you and bucky are the tower's most unlikely duo.

not because you're a stark and he's the winter soldier, though that's part of it. it's because you're all bright, chaotic energy and he's quiet, steady, calm. you're a supernova and he's the still, deep space that contains it. somehow, it works. perfectly.

you were the one who cracked him open, not with force, but with persistence. you didn't treat him like a fragile artifact or a lethal weapon. you just... treated him like bucky. you'd plop down next to him on the common room couch, steal his fries, and complain about your business law professor with the same breath you'd ask if he wanted to watch a documentary about deep-sea creatures.

he'd grumble, of course. a low "hm" or "don't want to" was his default. but he'd always stay. he'd watch the documentaries. he'd listen to your rants, and slowly, the grumbling turned into quiet hums of agreement, then into actual sentences. now, he'll debate with you about the logistics of deep-sea exploration and offer to help you study for business marketing by quizzing you with flashcards he makes himself.

your friendship is built on a foundation of shared mischief. you're the mastermind, he's the surprisingly willing accomplice. you once replaced all of sam's wingpack gear with glitter-filled replicas. bucky's job was to create a diversion so you could make the switch. his diversion? challenging sam to an arm-wrestling match in the middle of the kitchen. it was glorious. you've superglued clint's arrows to their quiver, put pink dye in steve's shampoo (which, to everyone's disappointment, just made his hair look shinier and blonder), and convinced natasha that a new, highly sensitive alarm system had been installed in the gym, forcing her to move in exaggerated slow motion for an entire afternoon before you both burst out laughing.

bucky's laugh is rare, a deep, rumbling thing that feels like a personal victory every time you coax it out of him.

and then there's the nyu thing. you're tony stark's daughter, but you're not just riding on his name. you're brilliant. top of your class at stern, a whiz with numbers and strategy, a natural-born leader who just happens to be able to recite the entire history of the avengers initiative. you're a dedicated student, and you actually enjoy going to your classes.

which means bucky walks you to class.

it started as a security thing, a tony-mandated precaution that bucky, with his stealth and observation skills, was perfect for. it quickly became your ritual. he'd wait for you by the tower's private entrance, an iced vanilla latte in his hand for you, his own black coffee in the other. the walk through washington square park became your time. you'd talk about everything and nothing. your classes, the latest missions, the terrible music someone was blasting from their apartment, the way the sun hit the leaves.

of course, two famous faces walking through nyc every day doesn't go unnoticed. the tabloids had a field day. "stark heir and winter soldier: nyc's hottest power couple?" read one headline. another featured a blurry photo of him handing you the coffee, captioned "secret lovers' rendezvous?" you and bucky found it hilarious. you'd read the articles out loud to each other, adding your own dramatic commentary.

"oh, bucky, darling, our secret is out!" you'd swoon dramatically against his shoulder.

"guess we'll have to go public," he'd deadpan, a smirk playing on his lips. "friday, start planning the press conference."

you're not dating. you're just... you and bucky. you're oblivious to the way his eyes soften when you laugh, and he's oblivious to the way your heart does a little flip when he remembers exactly how you take your coffee. everyone else sees it, though. natasha gives you these knowing looks. sam makes obnoxious kissing noises whenever you're in the same room. tony just sighs and mutters about "potential property damage" whenever bucky is near his daughter.

tonight is different, though. it's tuesday, which means it's your night. your secret. the one thing you do that's just for you, completely separate from being a stark, avenger, or a public-figure.

you're pulling on a worn-in nyu sweatshirt and some jeans, a yankees cap on your head, and grabbing your tote bag from the hook by your door, when a quiet voice makes you jump.

"where are you going?"

you spin around. bucky is leaning against your doorframe, right outside your cracked open door, arms crossed over his chest. he's wearing a simple black henley and jeans, his hair slightly messy. he looks... soft. domestic.

"jesus, bucky! you're like a cat." you clutch your chest. "i'm just going out."

"it's almost nine." he pushes off the doorframe, his brow furrowed slightly. "and it's raining. where do you go on tuesday nights?"

you hesitate. you love your secret. the shelter is your sanctuary, a place where you're not ‘tony stark's daughter’ you're just the girl who's ‘really good at socializing the scaredy-cats’ you're just a volunteer.

"it's nothing," you say, a little too quickly. "just an... errand."

he tilts his head, his blue eyes narrowing just a fraction. he knows you're lying. he always knows. "it's raining," he says again, his voice lower. "i don't want you walking around the city alone in the dark. in the rain."

you sigh, knowing you're not going to win this one. and a small, traitorous part of you is actually happy about it. "i can take care of myself, you know."

"i know," he says, stepping closer. "humor me."

so you tell him. you explain about the "paws and reflect" shelter, a small, underfunded place in the east village that takes in the hardest cases. the cats no one else wants. you explain how you started volunteering there a year ago, looking for something normal to do with your hands, something that wasn't studying or saving the world.

he listens intently, his expression unreadable. when you finish, he just nods.

"can i come?" he asks.

your eyes widen. "what? no. it's my thing."

"i know," he says softly. "but it's late, and it's raining, and i don't want you going alone. i won't get in the way. i'll just... sit in the corner. i promise." he looks so earnest, so genuinely concerned, that you feel your resolve crumbling.

"fine," you grumble, grabbing your keys. "but if you scare any of the cats, i'm leaving you out on the streets."

the rain is a light, persistent drizzle, blurring the city lights into watercolor smears as you drive. driving in the city is always a pain, and you’re not very good at it, but you insisted on driving, not trusting bucky's "i learned in the 40s" driving skills in manhattan traffic. he doesn't argue, just slides into the passenger seat of your sensible yet stylish suv, the one tony bought you for your "safety." you never really wanted it, not from ungratefulness, but because you never liked driving. except, after the avengers became public figures, taxis were not much of an option.

the shelter is tucked away on a quiet side street, a small storefront with a hand-painted sign of a cat chasing its tail. the inside smells faintly of antiseptic and... well, cat. but it's a warm, comforting smell. rachel, the night manager, looks up from behind the front desk, her face breaking into a warm smile when she sees you.

"hey! you're a little later than usual." her eyes flick to bucky, who's hovering awkwardly by the door, looking like a 200-pound assassin who's accidentally wandered into a knitting circle. her smile widens. "and you brought a friend."

"rachel, this is bucky," you say, trying to sound casual. "bucky, this is rachel. she keeps this place from falling apart."

