulled her hair into a messy updo that somehow still looked intentional after a few adjustments.

Good enough.

She studied herself in the mirror, then huffed a breath and turned away. This wasn’t a date. It was just dinner. With Bucky Barnes. Who had asked her to cut his hair. And shave his face. And now looked— She stepped out into the hallway before she could finish that thought.

He was already waiting near the door, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. A white thermal clung to his frame in a way that was extremely unfair, and with his freshly trimmed hair and clean-shaven jaw, he looked years younger. More like the Bucky Barnes from the grainy film reels—the grinning soldier who had danced with girls and cracked jokes beside Steve Rogers. Not the ghost she had first found bleeding out on her balcony. Not the weapon of war from Inessa, silent and dangerous with dead eyes.

This version of him felt… human again.

She stepped out of her room, smoothing her hands over her jeans one last time as she entered the hallway.

Bucky was standing near the door, keys to her truck in one hand, jacket slung over the other, but when he looked up and saw her, he froze.

For a second, he just stared.

His eyes moved over her slowly, almost in uncertainty, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. She could see the shift in his expression, the slight parting of his lips, the subtle straightening of his spine… the way his fingers flexed once around the keys in his hand.

She paid attention to it all. She always did.

She hesitated, a brief and foreign feeling washing over her. Doubt, second-guessing — a general feeling of questioning herself. “Too much?”

His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He shook his head, but it took him another moment to find his voice. “No. Not too much,” he said finally, voice low, almost rough. He cleared his throat, offering her a faint smile. “You clean up nice, doll.”

The compliment washed away the nerves, and something warmed flared in her chest. She offered him back a small smile of her own, hoping the flush to her skin wasn’t noticeable. “You’re just lucky I didn’t wear my cargo pants and boots.”

He chuckled, going to open the door for her. “You clean up nice in that too, especially when you have deer guts all over you.”

She rolled her eyes and snickered, leading the way outside with Bucky trailing behind. “You look good too, Barnes,” she added, giving him another once-over at the car. “You look happy.”

Something shifted in his face at that. Not a smile. Not exactly. But something soft.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I can drive.” She quirked an eyebrow at him, somewhat surprised at the chivalry. “I don’t think a hundred year old man is legally allowed behind the wheel.”

He shot her a look, but there was nothing but mirth in his gaze. “Very funny. Come on, hop in before I make you walk.”

—————————————-

The café they ended up at was… decidedly midwestern-hick.

It sat at the edge of town, tucked between a taxidermy shop and an auto repair garage, complete with a faded “Open” sign hanging from the crooked door and a hand-painted menu board on the front stoop boasting the daily specials in red block letters. Inside, the place smelled like wood polish and slightly burnt coffee. The booths were vinyl and cracked, the kind that stuck to your thighs if you sat too long. Antlers and old photographs lined the walls—black-and-white images of hunters standing beside prize bucks and grainy tractors from the 1950s.

The town didn’t have much to offer in the way of fun, but this would get the job done for now. Besides, she didn’t really care where they ended up. She was just happy Bucky wanted to do this.

They sat down at the bar amongst a few other patrons, the place decently crowded for a Saturday night. Bucky took one long look around, eyes scanning each exit, and muttered. “Didn’t think we were time-traveling tonight.”

She grinned, nudging him with her shoulder. “That’s rich coming from you, grandpa”

He gave her a dry look, which she returned with an incredulous grin. She opened her menu, skimming the beer list. “You said you wanted a drink? I thought you couldn’t get drunk with the serum and all.”

He grunted, flipping through the somewhat sticky pages of his own menu with a faint grimace. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like the taste.”

She smirked, nodding slightly. “Fair.”

Bucky ordered a beer on draft, and she followed suit. While they waited, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. He was scanning the room, calculating in that way she’d come to know well. Doors, windows, exit routes, potential threats. She did it herself most of the time. He was just far more meticulous about it.

“You okay?” she asked after a beat, voice soft enough not to interrupt his scan.

His eyes flicked back to her, then settled. “Yeah,” he said. “Just… habit.”

She nodded. She didn’t stop him. She never did. The hyper-vigilance didn’t bother her, not after years in the Army and with S.H.I.E.L.D. To her, it made sense. To Bucky, it must have been a comfort. When the beers arrived and their orders were placed, she let the quiet stretch a little before speaking again.

“You’ve been remembering more lately,” she said, gently. “How’s that feeling?”

Bucky took a long sip of his beer, nodding once as he set the glass down. “It’s… weird. Like pieces of someone else’s life showing up in mine. Some good, some not. And there’s still some gaps. Might always be there.”

She waited.

“Brooklyn comes back clearer now,” he continued. “My sisters. My Ma. Things I thought were gone. But with the good ones come the bad, too.”

She rested her elbows on the table, watching him carefully. “You don’t have to tell me the bad ones. Unless you want to.”

“Nah, it’s alright – I tell you most of it anyways. I remember missions. Names. Sometimes the sound of someone’s voice right before I—” He cut off, jaw tightening.

She didn’t fill the space. Just nodded, quietly letting him know she was listening.

After a moment, she asked, “Do you ever think about talking to Steve?”

That earned her a sharp glance — flat, unreadable. He didn’t even bother responding with words. Just resumed slowly scanning the room again, eyes tracking a couple near the bar and a guy leaving the bathroom.

She didn’t press at first, letting the silence settle while she collected her thoughts. “Can you at least tell me why you don’t want to try? You care about him still — I can tell. He’s your best friend.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. His jaw flexed. He took another sip of beer, then said, “He’s better off not knowing.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she countered.

He didn’t look at her. “You didn’t see his face in D.C. You didn’t see what I did to him.”

“I read what you did. I’ve seen the footage. And I’ve also read every debrief Steve’s written since then,” she said quietly. “He forgave you before you even came back. None of what you did to him matters to him.”

“It’s not about his forgiveness.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then whose?”

He didn’t answer. Just took another drink and looked away.

She let it go for now, taking a sip of her beer. Not because she was done — she never really was when it came to him — but because she could see the storm building behind his eyes. It wasn’t the time to pry. Forcing his hand would go nowhere.

“Do you think they’re still out there?” she asked quietly, setting her glass down. Time for a subject change. “HYDRA, I mean. Watching? Following you?”

His eyes flicked to hers—calm, but with that familiar glint of edge beneath the surface.

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Maybe. Pieces of them, scattered. Cells that haven’t surfaced yet. Safe to assume they won’t die off in less than a year.”

She nodded slowly. “Do you feel safe at the house?”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers, gloved, traced the rim of his glass, the silence stretching between them, thick and uncertain.

“I feel safer than I’ve felt in years,” he said finally. “But safe? No. I don’t think I’ll ever really feel that again.”

She absorbed that, her throat tight. The question that had been burning in the back of her mind for the last few months was pushed to the forefront now. “So… have you been thinking about leaving?”

She braced herself for a truthful answer — hurtful or not, she had to know. At first, she wanted him to stay not just to keep an eye on him, but truthfully, because she felt obligated to help. Now — it was more about simply wanting him to stay because she cared about him. Even if he didn’t think it, he considered him a friend. She’d been virtually alone since the Army, since her father had died, really. The last few months with Bucky had felt…right. It made her feel whole again.

And secretly, she was terrified to lose that.

The question made him glance at her again, quickly this time. “No,” he said, sharper than she expected. “I haven’t.”

She blinked, taken aback at his lack of hesitation. “Okay.”

He looked down at his hands, exhaled slowly, and tried again, quieter this time. “I’ve thought about what happens if something happens. If HYDRA does find us. If I’m putting you in danger by staying.”

“You’re not,” she said immediately, her voice firmer than before. “You’re not putting me in danger. I’ve handled worse. We’ve both handled worse.”

Bucky didn’t argue, but his expression didn’t ease.

“I chose to help you,” she added, gentler now. “I still do. If you’re staying because you feel guilty, or like you owe me something—”

“I’m not staying out of guilt,” he interrupted.

She looked at him, waiting.

He ran a hand down his face, then let it drop back to the table. His blue eyes met hers, the neon lights of the bartop flickering in his irises.“I’m staying because I want to. That scares the hell out of me, but it’s the truth.”

Something in her chest tightened.

“Oh,” she said. That was all she could manage. It didn’t feel like enough.

He shrugged, a little too casual, like he could undo the weight of what he’d just said. “I can’t explain it. I don’t sleep as bad out there. You don’t flinch when I forget to be normal. You don’t treat me like I’m broken.”

“You’re not,” she said softly.

He looked at her, really looked at her. His expression was gentle, unguarded in a way she rarely saw. It was the same look he’d given her the night they danced barefoot in the living room, swaying to the soft crackle of vinyl and brass. That kind of gaze full of something warm that she couldn’t quite explain.

Nobody had ever looked at her like that before. That, she knew.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t always believe it. But when I’m with you… it’s easier to try.”

Her throat tightened, and for a second, she didn’t know what to say. The bar around them had faded — the clinking glasses, the distant jukebox, the low hum of conversation — all blurred at the edges. For a fleeting second, she thought he might reach across the table. Might touch her hand. Might —

“I’m gonna use the bathroom real quick,” he said, clearing his throat and rising from his seat. It broke the moment. Maybe on purpose.

She nodded, covering the odd little ache in her chest with a half-smile. “Sure.”

As he walked away, she let out a quiet breath and leaned back in the booth. Her fingers traced the condensation on her glass, and she stared through it like she could untangle what the hell she was feeling.

She’d always been good at keeping things compartmentalized. The grief of her parents’ deaths. Losing friends in war. But with Bucky… things didn’t fall into neat categories. He’d slipped into her life so unexpectedly, shaking up everything she thought she knew about control. About connection.

She wasn’t supposed to care this much. But God, she did. And she needed to stop before she got hurt.

Then, in the midst of her thoughts, the seat beside her creaked as someone slid into the booth.

She looked up, startled.

A man—mid-thirties, clean-shaven, rolled sleeves over a tight button-down—grinned at her like they were old friends. Not handsome, not ugly. She really wasn’t paying attention. “You here alone?” he asked, voice smooth and cocky.

She didn’t return the smile, just turned away tiredly. She didn’t have the energy for this type of behavior. “No.”

He ignored her answer, of course. His gaze moved over her face, then her neckline — subtle, but not subtle enough.