"nice to meet you," bucky says, his voice quiet. he offers a small, polite nod.

"you too," rachel says, her eyes twinkling. "any friend of our best volunteer is a friend of ours. she's a miracle worker, you know. got oliver to come out from under the bed last week. he's been there for six months."

you feel a flush of pride. "he just needed to know someone wasn't going to grab at him."

"well, you're the only one he'll let near him," rachel says, shoving a clipboard at you. "usual chores. litter boxes need changing, food and water top-ups. it's pretty quiet tonight, most of the adoptions were done this afternoon."

you loved this shelter because it offered you a profound sense of normalcy. here, you weren't some untouchable figure to be revered; you were just another pair of hands, given tasks and told where to help. it was a complete escape from your reality.

you take the clipboard and turn to bucky. "okay. so, the rule is, move slowly. no sudden movements. let them come to you. don't stare. blink slowly. it's like... cat sign language for 'i'm not a threat'."

he nods, his expression serious, like you're giving him mission briefing. "slow movements. no staring. got it."

you lead him through the facility. it's not fancy, but it's clean and warm. rows of crates and pens line the walls, each containing a cat or two. some are sleeping, curled into tight balls of fur. others watch you with wide, curious eyes. a few hiss from the back of their cages, a low, warning sound.

you hand bucky a scoop and a bag of food. "you're on food and water duty. i'll handle the... less glamorous stuff."

he takes the scoop without complaint, his eyes already scanning the room, assessing it with the same focus he'd use on a recon mission. it's almost funny, seeing the winter soldier treat a bag of dry kibble with such solemn gravity.

you get to work. the rhythmic scrape of the scoop against the bottom of food bowls mixes with the quiet meows and the distant rumble of the city. you're in your element here, moving from cage to cage, speaking in soft, murmuring tones. "hello, jasmine. you look beautiful today. here you go, mittens. dinner is served."

bucky is surprisingly good at this. he's quiet, his movements economical and precise. he doesn't try to pet any of the cats, just fills their bowls and refills their water, his presence a calm, non-threatening constant. you watch him out of the corner of your eye as you finish cleaning the last litter box. he's crouched in front of a cage containing a huge, grumpy-looking orange tabby who is famous for swatting at anyone who comes near.

"his name is garfield," you whisper, walking over to stand beside him. "and he lives up to it. don't take it personally if he tries to take your hand off."

bucky doesn't look at you. his focus is entirely on the cat. he slowly extends his hand, not to pet, but just to rest near the bars of the cage, palm up. garfield flattens his ears, lets out a low growl. bucky doesn't flinch. he just stays there, a silent, steady offering. after a long moment, garfield relaxes, just a fraction. he inches forward, sniffing the air near bucky's fingers.

"see?" bucky murmurs, his voice barely audible. "he's just scared."

your heart does that stupid little flip again. he's not just looking at a stray cat; he's seeing a reflection of himself. of something that's been hurt and is lashing out because it doesn't know how to be gentle anymore.

"yeah," you say softly. "he is."

you finish the chores in comfortable silence, the only sounds the soft padding of your feet on the linoleum and the distant purr of a contented cat. the shelter feels different with him here. not invaded, but... shared. like a secret you didn't know you wanted to tell.

"okay, that's the last of it," you say, wiping your hands on your jeans. "we just have to wait for rachel to do her final rounds and then we can go."

you lean against the counter, and bucky leans next to you, his shoulder just a breath away from yours. the space between you feels charged, warm. the rain outside has picked up, tapping a gentle rhythm against the window.

"you're really good with them," you say, breaking the quiet.

"they're simple," he replies, his gaze fixed on the rows of sleeping cats. "they don't want anything from you except a little patience and some food. no ulterior motives."

"unlike people," you say, a wry smile touching your lips.

"unlike most people," he corrects gently, and he glances at you when he says it, and the look in his eyes is so open, so sincere, it makes your breath catch. "not you, though."

you feel your cheeks heat up, and you suddenly find the floor pattern absolutely fascinating. "well, i mean, i do occasionally want to steal your fries."

a low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "that's different. that's... friendly fire." he teases.

you laugh, and the sound feels too loud in the quiet shelter. you both fall silent again, but it's not awkward. it's... nice. it's the kind of quiet you can sink into.

"why this place?" he asks after a moment. "why not a big, fancy shelter? you could get your dad to fund one, name it after you, the whole nine yards." 

you shrug, picking at a loose thread on your sweatshirt. "that's the thing. i didn't want it to be about me. i didn't want to be 'tony stark's daughter, the philanthropist.'” you said exaggerating and nodding. “i just wanted to be... me. scooping litter boxes. i don't know. it feels real. here, i'm not a nepobaby or an avenger. i'm the girl who knows that oliver under the bed prefers pâté to chunks." you said jokingly.

he's watching you again, that intense, focused gaze that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world. "you're not a nepobaby," he says, his voice firm.

"bucky, i literally got into nyu because my dad has a building named after him there."

"you're at the top of your class," he counters. "your dad's name doesn't get you a's on your exams. you do that."

the way he says it, with such absolute conviction, makes something warm and gooey spread through your chest. you're used to people dismissing your accomplishments, assuming they're handed to you. bucky never has. he's the one who stays up with you when you're cramming for finals, quizzing you until you can recite business economic principles in your sleep.

"thanks," you mumble, feeling uncharacteristically shy.

"it's just the truth," he says simply.

you're about to say something else, something equally sappy and out of character, when a tiny sound cuts through the quiet. it's not a meow. it's more of a squeak. a pathetic, little mew.

you both turn toward the sound. it's coming from the last pen in the row, the one usually reserved for new intakes that need to be kept isolated. you walk over, bucky right behind you.

inside, all by herself, is the tiniest kitten you've ever seen. she's pure white, with fur so fluffy she looks like a little cloud. one of her ears is folded over, and she has the biggest, bluest eyes you've ever seen in your life. she's shivering, her whole body trembling, and she lets out another pathetic little mew.

"oh, you poor thing," you coo, automatically unlatching the cage door. "where did you come from?"

bucky crouches down beside you, his expression softening into something you've never seen before. it's pure, unadulterated awe. "she's so small."

you reach in slowly, letting the kitten sniff your fingers. she hesitates, then butts her tiny head against your hand, purring a motorboat rumble that seems way too big for her little body. you gently scoop her up, cradling her against your chest. she immediately burrows into your sweatshirt, her tiny claws kneading the fabric.

"she was probably abandoned," you say, stroking her soft fur. "she can't be more than a few weeks old."

bucky reaches out with his flesh hand, his movements impossibly gentle, and strokes the kitten's head with one finger. the kitten looks up at him, blinks slowly, and then licks his finger. a smile breaks across his face. a real, genuine, breathtaking smile that reaches all the way to his eyes.

"she likes you," you whisper, your own smile matching his.

"yeah," he breathes, his eyes glued to the tiny creature in your arms. "she's... perfect."

you both just stare at her for a long time, completely mesmerized. she's a tiny, fluffy ball of perfection, and in that moment, you both fall completely, irrevocably in love.

"we should name her," bucky says, his voice still hushed.

"alpine," you say immediately, the name popping into your head without thinking.

he looks up at you, his blue eyes wide. "alpine?"

"yeah," you say, a little embarrassed. "it's just... she's white, like snow. and it feels... peaceful. you know?"

a slow smile spreads across his face. "yeah," he says softly. "i do know."

you're both still staring at the kitten, who has now fallen asleep in your arms, when the reality of the situation starts to dawn on you. this tiny, perfect creature is here, in this shelter, and she needs a home. your home.

"bucky," you say slowly, your eyes meeting his. "what are we going to do?"

he knows exactly what you mean. the smile fades from his face, replaced by a look of pure panic. "the tower," he says, his voice a horrified whisper. "your dad."

"and steve," you add, your own voice rising in panic. "he'll probably have an allergic reaction just from looking at her." i guess the super-serum doesn’t take away all weaknesses

"and natasha will try to train her to be an assassin," bucky says, his eyes wide with terror. "sam will try to put her in a tiny flight suit."

"and my dad will build her a $50 million robotic litter box that will probably try to take over the world," you laugh, the full, horrifying weight of your decision crashing down on you.

you look at each other, the same manic, determined gleam in your eyes. it's the same look you get right before you execute a really good prank.

"we're doing it, aren't we?" you ask, a grin already spreading across your face.

he looks down at the sleeping kitten, then back at you, and a slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face. it's the grin he gets right before he agrees to one of your terrible, wonderful ideas.

"yeah," he says, his voice filled with a terrifying resolve. "we're doing it."

the next twenty minutes are a blur of covert operations. you sign the adoption papers with a speed that would make a cheetah jealous, scribbling your name on the dotted line while rachel gives you a knowing look and a small cardboard carrier.

"be good to her," she says, her voice warm.

"we will," you and bucky say in unison, which makes you both pause and exchange a look. it's too synchronized. too domestic.

the drive back to the tower is the most nerve-wracking experience of your life, and that's saying a lot considering you once watched your dad fly a nuke into a wormhole. you finally let bucky drive. alpine is awake now, mewing pitifully from her carrier on your lap.

"shhh, shhh, it's okay," you whisper, peeking through the little air holes. "we're almost home."

Bucky keeps glancing in the mirrors, tapping a nervous rhythm on the dashboard. "Alright, so what's our cover story if we get stopped?" he asks with a grin. "I give it thirty seconds before Friday's assembling a strike team. Or should we just go with the truth and hope your dad doesn't kill us?"

"He won't kill us," you say, rolling your eyes playfully. "It's just a... a project. For my, uh, biology class. Very hands-on. he’ll appreciate the educational aspect” you add, nodding and shrugging.

"a project with fur and claws that sheds," bucky corrects grimly.

you use your private entrance, the one that leads directly to the residential elevators, bypassing the common areas and the main lobby. it's late, past midnight, so you're praying everyone is either asleep or on a mission. the elevator ride up to your floor is silent and tense. you hold the carrier, and bucky stands so close to you that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

"okay," you whisper as the doors slide open. "phase one: get her to my room undetected."

"phase two: survive the morning," bucky adds, his eyes scanning the empty hallway as if this was a co-op mission.

you creep down the hall, a ridiculous, covert operation involving two highly trained individuals and a two-pound kitten. you reach your door, and you fumble with your keycard, a stupid stark security quirk, your hands shaking slightly. the lock clicks open with a sound that seems to echo through the entire tower.

you slip inside, bucky behind you, kicking the door shut with a soft sigh of relief. you place the carrier on the floor of your spacious bedroom and open the little door. alpine tentatively steps out, her little pink nose twitching as she takes in her new surroundings.

your room is your sanctuary. it's a mix of stark-tech minimalism and cozy chaos. a huge window overlooks the glittering manhattan skyline, but the floor is covered with soft rugs and piles of pillows. bookshelves overflow with textbooks, novels, and vogue magazines, and your desk is a controlled mess of laptops and notes.

alpine seems to approve. she takes a few small steps, then pounces on a stray pen, batting it under the bed. she looks up at you, lets out a triumphant mew!, and then proceeds to explore every nook and cranny of your room with the confidence of an mice inspecting a hole in the wall.

bucky is watching her, a look of pure, unadulterated fondness on his face. "she's so brave," he says softly.

"she's a stark," you joke, nudging his arm with your elbow, though there's a strange lump in your throat. "of course she's brave."

you find a small, fluffy blanket and lay it on the floor. alpine immediately abandons her exploration and curls up on it, falling asleep in seconds.

you and bucky stand there, watching her sleep, the silence in the room broken only by her tiny purrs.

"we're her parents now," you whisper, the words feeling both insane and completely right.

"co-parents," he corrects gently, his eyes still on the kitten.

"right," you say, your heart doing a weird little flutter. "co-parents."

you look at him, really look at him. the soft light from the city illuminates his profile, catching the sharp line of his jaw and the gentle curve of his mouth. he looks... happy. truly, deeply happy. and it's because of this tiny, fluffy creature you just impulsively decided to bring into your lives.

"we're going to be in so much trouble tomorrow," you say, but you're smiling.

"worth it," he says, and he turns to look at you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch. it's the same look he had when he was talking about the scared cats, the same look he had when he was defending your academic achievements. it's a look that says he sees you. all of you.

the space between you shrinks. you don't know who moves first, maybe you both do. his hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. his metal hand is cool against your waist. you lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed.

"i've wanted to do this for a while," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you.

"me too," you breathe.

and then he kisses you. it's not a frantic, desperate kiss. it's slow, and gentle, and sure. it tastes like coffee and the rain and the promise of something new. it's a kiss that says "finally." it's a kiss that feels like coming home.

when you pull apart, you're both breathing heavily. you rest your forehead against his, a smile playing on your lips.