“Lemme guess… boyfriend?” he said with a smirk. “Girl as pretty as yourself can’t be left alone for long.”

She forced herself to stay polite. “Just a… friend,” she replied, her tone clipped as she drained the rest of her beer. She’d dealt with men like this before—men who mistook disinterest for a challenge.

But he leaned in anyway, cologne heavy in the air between them. His hand reached out, grazing her arm like he had the right.

“No boyfriend, huh?” he said, his voice low. “That’s surprising.”

She gave him a sharp look, tensing up at his touch. Beneath the bar, she curled her free hand into a fist, getting ready to swing. “Is it?”

“If I were him,” he said, fingers trailing further up her arm toward her shoulder, “I wouldn’t leave you alone for a second.”

That did it.

She moved to pull back, her hand rising to land a hit —but before she could even touch him, another hand shot out and slammed down on the man’s wrist, pinning it flat against the table. The man froze.

Bucky was suddenly there beside her, his expression unreadable—but his eyes? Murderous. Cold and sharp as ice.

“She said no the first time.”

His voice was quietly lethal. She thought, for a moment, that his face looked exactly like the Winter Soldier’s again. Deadly.

The guy let out a nervous laugh, trying to yank his hand back, but Bucky didn’t let go. “Easy, man. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“You touched her. Without permission,” Bucky said, his tone eerily calm. “That’s something.”

The pressure increased. Not enough to break anything, but enough to make the guy wince, his face going pale.

“You should leave,” Bucky said softly, leaning closer, his metal fingers still wrapped around the man’s wrist. She couldn’t see his face fully from this position now, but she could only imagine how he looked. A flash of a memory danced before her eyes — the Winter Soldier pinning her down in a dark alley, his eyes void of emotion. “Now.”

The man swallowed hard, eyes flicking between them as he read the danger, finally registering what kind of man he’d crossed.

He stood, fast and clumsy, yanking his hand free. “Alright. Jesus. Didn’t realize she came with a bodyguard.”

“She doesn’t,” she said coldly, remembering herself. She straightened her shoulders, relaxing a little. “But you’re lucky he’s here anyway.”

He shot her one last glare, muttered something under his breath, and hurried off to disappear out the front door.

For a moment, the space around their table stayed tense—Bucky still standing, fists clenched, jaw flexing like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

Then, slowly, he slid into the seat beside her again, his shoulder brushing hers—closer than before.

“I was handling that,” she said, her voice tight. She didn’t look at him. Her jaw was clenched, the words biting at the edge of her restraint. For some reason, Bucky’s little act of protectiveness, or whatever that territorial, dick-measuring display had been, grated under her skin. Did he think she couldn’t handle herself? That she needed rescuing? She didn’t even think about what would have happened if things had escalated — if Bucky had attacked the man and someone had recognized him, or his metal arm had been exposed. They would have been entirely compromised then, even in a town as small as this.

“I know,” he muttered gruffly, eyes down on the counter. She couldn’t see his expression, but judging by the stiffness in his shoulders, the set of his jaw — he was angry.

“Then what the hell was that, Barnes?” she hissed under her breath, finally turning to face him. Her body was taut with frustration, voice low to try to keep the words just between them. “That wasn’t about the guy. That was about you. I’m not yours to protect. I can handle myself. You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

His head snapped up slightly, eyes narrowing, clearly caught off guard by her reaction. For a brief second, something flickered in his face—guilt, maybe. Then his expression hardened.

“I wasn’t making a decision for you,” he snapped back. “He touched you.”

She stared at him. “Stepping in like that is a decision, Bucky.”

He bristled, his voice rising just a hair. “It wasn’t like you were gonna entertain him. You would rather he have kept touching you?”

“And how the hell would you know what I was going to do?” she said, her voice sharper now, pushing back. “You didn’t even give me the chance to decide. You stepped in like I needed saving, like I couldn’t just put the guy down myself. You know I’m not defenseless..”

“I saw the look on your face,” he shot back, narrowing his eyes at her. “You weren’t interested. I just did what you were already planning on doing.”

“That’s not the point!” she said, exasperated. “You didn’t give me the option. You took it out of my hands and made it your problem.”

He scoffed, not cruel, but defensive. “So what, you wanted that guy’s hands on you?”

She blinked at him, stunned for a beat. “That’s not—Jesus, Bucky, this isn’t about the guy. This is about you assuming I need you to step in.”

His lips pressed together tightly, jaw working. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

She stared at him then, the breath catching in her throat. Not from anger, but from the honesty in his voice. That raw, conflicted admission that slipped out before he could stop it.

And he must’ve realized it too, because his posture shifted again, back into something more defensive. He looked away, down at the table, like he wished he could reel it back in. His face was stuck in the same scowl she recognized from the first month of knowing him — closed off, withdrawn.

She sighed, pressing her fingers to her brow in frustration. Her pulse was still spiking—not from the guy, not even from Bucky’s presence beside her—but from the way this had escalated so fast. She didn’t even know where this side of him had come from. The possessiveness. It was nothing she had seen from him before.

“Look…” she said, lowering her voice in an effort to stay calm, “I get it. You did a good thing, really. But you have to let me protect myself, Barnes. I’m not yours to speak for—”

“Why are you so upset about this?” he snapped, cutting her off.

It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. His voice vibrated with something under the surface, anger, yes, but something more wounded beneath even that.

She froze, startled by the intensity in his tone.

His eyes were narrowed, jaw locked. Blue eyes darkened. “Me stepping in shouldn’t matter this much to you.”

She gaped at him for a second before forcing herself to breathe in slowly, to stay grounded. People were starting to glance over at them from nearby tables, and she didn’t need the entire bar watching their argument unfold like some small-town soap opera.

“It’s not that he matters,” she said, quieter now, but no less firm. “It’s the principle, Bucky. I don’t need you protecting me, or saving me. I’ve taken care of myself for a long time. And if I want someone, or don’t, that decision is mine to make. Not yours.”

Bucky still wouldn’t look at her. His hands were balled into fists on the table, knuckles pale. She could see the muscles in his jaw ticking, the way his throat worked like he was chewing something down he didn’t want to say.

But then he did say it.

“You have to prove how capable you are,” he muttered. “Like letting someone help you would make you weak.”

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and fast like a knife. “Excuse me?”

He finally looked at her, and this time there was no softness. Just heat. “You’re so damn used to being alone, you don’t even know how to let someone care about you without turning it into a fight. When was the last time you let someone in? Cared about someone? Before your dad died?” She recoiled a little, pain flashing like a hot iron in her chest. Not because he was wrong, but because he somehow hit the nail on the head. She didn’t know how to let someone take care of her, never had. She didn’t know how to let people in. And frankly, doing just that scared the crap out of her.

Her voice was calm, but deadly. “So, what, this is your version of caring? Deciding what I need without asking? You think that’s healthy, Barnes?”

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“No,” she cut in, rising from the booth. “You said exactly what you meant.”

He stood too, reaching out like he might try to stop her, but she stepped back, eyes flashing.

“You don’t get to do this,” she snapped. “You don’t get to act like this is something it’s not. You don’t get to blow up because another man looked at me.”

“I wasn’t—”

She shook her head. “No. I’m done here.”

She turned and walked out before he could respond again, heart pounding, jaw clenched, not trusting herself to look back. The night air hit her like a slap, cool and heavy, but she didn’t stop moving. Not toward the car. Not anywhere specific. She just needed to be away.

She stepped out into the alley beside the bar, the door swinging shut behind her with a dull thud. The cold night air hit her lungs like a slap—shocking and sharp—but it didn’t help. Her heart was still racing. Her hands were shaking.

She paced a few steps down the gravel-lined alley, raking her hands through her hair and trying to breathe through the heat boiling under her skin.

The nerve. The absolute nerve of him.

She didn’t even hear the door open again, but she felt him before she saw him.

Bucky’s boots crunched softly behind her, his steps slow. Like a man walking headfirst into a storm and not caring if it swallowed him whole.

He said her name, soft but firm.

She didn’t turn around. “Don’t.”

He stopped just at the edge of her shadow. “I didn’t mean what I said back there.”

“You did,” she snapped, whirling on him, fury flashing across her face. “You just didn’t mean for me to hear it.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching. “I was pissed.”

“And that makes it okay?” she hissed, voice rising, arms tight across her chest like she was holding herself together by force. “You think being angry gives you the right to throw my trauma in my face? To twist something I told you in confidence and use it like a weapon?”

He stepped closer. His eyes were locked in on hers. “No. I know it doesn’t. I fucked up.”

She laughed, sharp, brittle. “You don’t say.”

He looked like he wanted to pace, to punch a wall, to do something. But instead he just said, voice rough: “You scare the shit out of me.”

She froze. The world seemed to stop around her too. Bucky was the only thing moving, his eyes blinking down at her, his voice the only thing she could hear.

“You let me in,” he continued, stepping in again, “and then shove me back the second you start to feel something. And the thing is, I want to let you in. I want to get to know you. And I want you to know me — whatever fucked up version of myself this is. ”

Her breath hitched. He was too close now. Far too close. The heat of him was tangible, his energy pulled tight like a spring about to snap.

“I push people away because they leave, Bucky,” she whispered. “Because every time I start to believe they’ll stay, they disappear. It’s survival.”

“I’m not leaving,” he growled, and this time the words came out fierce, like a vow. “You think I haven’t wanted to? That I haven’t told myself to vanish before I ruin what little peace you’ve got left? That staying hasn’t scared the hell out of me every damn day?”

He took another step, and this time she didn’t retreat. She couldn’t. Her back hit the wall behind her, the cool press of brick a jolt against the heat rolling off of him.

“To keep you safe,” he said, breathing harder now. “To keep me safe. Because me being around you? It’s a risk. And I’d rather burn than watch you get hurt by anyone. By me.”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her chest was rising fast, breath short and shallow. The air between them buzzed like electricity. He was close enough that she could feel it every time he exhaled, the scent of sandalwood and skin and him wrapping around her, crawling under her skin.

“I’m still here,” he said again, voice quiet now, cracked around the edges. “And I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I know I can’t watch some stranger put his hands on you like he knows you. Because he doesn’t. I do.”

Her eyes locked with his, and he didn’t look away. His pupils were blown wide, jaw clenched, like he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“You’re really close,” she whispered, but the words trembled in her throat, barely there.

“I know,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Say the word and I’ll back off.”