"so," you whisper. "this changes things."

"yeah," he says, a smile in his voice. "it does."

you spend the rest of the night on your bed, talking in whispers so you don't wake the kitten. you talk about everything. about your fears, your hopes, the moment you each knew your friendship was something more. you fall asleep curled up together, with alpine a tiny, warm weight on the bed between your bodies.

the morning comes, as it always does, with the blare of the towers wake-up alarm and the distant sounds of the tower coming to life. you groan, burying your face in bucky's chest.

"it's judgment day," you mumble.

he kisses the top of your head. "start prepping the defense" he jokes.

you get dressed, steeling yourselves for the inevitable confrontation. you decide the best offense is a good defense. you'll just... walk out. with the cat. act like it's the most normal thing in the world.

bucky holds alpine, who is now purring contentedly in his arms, looking like the world's most intimidating and adorable cat dad. you take a deep breath, open your door, and step into the hallway, walking down to the kitchen for breakfast.

its full. almost every avenger is around the counter conversing.

tony is standing there, a cup of coffee in his hand, wearing a black led zeppelin t-shirt and a look of grim determination as he spoke with the others. steve is there, looking concerned in his captain america pajamas. natasha is leaning against the wall, a knowing smirk on her face. and sam is just... grinning. the traitor.

"well, well," tony says turning his head towards us walking in. his eyes zeroing in on the fluffy white creature in bucky's arms. "what have we here?"

you open your mouth, ready to launch into a defense, but bucky beats you to it. he just stands there, holding alpine, his expression completely calm.

"her name is alpine," he says, his voice steady. "and we're co-parenting."

the word hangs in the air. "we're." as in, the two of you. a unit.

tony's eyes flick from the cat to bucky to you, and then back to the cat. a slow, calculating grin spreads across his face. "co-parenting," he repeats. "so that's what the kids are calling it these days."

steve looks confused. "you got a cat? bucky, are you allergic? do you need an epi-pen?"

natasha just winks at you.

sam, however, is practically vibrating with excitement. "a cat! can i hold her? does she have a little avengers uniform? i can design one! with little wings!"

before anyone can say anything else, alpine, seemingly sensing she's the center of attention, does the most perfect thing she could possibly do. she wriggles out of bucky's arms, him quickly moving down closer to the floor before she fell. She immediately leaps gracefully to the floor, trots directly over to tony stark, and rubs her fluffy little body against his leg, purring like a motorboat.

tony stares down at her, his mouth slightly agape. he slowly bends down, his arc reactor glinting through his shirt in the morning light, and scratches alpine behind her folded ear. she responds by flopping over and exposing her belly.

"oh," tony says, his voice soft. "well. alright then."

and just like that, the war is over. you didn't even have to fire a single shot.

that evening, you and bucky are curled up on the common room couch. alpine is asleep on bucky's chest, rising and falling with each breath he takes. sam is on the floor, trying to teach alpine how to "fist bump" with her tiny paw. natasha is watching you both with an insufferably smug look. tony is on his tablet, and you're pretty sure he's designing a state-of-the-art, climate-controlled, self-cleaning cat tree.

─˖· masterlist

Bucky’s hands tightened instinctively, thumbs brushing slow circles into your thighs. “Little minx.”

You grinned at that, leaning down just enough for your noses to brush. The evening had already been full of lingering touches and heated kisses, the kind that made the air between you feel thick. You could still taste whiskey on his tongue from the drink you’d shared earlier.

Your fingers traced down his chest thoughtfully before you bit your lip. “Can I ask you something?”

His brows lifted. “Depends.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s what worries me.”

You laughed softly and shifted in his lap, feeling the way his breath caught at the movement. “Tell me your fantasies.”

Bucky blinked.

You tilted your head. “Like… the things you think about. The stuff you want.”

A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, surprisingly shy for a man who could pin you against a wall with one hand and make you forget your own name. “Doll…”

“C’mon,” you coaxed, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I told you some of mine.”

“Yeah, but yours were filthy.”

You smirked proudly. “Thank you.”

His laugh rumbled low in his chest, but his expression softened after a moment, blue eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to decide how honest to be. You expected him to say something teasing eventually—something about bending you over the kitchen counter or hearing you beg for him.

Instead, his thumbs stilled against your skin.

“I think about seeing you in a wedding dress.”

Your teasing smile faltered.

Bucky kept going before he could overthink it, voice quieter now. “All the time, actually.”

Your chest squeezed unexpectedly.

“I think about waitin’ for you at the end of the aisle,” he admitted. “Think I’d probably cry like an idiot the second I saw you.”

“…Bucky.”

“And you’d laugh at me for it,” he said with the faintest smile. “But then you’d start crying too, so it’d be even.”

That soft, achy feeling spread through your ribs so fast it almost hurt.

You had expected dirty confessions. Kinks. Secret desires whispered into your skin.

Not this.

Not him looking at you like you hung the moon while he talked about marrying you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You think about that?” you asked softly.

“All the time.”

His hands slid higher along your waist, grounding himself against you. “I think about what kinda flowers you’d carry because I know you’d change your mind ten times before deciding.” He huffed a small laugh. “Think about dancing with you after. You’d have your head on my shoulder and I wouldn’t wanna let you go all night.”

You could feel your eyes burning already.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, completely wrecked by how sincere he sounded.

Bucky frowned slightly, suddenly uncertain. “Was… that not what you meant?”

“No, I just…” Your throat tightened. “Jesus, Buck.”

The tips of his ears turned pink. “I can stop talking.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Something tender flickered across his face then, and he relaxed beneath you again.

“I think about kids too,” he admitted quietly. “A little girl with your eyes who wraps me around her finger immediately. A boy that follows Alpine around the apartment and drives you crazy.” His mouth twitched. “Think about teaching them how to ride a bike. Taking family pictures where nobody cooperates.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

“And anniversaries,” he continued softly, almost embarrassed now. “You and me old and gray. Maybe taking trips somewhere warm because my bones hurt in the cold.” His fingers brushed your cheek gently. “I think about waking up next to you for the rest of my life.”

Your heart genuinely ached.

Because Bucky wasn’t saying it casually. He wasn’t throwing pretty words around to charm you.

He meant every single one.

“You’re supposed to be telling me your dirty fantasies,” you whispered shakily.

His expression turned impossibly fond. “Honey, this is worse.”

Your lips parted in surprise.

“I spent seventy years thinking none of that was ever gonna belong to me.” His thumb swept beneath your eye when a tear escaped despite your best efforts. “Now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

That did it.