She didn’t say the word. There was no way she could now.

The weight of him in front of her, the way his voice had cracked just moments before, the way he looked at her — like she was the only damn thing keeping him tethered to reality — it tore through the last thread of her restraint. The last brick of the boundary she had set for herself.

“Fuck it.” she muttered, surging forward.

And kissed him.

—————————————-

Summary: Four years ago, she survived the impossible—going toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier and living to tell the tale. Now, Bucky Barnes is on her balcony, broken and bleeding. And her? She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes with blood on their hands.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post-CATWS Series Masterlist AO3 Link Warnings: N/A Word Count: 5.7K

Author's Note:

I know I said I'd update on Monday, but I sat down to edit this earlier than expected, and I just couldn't resist.

This was a fun chapter for me to write, because the whole idea of this story came from the premise of Bucky healing by falling in love. Hopefully I characterized his pain and trauma well enough initially, as well the reader's troubled past. Coming from a family of those who served and those still active, the trauma never really goes away for many. The characterization I've taken with her is someone who is somewhat healed, yet, still has deep scars she just hides away. Basically - they'll heal each other (super cute).

West Virginia was the first remote state near DC that I could think of. I'd like to think Bucky would have thrived in a secluded area, given he did exactly that in Wakanda in the films.

______________________________________________________________

Part 3: April 2014, Washington DC (II)

She hadn’t slept at all. Just tossed and turned, her mind racing through the night. The possibilities of what had happened to Barnes consumed her—along with the bigger question of what the hell she was supposed to do next.

Truthfully, she’d spent the whole night waiting. Waiting to hear the front door creak open. Waiting for footsteps in the dark. Waiting to find the couch empty come morning. She wouldn’t have been able to stop him if he left—he was faster, stronger, and far more dangerous. But still, deep down, she’d hoped.

Hoped he would still be there when she woke up.

Because the alternative—that he was already gone, or worse, dying somewhere alone—gnawed at something in her chest she didn’t want to name.

Turning him in wasn’t an option. S.H.I.E.L.D. barely existed anymore, and after HYDRA’s infiltration, she couldn’t even tell who was left to trust. The Avengers, maybe—but the second Steve showed up, Barnes would bolt. She knew that. The man already barely let her near him.

And he wasn’t ready. Not for interrogations. Not for reunions. He was still bleeding in both body and mind. Broken in ways she couldn’t begin to understand. She could see it in his eyes, in the way he flinched at kindness, at her touch and soft tone.

So that left her with exactly two choices.

Walk out there and put a bullet in his brain. Or help him.

She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling as morning light began to seep through the blinds.

Killing him would be cleaner. Quicker. One shot, and it would all be over—no risk, no moral gymnastics, no sleepless nights wondering if she was harboring a killer or saving a victim. There was a reason people like her were trained to think that way. Make the call. End the threat.

But something in her gut was telling her that he didn’t feel like a threat. Not anymore.

She’d seen the way his hand trembled when he gripped the couch. The way his eyes darted around the room, cataloging exits, calculating danger, even as he bled through her shirt. She’d seen the flicker of panic when she touched him gently instead of fighting back. She used to see it in soldiers when they came home from war, even saw it in herself for a time. It was trauma, fear. Not rage.

He was dangerous, yes. But not in the way they used to say he was.

And if she put a bullet in him now, what would that make her? Judge, jury, and executioner? Maybe he had killed people. Too many to count, she could only imagine. But if HYDRA had twisted him, programmed him, carved his humanity out piece by piece…was it really his fault?

Her fists clenched the sheets.

No…she wouldn’t do it. Not while he was like this. Not when he came to her, bleeding and half-conscious, instead of vanishing into the wind like he so easily could have. She had seen so many people fail veterans in that same way, by not showing up, by not stepping to the plate. If she was the only one he would come to right now, the responsibility would fall on her shoulders.

He wasn’t just a mission in a folder anymore. A ghost story brought to life. He was a soldier, a POW. A victim.

And maybe, just maybe, if she gave him enough space, enough time… enough trust… he could become something more than what they made him.

She turned her head toward the door, straining to hear any movement.

Nothing. Not a sound.

Maybe he had left. The thought hit hard, sharper than she expected. Her heart clenched at the idea that she’d already failed before she’d even begun.

Pushing the covers back, she sat up slowly, her body heavy with exhaustion. She tugged a sweatshirt over her tank top and thin sweats, feet landing softly on the cool hardwood as she stood. Her head throbbed from lack of sleep, and her eyes stung like she’d been crying, though she hadn’t. Just the familiar aches of a sleepless night.

Her gaze flicked to the gun on the nightstand.

She hesitated, then let out a quiet breath. If he was going to kill her, he would’ve done it already. Kicked in the door, snapped her neck in her sleep—easy. The fact that she was still standing meant something.

She stepped into the living room quietly, still half-expecting to find it empty. But there he was. Still here. Still watching.

Bucky sat where she’d left him, on the far end of the couch, upright and alert like he hadn’t closed his eyes once. His bloodstained shirt was back on, clinging to his torso in dried patches, and his metal hand rested tensely on his thigh, fingers twitching slightly like he was ready to bolt at the smallest shift.

His eyes locked onto her the second she entered. He tensed further.

Relief washed over her like a crashing wave, but she didn’t let it show. She didn’t smile right away either, not with him sitting there looking like he was about to bolt. The air still felt thick with unspoken tension. But her posture softened.

“Hey,” she said quietly, praying she didn’t spook him. “You made it through the night.”

He didn’t answer, not really. Just gave her a small nod, barely perceptible. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed with exhaustion and something else. Mistrust? Fear?

“How are you feeling?” she asked, stepping slowly toward the arm of the couch.

Another shrug. He winced at the motion and hissed under his breath, but didn’t complain.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “That’s what I thought.”

She paused, giving him a little space, her fingers curling around the back of the couch arm like it anchored her. “I was gonna make something to eat—eggs, toast, coffee if you want it. You probably haven’t had a real meal in a while.”

He didn’t reply, but his eyes flicked to the kitchen, then back to her. She could tell he was still wary, still calculating. She wondered if he thought she’d poison him or call someone the second his back was turned.

She tried not to take it personally. She’d probably be thinking the same if she spent seventy years a prisoner.

“If you want to shower,” she added, jerking her thumb toward the hallway, “it’s the second door on the left. Towels are under the sink.”

He said nothing, but she caught a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—interest, maybe, or just doubt that he’d be alone long enough to wash the blood off.

She walked to the hallway closet and crouched down, tugging open a drawer at the very bottom. Dust puffed into the air. It had been ages since she’d even looked in here. She rifled through a stack of old clothes until she found what she was looking for—soft sweatpants, a t-shirt, a worn-in hoodie.

“My ex used to keep some things here,” she said casually as she stood, holding out the folded pile to him. “You look like you could use something clean. You’re bigger than he was, but it’ll work better than what you’ve got on.”

There was a pause. A noticeable one.

Bucky didn’t reach for the clothes right away. His face didn’t change much, but she caught it—just the slightest tightening around his eyes. Not anger exactly. Something closer to…irritation? Discomfort?

He took the clothes in silence, but the motion was stiff. Not ungrateful, but clearly not pleased.

She didn’t push. Maybe he just didn’t like others' clothes, but the bloodstained attire he had certainly wouldn’t do. She just nodded once and moved toward the kitchen again. “Coffee should be ready in five. Take your time.”

As she turned her back to him, she could still feel his stare pressed between her shoulder blades before she heard him step into the bathroom, the door shutting softly behind him. She busied herself with the routine—cracking eggs into a pan, sliding bread into the toaster, measuring out grounds for the coffee maker—but her mind remained with him, just a few feet away, still coiled like a spring.

The silence between them wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It was tense — at least, she felt that way. Where the wrong word might cause someone to disappear.

She was piling the eggs onto a plate and pouring herself a heavy cup of coffee when she heard the soft click of the bathroom door.

Barnes stepped out, silent as a shadow.

His hair hung in damp strands around his face, curling a little at the ends from the heat of the water. His skin was flushed pink—clean now, scrubbed raw in places, like he was trying to wash off more than just dirt and blood. The hoodie clung to him slightly, just a bit too snug in the shoulders and arms, the sleeves pulled tight over the metal of his left limb. The sweatpants were a little short on his long legs, riding up just enough to show ankle.

And yet, somehow, he looked… normal. Like a guy who’d just showered off a bad night and borrowed someone else’s clothes after a one-night stand.

She forced herself to act casual, motioning toward the table as she handed him the plate of eggs. “Figured you could use something hot.”

He looked at the food, then at her, eyes flicking between them like he didn’t quite know how to accept it.

“It’s poison-free, I swear,” she joked, flashing him a tentative smile. He just stared, incredulous. She cleared her throat awkwardly.

“And coffee,” she added, pushing a mug across the counter toward him. “Unless you don’t drink it?”

He took it slowly, fingers brushing the ceramic with deliberate care.

“How do you like it?” she asked, trying to sound light, conversational. “Black? Milk? Sugar?”

He stared down into the dark liquid, silent for a moment too long. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t look at her when he said them, like the admission itself was too vulnerable to meet her gaze. The words hit her harder than she expected. Of course, she was an idiot for not remembering what he had just broken himself free from. A life without choice, options. The last time he had coffee was probably during the war.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Well. You can try how I make mine. Cream, no sugar. See what you think.”

He gave a faint nod, and she watched as he took a careful sip. No comment. No visible reaction. But he drank again.

She didn’t press. She just sat down across from him, curling her hands around her own mug like it might ground her from her own nerves, and let the quiet settle around them.

He ate the eggs and toast carefully, like every movement had to be calculated. But the way he swallowed the food down—quick, almost desperate—told her just how hungry he really was. She doubted he’d had much to eat in days. Weeks, maybe. Not anything real, anyway. Just enough to stay alive.

Silently, she slid another piece of toast toward him. He glanced up at her, his expression unreadable, but didn’t refuse it. He took the bread and tore into it like he hadn’t tasted anything that warm in a long time.

She felt a sudden pang of guilt. She should’ve fed him last night. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind — she’d been too wrapped up in the blood and tension and fear. But he’d probably been starving then too.

She wrapped her hands around her mug and pressed the heel of her palm into the ceramic, letting the heat come close to burning her skin before quietly venturing her first question.

“Where have you been the last few weeks? Since… since the Triskelion?”