You bent down suddenly and kissed him hard enough to steal the breath from both of you.

Bucky made a startled sound against your mouth before melting beneath you instantly, metal hand settling carefully at your lower back while his flesh hand cradled your jaw like you were something precious.

The kiss changed quickly after that.

Every slow drag of his mouth against yours felt weighted with all the things he’d just confessed. Every touch lingered. Every breath shared between you felt intimate in a way that made your chest ache.

You pulled back only enough to press your forehead against his.

“You want all that with me?” you whispered.

“There’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more.”

Emotion clogged your throat so badly you could barely breathe around it.

Bucky’s gaze searched yours carefully. “Hey,” he murmured. “Don’t cry on me now, sweetheart.”

“You made me emotional.”

A soft laugh left him. “Yeah?”

“You’re talking about babies and wedding vows while I was trying to seduce you.”

“I am seduced,” he promised solemnly. “Very seduced.”

You laughed wetly, and the sound seemed to relax him completely.

His hands slid up your back slowly before he kissed you again—gentle and unhurried. The kind of kiss that felt like home.

And when you finally sank into him later, tangled together beneath soft sheets while rain tapped against the windows, there was nothing rushed about it.

Bucky touched you like he was memorizing you.

Like he already saw forever every time he looked at you.

His lips pressed against your shoulder, your jaw, your wrist where your pulse fluttered wildly beneath his mouth. Between kisses, he whispered soft things that made your heart squeeze impossibly tighter.

“My girl.”

“So beautiful.”

“Love you so much.”

You clung to him afterward, legs tangled with his beneath the blankets while his fingers lazily traced circles against your bare spine.

“Y’know,” you mumbled sleepily against his chest, “next time I ask about fantasies, I’m specifying.”

Bucky’s laugh vibrated beneath your cheek.

“Too late,” he said softly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You already know the worst one.”

You tilted your head up. “What’s that?”

His eyes softened so completely it nearly ruined you all over again.

But when your lips are on his?

When your body presses into his in the quiet dark of your shared bedroom, heat blooming between the both of you like something long-restrained finally breaking free?

That’s when they stop.

Always. Just… stop.

Bucky, your boyfriend, your partner, the man who has grown to be your person. He kisses you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world, but somehow, he never touches you when it matters most.

And it’s not like you haven’t tried. You have, god you tried.

More than once, lying against his chest at night, your fingers ghosting beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen. Kissing along the sharp cut of his jaw, whispering how much you want him. How much you need him.

Each time, his breath hitches, his body goes rigid. Then, slowly, carefully, almost apologetically, he pulls away from your touch. 

Not with disgust, not with rejection. There’s no coldness in the way he moves. No sharp recoil.

But there is something worse that you have come to realise. Fear.

The first time it happened, you brushed it off.

He’d had a long day. The mission briefing with Val had been rough, all sharp orders, bad intel, and barely contained frustration within the team, Walker had quite literally stormed out of the meeting room.

Bucky had come back tense, shoulders tight, jaw set, that look in his eyes that meant he was still somewhere else. Still halfway in a fight.

So when you leaned in that night, pressing soft kisses under his jaw, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, and he stilled beneath you, gently shifting away with a quiet murmur of your name, you let it go.

You curled into his side instead. Told yourself he was tired. Told yourself you were tired too. You ran your fingers lightly along his arm until his breathing evened out, steady and slow.

And when sleep finally took him, you whispered a kiss to his shoulder and closed your eyes, thinking, hoping, maybe next time.

The second time, you wondered.

It was a few nights later. He wasn’t tense then, he wasn’t distracted or moody or freshly back from some dark place.. He was relaxed, even, the kind of rare, quiet ease you didn’t always get from him.

You both had laughed over dinner, some home cooked lasagna you had whipped up after finding the recipe online. You had teased him until he smiled into his fork and shook his head, muttering about how much trouble you were.

He’d watched you like he always did, like you hung the moon and the stars, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this, to deserve you.

And when you kissed him that night, slow and lingering, your hands soft on his jaw, you felt that same warmth in him. The way he kissed you back, like he meant it.

So you tried again. Slid your hand beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the firm lines of his stomach.

He flinched. Not much. But enough.

And then, just like the first time, he shifted away. Pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured, “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”

You froze. Pulled your hand back like you had touched something sharp.

And then you nodded, smiling just a little too quickly.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You turned onto your side, curled up with your back to him.

Tried your hardest to not let the sting behind your eyes show.

His arm came around you a few moments later, his chest pressed to your back like nothing had changed. Like everything was still okay.

You didn’t say a word.

But that night, long after you were sure he was asleep, your eyes stayed open. Staring at the shadowed wall. Wondering what it was about you that made him pull away.

The third time, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

It had been an easy day, all things considered. No missions. No debriefs. No emergencies. Just the two of you, and the rare kind of quiet that settled into the compound like a blanket.

You ate dinner in bed, greasy takeout balanced precariously on Bucky’s lap while some forgettable movie played low in the background.

You stole bites from his container; he rolled his eyes but let you. Laughed when you misquoted a line. Kissed your cheek. Brushed rice off your shirt with the softest smile.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because everything had felt right. Comfortable. Easy. The kind of night that warmed you from the inside out.

It was late when the movie finally dwindled into credits. You stacked the empty containers on the nightstand, slid back under the covers, and curled against his chest with a sigh. His arm came around you like it always did, instinctive, easy. Protective.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The glow of the screen lit the room in soft, flickering blue. Your legs were tangled with his. Your cheek rested against the cotton of his t-shirt. He felt steady beneath you. Safe.

So when you tilted your head up and kissed him, it wasn’t with expectation. It wasn’t about sex, or hunger, or even want.

It was soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you were in love.

He kissed you back, of course he did. That part was never the problem. He always kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that could anchor him.

But the moment your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, everything changed.

Just the pad of your fingers brushing lightly over his stomach. Just a touch.

And still, he tensed.

You felt it the way someone feels a tide turning, quiet, sure, inevitable.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil. He just went still. Careful. Measured. One hand lifted to catch your wrist and gently moved it away from his skin, like it wasn’t a rejection. Like it didn’t mean something.

But it did.

He turned slightly, as if he meant to settle back into bed like nothing had happened. Like you could pretend this wasn’t the third time in a row.

But you didn’t follow.

Instead, you sat up slowly, drawing your knees to your chest, the sheet falling across your thighs. You stared at the far wall, lips pressed into a thin line, throat tight.