His blue eyes met hers, unblinking. Guarded. But not empty.

He really was beautiful in a way that was hard to ignore now that he was clean. She’d seen the old black-and-white newsreels—Bucky Barnes grinning beside Steve Rogers, tousled hair and effortless charm. The ladies’ man. The war hero. The heartthrob with a sharp wink and a swagger to match. The man sitting in front of her was a shell of that—silent, scarred, hunched slightly like the weight of the world still sat on his back—but still, there was something undeniably striking beneath the wear.

And the eyes…the eyes hadn’t changed.

He didn’t speak at first. Just studied her, as if weighing whether or not she deserved an answer. Then, in a low rasp: “Wherever I could hide before they found me.”

She nodded, curling her bare feet along the cool hardwood floor. Crumbs from the toast clung to her soles as she shifted. “And are they still chasing you?”

His jaw tensed. “As long as HYDRA exists.”

“But they don’t exist anymore,” she countered. “Rogers and Romanoff—Wilson too—they took them down. You know that.”

He shot her a sharp look, like the comment itself was naïve. “They’re still out there. Just not in the open anymore. Cells, splinters. Less organized, but alive.”

She didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong. Cut off the head, the body keeps moving. Maybe slower. Maybe dumber. But still dangerous.

She took a long sip of her coffee, letting the bitterness settle her. “So… you’re running. Where to?”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes drifted back to his empty plate, his metal fingers resting against the edge like he might crush it if he thought too long. The silence between them filled in the blanks—he had nowhere to go. No plan. No end in sight.

She hesitated, then shifted gears. “How much do you remember?” she asked carefully. “From before. You remember Steve, obviously. Do you know who you are?”

This time, his gaze was slower to meet hers. When it did, there was something fractured behind it.

“I remember pieces,” he said after a beat. “Some things are… sharp. Like they just happened. Others are gone. Blurry. Or they feel like they belong to someone else.”

A pause.

“I know who I was supposed to be. I don’t know if that’s still me.”

Her throat tightened slightly, but she didn’t show it. She just nodded, slowly, letting him sit with the words.

The silence between them stretched for a moment before she finally asked the question that had been gnawing at her for years.

“In Inessa… why didn’t you kill me?”

His eyes snapped up to hers, startled, but he didn’t look away. His jaw clenched again, and for a long moment she didn’t think he was going to answer.

But then he did. “You just… looked familiar.”

Her brows drew together, confused.

He shook his head slightly, looking back down when he spoke to avoid her gaze. “I don’t…know. But something about you—your face, your voice—there was this… feeling. Like I’d seen you before. Like I shouldn’t hurt you.”

She stared at him, her heart beating harder now, but not out of fear. She was more confused than anything now. As far as she knew, she had never seen the Winter Soldier in the flesh before Inessa.

“That was the first time I saw you,” she said cautiously. “Maybe you’re confusing me for someone else.”

“No,” he agreed, voice low. “I don’t think so. I just…I don’t know. My memories aren’t…whole.”

He looked down again, tracing an absent line on the table with his finger, like he was embarrassed to admit even that much.

“But I wasn’t supposed to question things back then. I just knew I couldn’t pull the trigger.”

“Something stopped you,” she murmured.

His blue eyes lifted to meet hers once more, steadier this time. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”

She watched him finish the last bite of toast, jaw tight, eyes cast downward like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that he wasn’t bleeding or running. She shouldn’t say it. The thought had already wormed its way into her head before she could stop it, but now it was lodged there, stubborn and dangerous.

Let him stay.

It was reckless. Maybe even stupid. She didn’t know him—not really. Not the way Steve did. All she knew was the file, the history, the ghost of a man buried under layers of programming and pain. But what she’d seen in the last twelve hours wasn’t a weapon. It was a man, damaged and barely holding on.

Maybe she was projecting. Maybe it was because he reminded her of herself after her father died — lost, alone, nowhere to go. Maybe she just didn’t want to feel useless anymore. But she couldn’t ignore that gut-deep instinct screaming at her that he didn’t need to be alone right now. That leaving him to fend for himself again might just be the final thing that broke him.

She took a breath, fingers tightening around her mug. “You don’t have to go, you know.”

His eyes snapped to hers, sharp, alert. Defensive. “I’m not staying here.”

“No, I mean… not here in the city,” she clarified quickly, trying to find the words without sounding completely out of her mind. “My family had a house out in West Virginia. It’s in my name now. It’s remote. Middle of nowhere. I’ve used it before when I needed to get away. I can tell anyone who asks that I’m taking time off, going up there to be alone. No one from the Avengers or S.H.I.E.L.D. will question it. Not right now.”

He stared at her, unmoving. She could practically hear the alarms going off behind his eyes.

“You’d be safe there,” she went on, her voice gentle now as she noted his rising panic. “It’s quiet. Clean air. No one for miles. You could lay low for a while. Rest. Figure out what’s next.”

He shook his head. “No. I can’t… I don’t want you involved.”

“Well,” she said softly, “you kinda got me involved when you bled out on my balcony.”

He flinched—barely—but it was there. A flicker of shame.

She pushed forward before he could object again. “Look, I know what I’m doing. I’m not asking for permission. I’m offering help. No trackers. No SHIELD. No Steve. Just you, me, and a bunch of hours of tree-covered back roads. You can stay with me as long as you want — leave whenever too. I won’t stop you. I’m just offering help.”

He stared at her for a long time, expression unreadable, before he looked away, brows furrowed. “It’s not safe for you.”

“I can handle myself. I’ve been fighting all my life,” she countered, gentler this time. “But I’m not scared of you. I think you need somewhere to breathe for more than five minutes. And unless you’ve got a better plan, this is all we’ve got.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just kept staring at the floor like it might give him an escape route. But the fight was already draining from his posture. His shoulders slumped slightly, like the weight was too much for even him to carry anymore.

Finally, he gave her a slow, reluctant nod.

“Just for a while,” he muttered. The exhaustion ached in his voice, bleeding out like a fresh wound.

She exhaled, the breath shaky with relief. “Just for a while.”

—————————————-

She moved through the apartment with practiced precision, tugging open drawers, unzipping duffels, mentally checking off what they’d need. Clothes. Weapons. Cash. First-aid. Chargers. IDs. Anything that might buy them time, distance, or cover.

Her bedroom quickly turned into controlled chaos: shirts and jeans rolled tight into packs, boots lined up next to a black duffel stuffed with med supplies and enough weapons to raise questions at a checkpoint. She didn’t pack light, she packed smart.

And not just for herself.

She grabbed one of her old canvas bags and started building a pile of clothes in larger sizes—stuff left over from old flings, guys who never came back for hoodies or flannels. It felt strange folding them for someone like Barnes. He didn’t seem like the sweatshirt type. But it was something. He needed something.

She made a mental note: We’ll have to stop for more clothes. Maybe somewhere quiet.

Behind her, she could feel him watching, silent and steady from the kitchen doorway. She didn’t glance over, but she could feel the weight of his gaze. Not suspicious exactly. Just… conflicted. Like he wasn’t sure if he was walking into a trap or if he was the trap.

She zipped the second duffel and looked up. “Do you have anything? Stuff you want to bring?”

He shook his head once. “I don’t have things.”

The answer landed heavy between them, and she didn’t press. What could he even keep? Everything he touched was either burned, buried, or stolen from him.

Without another word, she walked over to the open weapons case under her bed. She pulled out two handguns—both cleaned, loaded, safety on—and a a couple knives, one of them a wicked folding blade with a smooth matte grip.

She crossed the room, paused in front of him, and held them out.

He stared at her, almost confused.

“These are for you,” she said. “If you’re going to be out there with me, I’d rather you be armed. In case things go sideways. I have a bag of clothes for you too. They’ll hold you over for a while but we should get you some stuff that actually fits.”

He didn’t move to take them right away. His expression darkened, unreadable. She could tell he couldn’t decide if this was a setup or some twisted test.

But she just stood there, patient. No fear in her face. Just calm, open hands. “I promise you, Barnes, I mean what I say.”

Slowly, he reached out and took the weapons, eyes scanning over the guns like he knew their weight by heart. The knives, too — he examined the edge of one with a practiced flick of his flesh thumb before tucking them away with silent efficiency.

“You trust me with these?” he asked, voice low.

“I trust that you haven’t killed me yet,” she said simply. “And I trust that you don’t want to. But if HYDRA finds us, you should be able to defend yourself.” That earned her a look. Not gratitude. Not warmth. But something softer than before. A crack in the armor.

He nodded, just once. Quiet, deliberate. Like it mattered.

They loaded the car just after sunrise — two duffel bags in the trunk, one stashed under her feet, and Bucky tucked into the passenger seat sitting tensely like he wasn’t sure he belonged there.

He hadn’t said a word since they walked out of the apartment. Just moved like a ghost, shoulders drawn tight beneath the borrowed hoodie. The bandage beneath it was still fresh, she reapplied it before they left. He’d heal quickly. At least physically.

The first hour passed in silence. The city gave way to suburb, suburb to open road. Asphalt stretched out like an invitation, or maybe an escape route. Her fingers curled tighter around the wheel the farther they got.

This was crazy. The whole thing was absolutely absurd. And yet here she was, chauffeuring the world’s greatest assassin to the woods of West Virginia.

She glanced over. Bucky hadn’t moved. Just stared out the window, jaw locked, lips pressed together in a grim line. He hadn’t even asked where exactly the house was. Maybe he didn’t care.

She reached forward and tapped the screen on the console. “Want to listen to something?” she offered, trying to cut the tension with something, anything, normal.

He didn’t answer.

She flipped to a playlist anyway. Something she liked to play on long drives when her brain wouldn’t shut up. A few beats of silence passed, then the scratchy opening riff of a Led Zeppelin song crackled to life. The guitar kicked in. Then vocals. Loud, dramatic.

His brow furrowed.

She almost turned it off, thinking maybe it was too much. But then his voice came, soft and low.

“I’ve never heard this.”

Her eyebrows lifted a little, surprised. “It’s Zeppelin. Seventies rock. You missed a few decades, huh?”

He huffed a bit, closest thing to a laugh he could muster, she guessed. “Suppose I did.”

She let the music fill the car. The song shifted into another, Fleetwood Mac this time, then Bowie. He said nothing more, but she noticed the tension in his shoulders loosen ever so slightly.

“Do you like it? You kinda have to say yes. These are classics.” she asked after a while, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Classics”. She fought back a wince. She had the nerve to say that to a guy born during the first world war. God, she was a moron.

There was a pause. “Yeah,” he muttered lowly. “I do.”

Silence settled again. But now it felt different. Less suffocating.

He spoke again, rough and hesitant, like the words scraped their way out. “Why are you doing this?”

She glanced over at him quickly, startled at the question.

He shifted, not meeting her eyes. His were still fixed on the dashboard. “Why are you helping me? You barely know me. I’ve done…things. I don’t—” His voice caught, jaw tightening. “I don’t deserve this.”

She didn’t answer right away. Let the question hang in the air like smoke, waiting for it to dissipate.

“I don’t know,” she said eventually, honestly. “Maybe because I’ve seen what they did to people like you. Because I’ve read the files, seen the damage. And it didn’t look like a choice to me.”

He said nothing.

She pressed on, firm. “I see a man who’s trying to claw his way out of a life he didn’t ask for. I’ve seen that far more than you know, and you can’t get out of that hole alone. Without people around you. And because I know what it’s like to feel like no one’s coming to save you.”

His fingers curled around his knee, the silence thickening between them again. But she could tell he wasn’t upset. Just…processing.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, anxious, despite her best efforts to hide it. She was in over her head, protecting him. He was physically and mentally wounded, not damaged…just in need of help. She was certainly not qualified to fix him, but she doubted he would eagerly sit down for therapy or any sort of mental health assistance. He just needed peace and quiet for now, and maybe the rest would fall into place.

They stopped at a quiet strip of roadside stores somewhere along the edge of West Virginia—barely a town, more like a cluster of buildings clinging to the side of a gas station. A faded sign advertised a clothing outlet in all caps, sun-bleached and forgotten.

She parked the car, glanced over. “C’mon. You need clothes that actually fit.”

Bucky shifted in the passenger seat, stiff. “I’m fine.”

“You’re wearing sweats that were made for a guy three inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter,” she said flatly, already getting out of the car. “You’re getting clothes.”

He followed, reluctantly.

Inside, the store smelled like mothballs and old wood. The racks were sparsely filled with flannels, jeans, and basic t-shirts. Luckily, there was no one inside but the bored looking cashier, who didn’t even spare them a second glance as they trudged in. Barnes eyed everything suspiciously, keeping his metal hand wedged into his pocket.

She pulled a few things—dark jeans, a couple henleys, a sturdy jacket, plain black boots—and handed them off to him wordlessly, waiting for him to object.

It didn’t take long. Barnes looked at the pile, brow furrowed. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t,” she said, not looking at him as she dug through a bin of socks. “I want to.”

He hesitated, holding the stack like it was something fragile. “You shouldn’t be spending money on me.”

She finally looked up, locking eyes with him. “I just spent the night sewing you up and giving you guns. A couple t-shirts from this discount Goodwill isn’t going to push me over the edge.”

He didn’t argue again, but he didn’t say thank you, either. Still, when they got to the register, he stood beside her quietly, eyes on the floor, letting it happen.

—————————————-

The terrain shifted as they crossed into West Virginia, the road winding deeper into the trees. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows through the windshield, and for the first time in hours, Bucky broke the silence.

“This place we’re going… the house,” he said slowly. “It’s yours?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Used to be my dad’s childhood home. My grandparents built it way back. After he passed, it came to me.”

Bucky glanced at her, curiosity flickering just under the surface at the mention of her father’s death. “How’d he die?”

She didn’t answer immediately, fingers tightening just slightly on the wheel. Then, softly: “He was in the army pretty much all of his life, became the Senior Military Advisor to the Secretary of Defense when I was a kid. He was shot on the street a few months after. They never caught the guy. Some lunatic, apparently.”

There was a beat of silence, then his voice—low, gravel-soft. “I’m sorry.”

She glanced at him, a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “Thanks.”

There was another beat of quiet. He hadn’t moved an inch.

“And your ma?” he asked.

She caught it, just a trace of an accent in his voice. Brooklyn, faint but unmistakable. He probably didn’t even notice it slipping through. The east-coast twang made her smile, just a little. “She died when I was a kid. Cancer. I barely remember her.”

She felt his gaze shift toward her then, steady and unreadable. It didn’t feel like pity. Not exactly. More like he was really looking at her—trying to understand her, piece her together the way she had been doing to him.

“No siblings? No family? No husband?”

That earned a short laugh. “No… no real family. A few distant cousins I don’t really talk to. And no husband…” She shrugged. “Had a few boyfriends over the years. But nothing that stuck.”

“You’re alone,” he said plainly.

It wasn’t cruel. Just… matter-of-fact. A truth he recognized in her, maybe because he carried it too.

She nodded. “Yeah. Been that way most of my life.”

There wasn’t any bitterness in her tone, just a quiet acceptance. Losing her parents had hurt, of course. But it had been years. And after the Army, after everything she’d seen and done, grief wasn’t a wound anymore. It was just part of her now. Like scar tissue. Thick, tough, and mostly numb.

She glanced over at him. He still hadn’t touched the flannel she’d tossed over the seat earlier, but he was staring out the window, jaw tight, fingers flexing slowly against his thigh like he was thinking hard about something.

Maybe they weren’t so different, she thought. Two ghosts trying to survive in the aftermath.

They didn’t speak after that for a while. The trees thickened around them, and the road narrowed. The house wasn’t far now— hidden like a memory.

By the time they pulled up the long gravel drive, the sun was hanging low behind the trees, casting the whole property in golden light. The house came into view slowly—a two-story, weathered colonial build tucked into a patch of clearing in the woods. Pale blue siding, white trim, and a wide front porch with chipped paint and an old porch swing that groaned with the wind. It was quiet. Peaceful in a way most places weren’t anymore.

The house sat on five acres of mostly untamed land, the tall grass waving softly in the breeze. Towering oaks and dense pine framed the perimeter, stretching deep into the surrounding woods. The nearest town was twenty minutes down the road, but out here, it felt like another world entirely.

She parked close to the porch and cut the engine. “Home sweet home.”

Bucky looked out the window, face unreadable. She could tell he was scanning the property, looking for any weaknesses, any potential threats. She didn’t blame him - she would do the same.

They grabbed the bags in silence and headed inside. The air smelled faintly of cedar and dust. She hadn’t been here in months but everything was just as she left it. Hardwood floors, an old brick fireplace, worn rugs and mismatched furniture that somehow still looked inviting. Lived-in. Safe.

She led him down the hallway to the back bedroom. It was simple, just a bed, dresser, a faded quilt over clean sheets, and a window that looked out onto the woods. The sunlight streaked in through the glass, warm and dappled.

“You can stay here,” she said, setting his bag down on the edge of the bed. “The room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

Bucky stood just inside the doorway, eyes scanning the space slowly, as if trying to convince himself it was real. She could see the hesitation in his posture—the stiffness of someone who didn’t know the last time they’d been offered something without strings.

After a moment, he gave a short nod. “Thanks.”

It was quiet, but sincere. Not forced. And it was the first time he’d said it.

She smiled faintly. “You’re welcome.”

He lingered a second longer, then stepped further in. His fingers brushed the edge of the dresser tentatively, like he was making sure this was all real, and she turned to leave, giving him space. But before she could cross the threshold, his voice followed her, a little rough around the edges.

“This place… it’s nice.”

She glanced back, surprised again by the softness under the gravel of his tone. “It is,” she agreed. “It’s even better knowing that our only neighbors are deer and wolves.”

Bucky gave a faint huff—almost a laugh—but said nothing more. Still, when she left him there and walked down the hall, she couldn’t help but feel it: the shift. Small, but real.

He was warming up to her. Even if he didn’t quite know how.

—————————————-

tag list:

Summary: Four years ago, she survived the impossible—going toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier and living to tell the tale. Now, Bucky Barnes is on her balcony, broken and bleeding. And her? She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes with blood on their hands.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post-CATWS Series Masterlist AO3 Link Warnings: N/A Word Count: 6.9K

Author's Note:

This one is a bit fluffy for sure, but we're growing that relationship slowly but surely :)

A lot of this is a focus on slow acclaimation of Bucky to the modern world. Not a lot of that, if any, was shown in the Marvel universe, so I took some creative liberty with that. Naturally, having him around our female main character would make him acclamate faster to the 21st century than doing it entirely alone.

Please let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

______________________________________________________________

Part 5: Summer of 2014, West Virginia

The light streaming in through the window was soft and golden. Late morning, maybe. She blinked against it, her eyes heavy, head clouded with sleep. 

Something was off. The mattress didn’t feel like hers. The scent around her — clean sweat, sandalwood — was distinctly not hers.

Then she realized. Bucky’s room.

Her body was curled awkwardly on top of the blankets, one leg half-draped over the edge of the bed, her arm stretched out to the opposite side. She’d slid sideways in her sleep and her cheek was resting against something solid and cool.

 Her eyes snapped fully open.

His arm. She was sleeping on his metal arm.

And Bucky…Bucky was still beside her, upright against the headboard. His head was tilted slightly to the side, eyes closed, breath deep and even.

Fuck.

Her heart stumbled in her chest. Shit. She felt like a teenage girl again for some reason — flustered, embarrassed at her own actions. Like she had a one-night stand with him rather than just innocently falling asleep in his bed. Maybe it was the fact of who he was, or that he was technically her housemate. Or maybe it was just because none of this was her intention. She had planned on going back to her room after he fell asleep. 

She tried to shift upright without making it obvious. Maybe she could slide off before he woke up? Gingerly, she pulled herself off his arm as slowly as she could manage, holding her breath as the bed groaned softly with her movements. He didn’t move, thankfully, and she breathed a sigh of relief. 

Then his voice came, low and rough with sleep.

“You’re alright, I’m already up.”

She froze.

His eyes were still closed, but she could tell he was awake now. His breathing wasn’t slow enough for him to still be asleep. She was an idiot for not noticing. 

“I didn’t mean to — ” she started, moving further away from him hastily in a mild state of panic. 

“It’s okay,” he said, finally opening his eyes. They were a little groggy, but not cold. Just hazy with fatigue. “You didn’t… do anything wrong.”

Her cheeks were already warm, heat creeping into her chest. “I didn’t realize I fell asleep.”

He gave a slow nod, running a hand over his face. “I kind of figured when you stopped answering.”