You heard the shift in his voice before he even finished asking.

“Hey,” he said softly, already sensing the change. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was thick. Still. The kind of quiet that feels like the moment before something breaks.

When you finally spoke, your voice came out low, shaky.

“Do you want me?”

He didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You kept your eyes on your hands, twisting your fingers in the blanket like it might keep the rest of you from unraveling.

“Because I want you,” you continued, quieter now. “And every time I try, you pull away. I know you care about me, I know you do, but I can’t help wondering if maybe I’m wrong about all of it.”

He went very, very still.

Then, “Stop.”

His voice was sharp, and the suddenness of it made you blink.

You turned, startled.

He was sitting up now, scrubbing a hand over his face. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. Like your words had opened something he hadn’t meant to expose.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—just. I’m sorry. Don’t say that. Ever.”

You stared at him.

“Then talk to me,” you said softly. “Because it’s getting harder not to take it personally.”

He didn’t look at you.

His gaze dropped to the sheets. His fists were clenched in his lap. The vibranium hand trembled slightly. The other, human and scarred, looked like it was holding on to something invisible.

You sat beside him again. Close, but not touching.

Your voice was quiet. Measured, ounded, but not accusatory.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” you asked. “Like you’re in love with me?”

You swallowed hard.

“Because you do. Every day.”

He still didn’t say anything.

“And then I touch you, and you freeze. Like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t know was there. Like I’ve done something wrong.”

There was something in your chest pulling tighter with every second of silence. Something raw and anxious and aching.

His hands stayed clenched.

You reached for him, carefully, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. The human one. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped beneath your touch.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “What is it? You can tell me.”

He exhaled. Rough. Uneven.

For a second, you thought he might deflect. That he might dodge this like he had before — with a soft kiss or a change of subject. But then he swallowed hard, eyes flicking to yours for just a moment before dropping again.

“I haven’t…” he started, then paused. Cleared his throat. “I haven’t done anything since before the war.”

The breath caught in your chest.

He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow. Embarrassed.

“Not just sex,” he said. “Anything. After HYDRA… after everything. I didn’t—I couldn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, visibly ashamed. Smaller, somehow. Like admitting it out loud took more from him than he’d expected.

“It’s been over eighty years.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “You’re here, and you’re kind, and you’ve never pushed. But I get so far and then it’s like—like my body just shuts down. Like some part of me still thinks I’m not allowed to want things.”

Your heart twisted.

Not from pity. But from the weight of it. The quiet devastation he carried like a second skin.

Then, more quietly:

“You think I don’t want you?” His voice dropped. “Fuck, sweetheart. I want you so bad it hurts. Every night I lie here hard as a fucking rock just thinking about you.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut.

“But I’m—” He shook his head. “I’m scared.”

You moved then.

Not away. But forward.

You reach for his wrist again, let your fingers slide gently down to his hand. His pulse was racing. His breath shallow.

“Scared of what?” you asked, softer now.

He looked at you. Finally. Really looked. And what you saw in his eyes made your chest ache, something wide and raw and terrified.

“That I’ll disappoint you,” he said. “That I won’t know what I’m doing. That you’ll want someone who’s not stuck in the goddamn 40s when it comes to this stuff.”

Your face softened. A small, aching smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, even through the tightness in your chest.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

You climbed into his lap carefully, like you were afraid you’d spook him. You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheekbones.

“You’re already everything I want and more,” you said, steady and sure. “But I need you to believe that.”

His breath hitched.

“And if you let me,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “I’ll show you everything. I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He didn’t answer right away.

His eyes searched yours. Guarded, hopeful. Terrified. Like part of him still thought this might not be real.

But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

And when he did, something in you finally, quietly exhaled.

You don’t rush him.

After everything he’s said,  every word laced with fear and heartbreak and hope, the last thing he needs is haste. Or pressure. Or you moving too fast for him to feel safe.

So you just breathe for a moment.

You stay in his lap, arms curled gently around his neck, your forehead resting against his. And you breathe.

His chest rises beneath yours, shaky and tight. His hands are still in his lap, fists curled like he doesn’t know what to do with them,  like he doesn’t quite believe this is real, like one wrong move will send the whole thing crumbling to pieces.

So you start small.

You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth. Once. Then again, slower this time, letting your lips linger against his skin.

His breath stutters. His lips part.

You kiss him properly next, slow, deep, but gentle, your mouth moving against his with no urgency, no push, just quiet devotion. Like he’s something sacred.

His hands twitch in his lap. He doesn’t lift them yet, but he doesn’t pull away either.

You murmur against his mouth, “Can I touch you?”

He swallows thickly. Nods.

You kiss him one more time, a promise, before you shift in his lap, your thighs bracketing his, and reach for the hem of his shirt.

The moment your fingers graze the fabric, he tenses.

You pause. You meet his eyes.

“I’ll stop any time you need me to,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure.

He holds your gaze. His throat bobs with a hard swallow. Then he nods again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

You offer a gentle smile. “Okay.”

You lift his shirt carefully, baring him inch by inch. You don’t rush. You kiss every strip of skin you uncover, the ridges of his ribs, the warm slope of his sternum, the sharp cut of his collarbone.

You take your time with it, as if mapping him out with your mouth, like you’re memorising every inch with intention.

When the shirt is high enough, he lifts his arms, stiffly, hesitantly and lets you pull it over his head. You toss it aside and look at him.

He’s bare from the waist up. All muscle and scar tissue, strength and survival. The room’s low light catches on the vibranium, glints over old wounds, highlights the long-healed lines across his chest and side.

You let your gaze roam.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. He looks away, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

You reach out, slow, deliberate, and place your palm against his chest. Right over his heart.

He flinches. Just a little. A twitch in his shoulder. A held breath.

But he doesn’t pull away. You lean in and kiss the skin just beside your hand.

“Is this okay?”

His voice is low and rough. “Yeah. Feels nice.”

You smile against his skin, then keep going.

Your mouth trails lower, painting a path down the plane of his chest. You kiss over his heart again, then rest your cheek there for a moment.

“Still beating,” you whisper, a soft marvel. 

You feel it stutter beneath your lips.

Your hands slide lower, down his abdomen, his skin warm, twitching under your fingers. You follow the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband, fingertips brushing gently, not demanding. Just exploring.

He exhales shakily, stomach tensing, hips shifting just slightly.