She looked away quickly, sitting up straighter and brushing her hair back in a vain attempt to appear like she hadn’t just woken up curled around a super soldier’s vibranium arm. God, she probably looked like hell. And her breath—she cringed internally. There was something unbearably vulnerable about being seen like this: unready, unguarded. Or maybe it was just her own insecurities setting off alarms in her head.

“I should’ve moved,” she muttered. She hoped the embarrassment wasn’t too rife in her voice. “I planned on going back to my room when you fell asleep, I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t have to. And there’s no reason to be sorry. Harmless mistake.” His voice was calm, and there was the faintest flicker of something behind it—comfort? Maybe something else. But she was too nervous to interpret anything right now. 

Instead, he stretched a little, wincing when something in his neck cracked. “I, uh… I slept through the night. No nightmares.”

That made her pause. She stared at him, eyes wide. “Seriously?”

He nodded, then offered a small, tired smile. “Yeah. First time in… I don’t even know how long. Maybe since the war, really.”

Her embarrassment wavered, softened by that. “I’m glad.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded, watching her with an unreadable expression. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She was certain her face was aflame. 

If Maria or Nick – or anyone she knew really — saw her like this, one of S.H.I.E.L.D. 's most composed operatives, a former Army captain, a decorated vet, reduced to a blushing, stammering mess? She’d never hear the end of it.

She rubbed the back of her neck, fingers brushing through her hair subconsciously as a means to offer herself some comfort. “If I overstepped—”

“You didn’t,” he said, his voice steady, reassuring. “Really.”

She gave a small nod, barely able to meet his eyes as she stood. He didn’t look upset, far from it. If anything, he looked… content. Relaxed, even. The faint lines in his brow had smoothed out. There was no tension in his shoulders. It was almost unsettling to see him that way…but in a good way. She just didn’t know what to do with it.

“Okay. I should, uh… make coffee,” she said, already halfway to the door. “You want it black? With cream? We could try sugar too, maybe you’ll like that.”

She was starting to ramble and she knew it. He probably knew it too – he was watching her with a growing smirk, the corners of his mouth curling in a way that was completely unfair.

God, he definitely thought she was a disaster.

When was the last time she’d slept in a bed with a man? Over a year ago, maybe. And that had just been… sex. Transactional, impersonal. The kind of intimacy you could file away in a mental box and forget about. But this, falling asleep beside someone and waking up safe? Feeling seen? It was unfamiliar. And it rattled her more than she would like to admit. 

Intimacy meant revealing parts of yourself to someone who could potentially hurt you, leave you. It left you vulnerable and open to larger feelings, possible holes in your life when death came calling. She’d never truly allowed herself to open up, fall in love. Not when she had spent the majority of her life entirely alone. 

“The way you usually make it is fine,” he said, saying her name carefully, like it was a secret rather than just a simple fact. His blue eyes were glued to her, watching her like he was seeing right through the mess she was trying to cover up. “Just cream, please.”

She gave him a stiff nod, turning away sharply like it might save her dignity, and made it halfway to the hallway before she stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

“Better wipe that drool off your chin, Sergeant Barnes,” she called, a flicker of a smirk in her voice. “Looks like you’re a mouth breather.”

He blinked at her, then snorted—actually snorted—and shook his head, letting out a sound that resembled something close to a laugh. 

And somehow, that made her blush even more. 

—————————————-

From then on, everything began to shift. Slowly, but certainly.

Bucky started talking to her more, nothing dramatic, just small things at first. Questions about what groceries they needed, comments about the weather. But day by day, his words became more intentional, his walls a little lower. They shared meals like it was a given now, swapping war stories over breakfast or dinner, circling gently around the memories he was still trying to piece together.

He told her about Brooklyn in his youth — the dance halls, the music, the weekend street fairs. Stories about his sisters, his mother’s cooking, the way the city used to glow before the war hollowed it out. She started digging through archives and genealogy sites when he wasn’t looking, trying to find whatever scraps of his family history still existed. It took a little time, but eventually she found traces — records, names, photos. His parents had lived long lives. His sisters, too. They’d married, had children, grandchildren. Some were still alive.

She showed him everything she could find, where they’d lived, where they were buried, who was left. He’d thanked her, voice quiet, unreadable. Then he’d spent the rest of the day outside, sitting alone beneath the trees. Processing. Grieving. 

It helped, she thought. Wrapping up loose ends. Making space for peace.

She offered, once, to drive him back to Brooklyn. To see the old neighborhood. Visit the graves. He’d turned her down with a simple, “Not yet.” She hadn’t pushed. He’d go when he was ready.

Their evenings became a ritual — introducing him to new movies, playing music from the decades he’d missed, or just talking. Sometimes they stayed up for hours, deep into the night, trading memories as they surfaced. Some were light— laughing in the kitchen with his sisters, dancing with girls from school, racing Steve through alleyways barefoot. Others weren’t.

She could tell when one of the darker memories resurfaced. He’d go quiet. Stiff. His eyes would glaze over like he was somewhere else entirely, and for the rest of the day, he’d barely speak. After the worst ones, he would retreat to his room or vanish on long, punishing runs, coming back hours later pale and haunted. She never pried, just waited.

Eventually, he began to tell her some of it.

What HYDRA did to him. The torture. The way they erased his name in his own mind. The people he was forced to kill. The chamber they’d freeze him in, the times his memory was wiped. She learned things about him too, without him even telling her. He hated baths. The water reminded him of being strapped down, waterboarded to the brink of death. Rain made the pain in his shoulder spike, the metal arm aching deep into the joint. He wouldn’t go near a razor — too many handlers had held blades to his face.

She never criticized, never made him feel any lesser for his experience. Instead, she just adapted.

She modified things quietly — setting up showers instead of baths, heating pads for rainy days, trimming her own hair so he wouldn’t feel pressured to ask for help one day. She never made a show of it, never turned her care into something performative. Just small changes. Gentle encouragement. Subtle shifts to help him feel safer. 

And in return, he started to trust her, not just with his routines, but with the shadows too.

Nearly a month had passed since the night she’d fallen asleep in his bed, curled against his arm after his nightmare. She hadn’t crossed that line again. Most nights, she’d sit with him on the couch until he drifted off, or stay in his room talking with him late into the night. When the nightmares came—bad ones—she’d sit beside him, keep him distracted, grounded. But she always stayed out of the bed. That had felt like a boundary. A delicate one that she made in her own head.

Bucky never brought it up, never acted like it had bothered him. If anything, he seemed comforted by her presence. But she didn’t want to risk overstepping, not for his sake, and not for her own. Intimacy had always felt unfamiliar, like a language she’d only half-learned. And opening herself up to the man she was helping heal? That was dangerous territory. One she wasn’t sure she could walk through without getting lost.

Spring slowly gave way to summer. Sludge had melted from the edge of the woods, replaced with wet earth and sprouting green. Before she realized it, their third month in the house had come and gone, edging into a fourth.

Bucky had thrown himself into rebuilding the old shed, which had nearly collapsed from years of rot and neglect. She found him out there most mornings, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, working quietly with that same focused intensity he brought to everything. He worked on other things around the house too – faulty plumbing, landscaping the yard, painting the fences. Meanwhile, she kept herself busy with backlogged S.H.I.E.L.D. cases, consulting for Maria remotely when she could.

To her relief, Maria never pressed her on the move, never asked why she had disappeared into the mountains. No one came looking. The world seemed content to leave them where they were.

She kept Bucky informed on the outside when it felt appropriate, especially about the Avengers. They were still dismantling what remained of HYDRA across the globe, tearing through the last of its deep roots. She always mentioned any word of them and their latest feats, watching his face carefully when she did. He never commented, never gave his opinion. But whenever she said Steve’s name, she noticed the shift, just a flicker of something in his eyes. Fondness, recognition of old memories. Sadness, too. 

Still, he never asked about him. Never said he wanted to see him. She didn’t ask why. Shame, maybe. Or fear. Or something too heavy to name.

And again, she told herself: it wasn’t her place to ask.

But one day, she had an idea. She left early in the morning for DC, letting Bucky know she would be back by evening. He didn’t fight her on it, but did ask her to leave behind one of her burner phones with him in case she needed to contact him. And double checked that she took her gun. It was sweet, his concern. She tried not to fixate on it. 

The rain had come in soft that afternoon, soaking the pine needles and clinging to the windows in streaks when she pulled back into the house later that night. When she came through the front door — damp from running out of her car into the light rain — holding a thin cardboard box tucked under one arm, Bucky looked up from where he was sitting on the couch, curious.

“I called in a favor with one of my old West Point buddies that works at the Smithsonian,” she said, toeing off her boots. “Thought it might jog a few memories.”

He raised a brow as she crossed the room and placed the box gently on the coffee table. “What is it?”

“Old film reel,” she said, pulling out the canister carefully. “Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Someone must’ve donated it a while back — there’s a whole WWII archive tucked away in the back room of the museum.”

He stiffened slightly, just for a moment.

“I figured,” she said, a little softer now, “if you wanted… we could watch it. No pressure.”

Bucky looked down, flesh fingers curling around the edge of the cushion beneath him. Suddenly, the hesitancy he had worn so well the first few weeks of knowing him came back. “I don’t know.”

“It’s just a reel,” she said gently, “and we can turn it off if it’s too much. But if it brings anything back, something good, maybe…”

He was quiet for a few seconds. She could tell he was uncertain, that he was waging an internal war in his head. After a moment, he gave a small nod, meeting her gaze with something not too far off from a grimace. “Okay.”

They set up the projector together, the old film stuttering to life on the makeshift screen she’d pinned to the far wall. The first few minutes were jerky, black-and-white footage overlaid with a triumphant brass score. Narration in that clipped, mid-century newsreel tone. “Our brave boys in uniform, led by Captain America and his loyal team, striking back against the Nazi threat—!”

She threw him a look. “Did they always narrate things like that back in the day?”

Bucky gave a low chuckle. He looked nervous, she could tell, but he was controlling it well. “Pretty much.”

The footage cut to scenes of Steve leaping from a jeep, shield raised, followed by the Commandos pouring through thick smoke—guns raised, faces smeared with dirt, faces alight with adrenaline.

And there he was. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — uniform crisp, rifle slung across his back, hair slicked to one side, barking orders as he ran past the camera with a determined glint in his eye. He looked so different here — younger, fresher…more innocent compared to the hardened, scowling man beside her.

She leaned forward, grinning mischievously. “Okay, I’ll admit it — maybe they were right about you being a ladies’ man.”

Immediately, he lightened up a bit, his posture relaxing. He glanced at her skeptically. “Who’s they?”

“I mean, the hair alone.” She nudged his leg with hers, teasing. “You had the whole smolder thing going before it was cool. Doesn’t look like you had the staring thing yet either.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “You know I hated that uniform? The straps itched like hell.”

“Oh no,” she gasped mockingly. “But the jacket was so fashionable in the middle of the largest war ever seen. However did you survive?”

He gave her a cynical look, but there was warmth behind it. His scowl melted into a small smirk, the corners of his lips turning upwards. 

On the screen, the team paused for a group photo — Steve front and center, Dum Dum Dugan tipping his hat, Bucky with his arms crossed, mouth just barely curled into a grin.

“I remember that day,” he said suddenly, voice softer now. “Steve kept falling over because the ground was slick and he was trying to look taller. I told him if he slipped one more time, I was gonna carry him like a bride.”

She laughed. “Please tell me there’s footage of that.”

Bucky smiled faintly, eyes still on the screen. “He was so proud. We all were. Even when it felt like hell.”

They watched in silence for a few more minutes, the reel humming softly behind them. On the screen, the footage jumped slightly before resolving into a grainy shot of the Commandos crouched in a trench, mud caked to their uniforms. Bucky was front and center — chin tilted, rifle in one hand, his posture relaxed but ready. Even in black and white, the camera caught the sharp line of his jaw, the strength in the set of his shoulders. He looked so different, with shorter hair, less scars…clearer eyes. They didn’t carry the same heavy weight they did now. 

“Okay, seriously,” she said, eyes narrowing with mock offense, “how was that even fair?”

He blinked, glancing at her curiously.

“You were obnoxiously good-looking,” she continued, gesturing to the screen. She was sure his ego would blossom at that comment, but he needed that. Not that it wasn’t absolutely deserved — his reputation for charm made sense now. “Like, ‘cover-of-a-war-propaganda-poster’ handsome.”

He huffed a laugh and shifted a bit, hiding his face from her behind his hair involuntarily. “I think that was kind of the point.”

“Oh, I see,” she teased. “Use the cheekbones to win the war.”

“They said I photographed well,” he deadpanned.

“That’s the understatement of the century.”

On the screen, another shot appeared — this time of him leaping from a truck, hair wild as he landed hard and kept moving. For a second, he looked straight into the camera, mouth set in a grim, determined line.

She gave a low whistle, elbowing him lightly in the chest. “That’s straight-up action hero material. I bet you were a hit back home with these films.”

He snorted, rubbed his jaw with his hand. He definitely was blushing now, flush climbing his neck.

“I’m serious,” she continued, grinning as she nudged his arm. “You must’ve had women falling at your feet. Look at that hair! Is that from pomade? That shine is unreal.”

He smiled, reluctantly, but it was there. And when he did, for just a second, he looked exactly like the version of himself flickering across the screen: young, confident, and completely unstoppable.

“It was Brylcreem,” he said, glancing at her. “I told you that.”

She blinked. “No you didn’t.”

The smile instantly turned into a frown. He froze a little, eyes going off somewhere distant. “I thought I did.” 

“You definitely didn’t.” She gave him a skeptical look. “I would’ve remembered something like that.”

He shrugged, the frown not quite melted from his face. “Guess I’m getting ahead of myself.”

She gave him a strange look at that, a bit confused, but brushed it off with a playful roll of her eyes.

“Well,” she said, leaning back against the couch, “you remembering period-accurate hair care products? That’s progress.”

His smile faded to something quieter, something almost fond. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”

She nudged him again, gesturing at the image of him on screen. “I would’ve made you sweat a little then, if I was one of your dance hall girls. Just to keep you humble.”

He turned his head, the smirk on his face making her stomach flip in a way that felt entirely unfair. His blue eyes seemed almost alight, dancing over her face. “Yeah?” he said, voice low. 

She blinked and for a moment, her heart stuttered in her chest at his tone, the sensuality in it that she wasn’t even sure if he was aware of. She recovered quickly with a smirk of her own, laughing. “Yeah. Someone had to take you down a peg. Let you know when you were having a bad hair day.”

The reel flickered again, showing a quick scene of the Commandos crowded around a campfire, laughing at something out of frame. Bucky leaned against a crate, sleeves rolled, laughing openly. Bright, easy — alive.

Her teasing faded just a little, her voice softer now. “You looked happy.”

He was quiet for a moment, the smile slipping into something more thoughtful. “I was. Back then.”

She paused, glancing away from the flickering screen to study him instead. “And now?” she asked quietly. “Are you… unhappy here?”

He blinked, visibly taken off guard. For a second, his brow furrowed like he wasn’t sure how to answer, or didn’t understand the question. But then realization settled in, and his expression softened with something close to regret. Not regret for what he felt, but that she’d misunderstood.

“No,” he said her name gently. “That’s not what I meant.”

He shifted slightly, angling toward her more. The screen still played behind them, but neither of them were watching it now.

“I am happy here,” he said, voice steady. “More than I’ve been in a long time. You’ve done more for me than anyone else ever has. You could’a handed me over or left me bleeding, but you didn’t.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he kept going, his voice low and honest.

“You gave me space to figure things out. Peace when I didn’t think I’d ever have that again. I don’t even know how I can repay you.”

She looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together in her lap. His gratitude warmed her, but it also made her uneasy. She hated flattery, but more than that, his gratitude didn’t feel deserved. “You don’t have to repay me,” she murmured. “That’s not what this was ever about.”

He tilted his head slightly, searching her face. “Then what was it about?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “At first… I think I just wanted to help. You looked like someone who needed saving.”

“And now?”

Her breath caught a little at the question, her eyes flicking up to meet him. The weight of it hung between them, unspoken but not unnoticed.

The answer poked at the back of her subconscious. Because he was her friend. Because she cared about him. 

Because now, when he smiled at her, she swore she felt something eating at her heart that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe ever.

And that terrified her.

“I don’t know,” she said again, hushed this time. She pushed the truth aside, deep down somewhere she didn’t have to acknowledge. Better to keep things separate. He would never know, and eventually, they would go their separate ways.

He didn’t push. He just watched her, the quiet hum of the projector filling the space between them. 

—————————————-

The next day, as she was lacing up her boots and getting ready to head into town for groceries, Bucky surprised her with a request. 

“Mind if I come with you?”

She blinked, halfway through tying her boot. “Seriously?”

He gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal, but she could tell it was. Her shock was embarrassingly obvious, but she didn’t try to hide it. “Yeah. Yes. I’d love that.”

Internally, she was buzzing. This was huge — his first time willingly stepping into public since they’d arrived. She didn’t press, didn’t make a comment about how big of a step it was, but the smile tugging at her lips said enough.

He came out to the car a few minutes later dressed in his standard attire: worn jeans, a dark Henley that clung a little too well to his frame, and gloves despite the rising heat — always covering the arm. A baseball cap sat low on his brow, shadowing his eyes. He climbed into the passenger seat without a word, a familiar scowl fixed on his face like armor.

“Don’t look too thrilled,” she teased, switching on the radio and letting a beat from some old nineties rap fill the cab. Bucky winced, but she knew by now he hated this particular genre of music. She liked it anyway.

He gave her a sidelong glance, suspicious. “You brought your gun?”

“Bucky,” she sighed. “We’re going to the grocery store. In a town with a population smaller than a high school.”

He didn’t budge. “You left it at home?”

She rolled her eyes and flipped open the center console, revealing the matte grip of her sidearm tucked neatly inside. “Of course not. I always keep one in the car. Dad. Or should I be saying Grandpa?”

Bucky stared at her, deadpan. “I’m not actually a hundred years old.”

She snorted, shifting into drive. “Keep telling yourself that. We’ll get through the denial stage eventually.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like ‘smartass’, but she caught the tug of a smile as they pulled out onto the gravel road. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him settle in, shoulders tight, eyes scanning out the window, but there was no panic. No dread.

The town’s grocery store was modest — a single-level, family-owned place with creaky floors and a bell that jingled overhead when they walked in. Bucky stopped just inside the doorway, squinting like he was bracing for something. She slowed beside him, watching his eyes scan the fluorescent-lit aisles with open suspicion.

“What?” she asked, brow raised.

“This is…” He paused, blinking. “A grocery store?”

She grinned. “Yeah. What were you expecting, a ration line and a guy handing out powdered milk?”

He didn’t laugh. If anything, he looked overwhelmed.

“This place is the size of a movie theater,” he muttered.

She nudged him with her elbow. “Welcome to late-stage capitalism, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky followed her in with wary steps, keeping close as they passed the produce section. He eyed the neat rows of pre-packaged greens, the mountains of apples and avocados stacked impossibly high.

“They’re not even in season,” he whispered like it was a scandal. “How do you have strawberries in spring?”

“Magic,” she said. “Or California. Honestly, same thing.”

When they turned into the snack aisle, he came to a dead stop. His eyes widened at the rows upon rows of brightly colored packaging. Cereal mascots grinned at him, chip bags crinkled under the power of the AC vent above. He reached out and picked up a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, turning it over like it was alien technology. “Are these healthy?”

“Emotionally, yes,” she replied. “Physically…not so much.”

“And this guy?” He pointed to Chester Cheetah. “Why is a cheetah wearing sunglasses? On a food item?”

She snorted. “Honestly? That’s not even in the top five weirdest mascots.”

A few minutes later, she found him standing in front of a freezer case, arms crossed, staring blankly at something inside.

“What now?” she asked.

“They sell whole frozen turkeys year-round?” he said. “Who needs that many turkeys?”

“Some people like to be prepared. You never know when a family reunion might strike.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “Do people actually eat all this stuff?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, tossing a frozen pizza into the cart. “Sometimes all in one sitting.”

Bucky pulled a face, looking tragically disturbed. “Steve would have a heart attack.”

“Can’t really happen to him anymore,” she said. “Technically. He got injected with science juice, remember? Not everyone’s so lucky.”

She earned a look for that one. 

As they made their way towards the checkout, she caught him glancing into the cart, eyebrows raised. “Half of this stuff doesn’t even look like food.”