“There’s not a single part of you I don’t want to touch,” you murmur, kissing along his ribs.

He turns his face, like he’s trying to hide, like the intimacy of your words is too much.

“Hey,” you say softly. You reach up, cupping his jaw, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. “Let me say it. Let me mean it.”

His lips part like he might argue, but he doesn’t.

You rest your forehead against his.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper. “So strong, You’ve been through hell and still came of it.”

His eyes flutter shut. His breath catches.

Your lips brush his softly, like reassurance. Then again.

And this time, when your hands slide down to the waistband of his sweats, he doesn’t flinch.

You look up at him. “Can I take these off?”

His voice is strained. “Yeah.”

You move slowly, tugging them down inch by inch, watching his face the entire time. He lifts his hips to help, barely, and you kiss the inside of his knee as you go. Then the other.

By the time you’ve got them off, he’s flushed all over, from his chest to his ears to the very tips of his fingers. And trembling.

His cock is hard and leaking, resting against his stomach. Big. Heavy. Throbbing.

He tries to close his legs out of instinct. Reflex.

But you shift forward between them and place your hands gently on the outside of his thighs.

“You’re doing so good,” you say softly. “Are you okay?”

His nod is jerky. “Just—don’t look too long.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He swallows hard. “’Cause you’ll know I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing.”

You smile, warm, never mocking.

“Baby,” you say gently, “I already know.”

You lean in, kissing the inside of his thigh, slowly, gently..

“But it’s not a problem,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin again. “It’s a privilege.”

His head drops back, his fists clench the blanket. You trail your mouth up his thigh, closer and closer, and then wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.

He jerks under your touch, breath catching sharp in his throat.

“Fuck—” His hips twitch. His mouth opens, like he’s trying to say something and can’t find the words.

You stroke him once, slow, deliberate, and his entire body shudders.

He’s flushed dark at the tip, leaking already.

“Nobody’s ever…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

You look up. “Ever?”

He nods, barely. “Not like this.”

You smile. “Good.”

You stroke again, firmer now, and his jaw clenches, breath ragged.

Your thumb brushes over the tip, collecting the slick, and he whines, high, desperate, like he’s trying to hold everything in and failing miserably.

You kiss just below the head and he moans, low and broken.

“Holy shit—sweetheart, I’m not gonna—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

You press a kiss to his hip. “That’s okay. That’s why we’ll take our time.”

You climb back into his lap, hand still wrapped around him, your other resting at his cheek to keep him grounded. He looks dazed, overwhelmed, like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart in your arms.

“Can I ride you?” you whisper.

His hands shoot to your hips like a lifeline. “Please,” he breathes. “I want you to. So bad.”

You guide him to your entrance, your slick soaking him already, and ease down, slow, careful, inch by inch — until he’s fully seated inside you.

Bucky’s head drops back, a strangled moan caught in his throat.

“F-fuck, baby—” he gasps. “Too much. Feels too—”

You don’t move.

You stay still in his lap, your hands on his chest, letting him feel you. Letting his body adjust. Letting the moment settle between you like something holy.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, frantic. “Yeah. I—just give me a second.”

You wait. When his eyes open again, they’re soaked with emotion. Glassy and bare.

“You okay?” you ask.

“I think you’re killing me,” he says hoarsely. “But I don’t wanna stop.”

You smile.

Then you start to move.

Slow, gentle, rocking your hips, letting him feel everything, every squeeze, every inch, every slow drag of your walls around him.

His mouth falls open. He moans your name like a prayer.

“Feels too good,” he pants. “I’m not—fuck, I’m not gonna—”

You lean in, your forehead pressed to his.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. And he does.

With a choked cry, he spills inside you, body tensing, arms wrapping tight around you, hips bucking helplessly. His hands shake against your back as his breath catches in your hair.

He clings to you like he would fall apart without you.

And even after it’s over,  even after he’s finished, breathless and wrecked, he doesn’t let go.

He just holds you. And for the first time in years, he lets himself be held, too.

He’s still trembling.

You don’t move. You don’t shift or speak right away. You just stay where you are, wrapped around him, your body cradling his, the last aftershocks of his orgasm still echoing in the taut lines of his body.

His cock is still inside you, softening slowly. The stretch of him, the heat of him, the slick, overwhelming closeness of it all—it makes your heart ache in the gentlest way.

Your fingers stroke through his hair, trailing through the sweat-damp strands at the nape of his neck. Then down his spine. Slow, comforting passes, like you’re coaxing his body back into itself.

He clutches you tighter.

His arms are around your waist, strong and firm—not bruising, not panicked. But desperate. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, this will all vanish. Like maybe none of this was real, and holding on to you is the only thing keeping him grounded.

You don’t pull away.

You let him hold you. Let him shake. Let his breath shudder against your neck while your hand keeps moving slowly down his back.

His face is buried against your throat, and when he finally speaks, it’s muffled—barely audible. Raw.

“I didn’t mean to finish so fast.”

Your heart breaks for him a little, even as your lips tilt into a soft smile.

You press a kiss to his temple—tender, grounding.

“I know.”

His voice is barely there. “I just—fuck, I couldn’t stop it. You felt so good. I couldn’t think."

You hum softly, stroking his hair again. “That’s kind of the point, baby.”

He lifts his head, just a little, pulling back enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide, glassy, dazed, those perfect cerulean eyes soft and unguarded, boyish, almost.

His cheeks are flushed. His hair’s a mess. His lips are kiss-swollen.

He looks completely ruined. Completely beautiful. Yours.

“But you didn’t—” he starts, then hesitates. His gaze drops. “You didn’t finish.”

You don’t stop smiling. There’s no hurt in it, no impatience, just quiet warmth.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “Tonight was about you.”

His brows pull together, like he doesn’t quite know how to process that.

“That’s not fair,” he mumbles. “I want to make you feel good too.”

“You already do,” you murmur, your nose brushing his. “But if you really want to keep going…”

You pause deliberately, shifting your hips slightly.

Just enough for him to feel the movement, just enough to tease.

He gasps, high and sharp, his body jolting.

“…we can.”

His hands flex at your waist. His eyes flutter. His lips part like he’s trying to speak but can’t form a single thought.

“I’m still—,” he whispers, like it’s a warning. But there’s no hesitation in his tone. Only want.

“But I want it,” he adds. “I want you.”

You kiss him again, slow and deep, and begin to move. Barely. Just a gentle roll of your hips, enough to stir friction between your bodies again.

He moans into your mouth, soft and aching.