“And yet,” she said, leaning a little closer, “you’re the one who snuck a candy bar into the cart when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

He glanced down, a bit bashful. It thrilled her to see more and more emotion from him as the days went on. “It’s…research.’”

“Mmm,” she teased. “Sure it is. That Hershey’s bar looked very tactical.”

Bucky smirked, his eyes alight with mirth. “You laugh now. But if the world ends and you need high-calorie rations, don’t come crying to me. Chocolate on the frontline was a godsend.”

She chuckled as they loaded their groceries onto the belt. He looked less tense now, even if he was still clearly processing this new world in chunks. Watching him marvel at the mundane was something she hadn’t expected to enjoy as much as she did.

She slid her credit card out of her wallet and handed it over without thinking, leaning against the counter casually as the total racked up on the screen. Bucky stood beside her, watching the transaction with mild confusion.

“Wait,” he said, voice low, brows drawn together. “How are you paying for all this? You haven’t been working since we got here.” She hesitated, just slightly, keeping her eyes on the screen. “I’ve got savings.”

His expression didn’t change. He just kept watching her. Waiting for a further explanation. 

She sighed, finally glancing over. “After my parents died, I inherited a decent amount. The house out here was part of it, and there was some money. I’ve also got my Army benefits and, uh…” She cleared her throat. “There’s a small pension that comes with the Medal of Valor. It’s not much, but it adds up.”

His eyes softened immediately, but the crease in his brow didn’t ease. “You’ve been using that. On me.”

She shrugged like it was no big deal, trying to brush it off. “I’m not exactly living a flashy lifestyle, Barnes. This place is paid off. I grow half our food, hunt too. You think I spend money on myself?”

“That’s not the point,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“I didn’t have to,” she cut in gently. “I chose to.”

That gave him pause.

She reached over and took the receipt from the cashier with a polite nod before looking back at him. “I’m not keeping a tally, Bucky. You’re not a burden.”

He didn’t argue again, but he looked like he wanted to. Instead, he just grabbed one of the bags from the cart, jaw tight, and followed her back toward the truck in silence.

But as he opened the rear door and set the groceries down, he hesitated.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, not meeting her eyes. “For everything.”

She smiled faintly, nudging his arm. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m about to make you carry all the heavy bags inside when we get home. Put that metal arm to good use.”

That earned her a small, reluctant smirk, but it lingered longer than usual.

They were nearly done loading the car up when it happened. 

A car on the far end of the lot, an old beat-up pickup, lurched as its engine sputtered, and then a sharp, echoing bang cracked through the air like a shot fired.

Before she could even process the sound, Bucky dropped the bag in his hand, stepped in front of her, and shoved her back behind the truck with lightning-fast precision. One arm across her chest, the other reaching for the gun in his waistband.

“Get down,” he snapped, his body low and eyes wild, scanning the lot like a battlefield.

“Bucky – ” she gasped, but he wasn’t hearing her.

He was breathing hard, posture tight, like he was waiting for the next shot, waiting to charge into fire. His hand twitched at his side, a hair’s breath away from his gun. The look in his eyes was pure survival, total instinct. She recognized it vividly. Had reacted the same way multiple times herself. 

“It was a car,” she said breathlessly, placing her hand over his forearm. “Just a backfire. That’s all.”

He didn’t respond at first. His jaw was locked, shoulders coiled — every muscle still braced for something that wasn’t coming.

“Hey,” she said gently now, stepping closer, her hand sliding down to grip his. His flesh hand was warm in her own, tingling where their skin met. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s over.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, when her hand gripped his, he blinked. The world around him returned in pieces and she watched as everything began to register to him — her voice, the parked cars, the grocery bags scattered at their feet.

He looked down at his arm still in front of her, shielding her body. Slowly, he dropped it.

“I—” he started, then stopped. His gaze dropped to the ground, face dark with shame. “Sorry. I didn’t— I know it wasn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” she said firmly, but gently. “You reacted. It’s okay.”

His hands flexed into fists. His lips were twisted into a thin line, eyes narrowed at the ground. “It’s not okay. I looked like a lunatic in a parking lot because some piece of shit truck backfired.”

“You looked like a soldier,” she said, adamant. “You did what you were trained to do. What your body still knows how to do.”

He finally looked at her and there was something almost painful in his expression, like he hated that part of himself. The part that still lived in the war, even here, in a sleepy town with frozen turkeys and cereal mascots.

“I scared you,” he said quietly. He sounded guilty. Wounded. She was sure he was. 

She shook her head. “No. You protected me. And I’m fine. We’re fine.”

He let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck, but he was still tense, the shame not fully shaken. She stepped closer, brushing her shoulder against his.

“And for the record,” she added, voice lightening just enough, “if someone had been shooting, I’d rather have you in front of me than anyone else in the world.”

That earned her the ghost of a smile.

They gathered the bags in silence, but as they loaded them into the truck, he stayed a little closer than usual, like some part of him was still afraid to let his guard down again.

She would be a liar if she said she minded. 

—————————————-

By the time they got back to the house, the clouds had started to clear, casting long golden beams across the trees as the sun dipped low in the sky. Bucky helped her unload the groceries without being asked, wordlessly carrying in all the bags with his metal arm like it was nothing. He still hadn’t said much since the incident in the parking lot, but he seemed calmer now. More grounded.

As she put the last of the produce away, he lingered in the kitchen, hovering near the counter.

“Wanna help make dinner?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual. It was an intimate request, really. Something couples and family members did together. 

Bucky hesitated, conflicted. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

She tossed him a cutting board and a knife. “You know how to chop? Rough is fine. It’s not the Food Network.”

He frowned, confused at what the Food Network was probably, but didn’t ask. He moved carefully, mimicking her as she worked, occasionally glancing over to make sure he was doing it right. She didn’t correct him. Didn’t need to.

They moved around the kitchen in an easy rhythm, her seasoning chicken while he sliced vegetables, trading small comments here and there. She could feel the tension from earlier slowly unraveling between them, replaced by something quieter, warmer.

By the time they sat down to eat, steaming plates and mismatched silverware between them, the house felt wrapped in a kind of stillness. Not silence — just peace. It was as domestic as she had ever felt, really. 

“This is good,” Bucky said after a few bites, looking mildly surprised.

She grinned, winking. “Coming from a man who lived on ration kits and bitter-ass chocolate in the forties? I’ll take that as high praise.”

He smiled softly, then leaned back, fork resting beside his plate. “I miss a lot of it. Most of it.”

She looked up, caught off guard by the sudden shift of wistfulness in his tone.

“The music,” he added, almost sheepishly. “The way people used to… court each other. It was slower. More intentional. It wasn’t all…like however it is today. You had to show up. You had to mean it.”

She tilted her head. “So you were a romantic?”

His mouth curved into a faint smile. “I was good at pretending to be one.”

She stood then, walking over to the record player tucked into the corner of the living room. It had been her grandfather’s, then her father’s, and they had used it a few times on their hunting trips out here. She was sure there had to be some records back here from her grandfather’s time.

A few moments of flipping through vinyls later, she found what she was looking for — something soft, classic. She dropped the needle. A warm crackle filled the room, followed by the gentle strains of a slow Glenn Miller tune.

She turned to look at him, stretching out a hand. “Dance with me?”

He blinked at her, shocked. “What?”

“C’mon.” She extended her hand. “You can’t tell me you miss this kind of music and not take the chance when it’s offered. Just pretend like I’m one of those girls you were pretending to be a romantic with. Woo me, Sergeant.”

He hesitated. She could see the war waging behind his eyes — bashfulness, discomfort, the ever-present worry of doing something too close, messing things up. But he stood anyway. Eyes glued to her. Like something inside him refused to say no.

He crossed the room and took her hand. Gently, like she was made of something fragile. 

“I haven’t danced in—”

“I’ll lead if you want,” she teased, squeezing his hand.

That earned her a soft huff of laughter, and then his metal hand settled at her waist, holding her carefully. His other hand stayed in hers, grabbing on tighter, like it was grounding him.

They moved carefully at first — her bare feet sliding against the hardwood, his boots shifting with deliberate precision. But it wasn’t awkward. It was…close. His eyes rarely left hers, blue eyes shining.

She could feel the warmth of his hand through her shirt, his breath steady against her temple.

She wasn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this. The way her body reacted to the proximity. The way the heat of him seemed to radiate beneath the barrier of his clothes. The weight of his hand at her waist—confident, not demanding. Gentle, but firm enough to guide her as they swayed.

He smelled like sandalwood, musk, and something deeper — warm skin, a hint of wood from outside maybe, the faintest trace of laundry detergent. Not cologne, nothing intentional. Just him. It was intoxicating. 

Her heart started to race. She could feel it in her throat, in her fingertips. She wasn’t sure if it was the music or the closeness or the way she noticed his eyes dropping momentarily to her lips before darting away again.

He hadn’t danced in decades, he’d said so, but his body remembered. Muscle memory guided him, slow and fluid. He moved like a man used to leading, even if he did it with the hesitation of someone afraid of breaking something.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he murmured, voice low, just above her ear. His breath whispered against her skin and she fought back a shiver.

“You’re doing fine,” she said, but the words came out raspier than she intended. She wasn’t sure if it was reassurance to him or herself. Her hand tightened slightly in his.

They swayed in a slow circle across the living room, the record crackling faintly beneath the music, the fire she had lit earlier in the hearth dimmed to a soft orange glow. The air felt warmer now, heavier. Like their shared energy was thickening it.

His eyes were soft, storm-blue and unreadable, and they lingered in her own, longer than they should have. She cursed internally at how aware she was of him. Of every inch of him. Of how close they were, how easily he could lean in, how much she considered wanting him to…and how terrifying that was.

She forced herself to look away first, resting her chin lightly near his shoulder as they continued to sway. She could feel the solid line of his chest against her, the rise and fall of his breath.

“You really used to do this in a dance hall?” she murmured.

“Mmhm,” he said. “Usually in a jacket and tie. With girls who had no idea what they were doing.”

She smiled. “So I’m just another clueless girl to you?”

He pulled back just enough to look at her face, close — too close for a friend, really. “No,” he said quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips. “You’re not like anyone I’ve met before.”

The words hung between them like smoke. And for one aching moment, neither of them moved.

Then the song ended, the needle dragging faintly on the record’s edge. And for longer than just a moment, she wished it never had stopped. 

—————————————-