You rock slowly, dragging your walls against his still-sensitive cock. He twitches inside you, starting to thicken again already. It’s slow, but unmistakable.

“Okay?” you whisper.

He nods frantically, hands gripping your waist like he’s drowning in sensation. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just—shit. I’ve never… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You smile against his jaw. “You wanna come again for me?”

His moan is barely a sound. His eyes flutter shut.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck, yes. Please—”

You tighten your thighs and roll your hips again, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

“Such good manners,” you whisper, kissing his throat. “So sweet for me.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You start to circle, slow, wet, just enough pressure to build your own heat.

He watches you.

Like you’re made of stars, like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

“Touch me,” you murmur. “Please, Bucky. I want your hands on me.”

It’s the only encouragement he needs.

His hands move slowly, softly, trembling,  sliding up your sides, grazing your ribs, cupping your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you moan, arching into his touch.

The sound makes him groan, deep and wrecked.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby—can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

You’re slick around him now, your arousal mixing with the mess from earlier. Every slow rock of your hips has him thickening more, twitching inside you, inch by inch.

His thighs are shaking. His jaw clenches.

“Feels so good,” he whines. “I don’t wanna stop. Don’t wanna come yet. Wanna feel you forever.”

You ride him harder now, the heat in your belly rising faster.

“You feel that?” you gasp. “How close I am?”

His hands tighten on your hips. His breath turns ragged.

“Please—please come around me, sweetheart—need to feel it—need to feel you—”

You bury your face in his neck. And let go.

Your whole body seizes around him, a white-hot wave crashing through you, stealing your breath, your balance, your thoughts. Your moan is broken, helpless, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Your walls clamp down hard around him.

And that’s all it takes.

He thrusts up once. Then again. Deep, desperate. A cry tearing from his throat as he comes again, shaking, gasping, flooding you with warmth.

His arms wrap tight around you.

He holds you close. Close enough to feel your heartbeat thunder against his. Close enough that the tremors in your bodies blur together, indistinguishable.

This time, his grip is softer. Still strong, but different.

Not desperate. Tender.

His hand strokes up your spine. His lips press to your temple, then your hair, then your jaw. Like he can’t get close enough.

You stay there, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, breath mingled and unsteady and you don’t rush to move.

Not yet.

“Jesus,” he whispers eventually, voice raw. “What the fuck just happened?”

You laugh softly, breathless, dazed. “That was called good sex,.”

He groans into your neck. “That was more than good. That was—fuck. That was divine.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his hair.

You collapse gently against his chest, boneless and warm, and he doesn’t let go. His arms stay around you, wrapped like a shield, like a promise.

Neither of you move for a long time. There’s nothing left to prove. Nothing to say.

Just the slow hum of your heartbeats and the safe, sacred space you’ve made between the two of you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky feels wanted.

And safe. And home.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! if you did, drop a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves, your support means the world to me! <3333333

You pride yourself on your independence. Don't let anyone in too close, and save yourself the disappointment. That's largely why your relationship with Bucky broke down - you both needed your independence to feel in control for once in your lives, which only led to distance growing between you. It wasn't as though you were in an official relationship, anyway, but it definitely felt like an official heartbreak when it ended.

Bucky pushes the door to your apartment open. You still keep a spare key under the welcome mat, much to his dismay. There's silence throughout your home, and an overwhelming sense of nostalgia washes over him.

It looks mostly the same as he remembers it, with some new things that serve as cold reminders that this isn't his home anymore. A rug he doesn't recognize. A pair of heels by the door that he's never seen you in. The same old coffee table with the wooden legs scratched to shit, courtesy of Alpine, but with a new cover thrown over it.

Slowly, carefully, desperate not to break or damage anything, Bucky walks through the apartment. You're not in the kitchen- though you have finally got new cabinets that shut properly. You're not in the back room, but the arcade game Bucky couldn't help but spend way too much money on still is, gathering dust. When he gets to the bedroom, he knocks softly on the door.

"It's me," He announces, not wanting you to worry that a stranger broke in. "Are you here?"

No response. It's entirely possible that you're not home, but Bucky slowly opens the door, just in case.

He's about to step inside but he falters when he sees you curled up in a ball on the carpeted floor. He sucks in a breath. "Y/N. It's Bucky," He says gently, taking a few steps in. His chest tightens with pain at the sight of you. "I'm here. You awake?"

You're breathing; that much is obvious. Though he wants nothing more than to run to you and hold you in his arms, touching you probably isn't the best idea right now. He knows what you would've seen in the Void. He knows how real it would've felt.

So instead, he leaves the room and goes to the kitchen. Brews you a cup of your favorite tea and brings it into your bedroom, hoping the smell will help to ground you in reality. He turns on the TV and puts on your comfort show, or at least what your comfort show was three years ago, at a low volume so as not to startle you.

Then, Bucky sits opposite you on the floor, not too close, but close enough so you can hear his whispers.

"I'm here," He utters lowly. "You're safe. Nothing and nobody can hurt you. I'm here with you. I got you, snow pea."

The nickname makes you flinch subtly, enough movement for him to notice. Slowly, you tilt your head which is currently being hidden by your arms, and peak one eye out through the strands of your hair. Your gaze is panicked when it lands on Bucky, before slightly softening.

"Hey, snow," Bucky says, offering you a small smile. "It's me. It's all over, I promise you."

You suck in a shaky breath. Slowly, you move your head a little more, so half of your face is exposed to him. "Jamie?"

"That's right," He says with a nod. "I'm here. You're home. You're safe."

With a deep breath, you push yourself up, leaning back against your bed and pulling your knees up to your chest. "What the fuck was that?" You ask lowly.

"Ah... it's hard to explain," He says. "But it's over."

You nod, fiddling with your thumbs. "I... how do I know I'm not still there?" You wonder out loud. "That this isn't just another room?"

"I can promise you that it's not," Bucky assures you.

Tentatively, you reach your arm out. He carefully takes your hand in his metal one and holds it. You flinch as if bracing for something that doesn't come. And when it doesn't, you visibly relax, letting out a deep sigh.

"I thought... I thought I died and went to hell," You admit to him. "Thought I'd be stuck in that loop forever."

Bucky elects to move closer to you, shuffling forward.

"I felt like a child again," You go on to say. "Just... weak, and pathetic, and powerless against him."

"I've got you now, snow pea," He says firmly. "Nobody is ever going to hurt you like that again. I won't ever let them."

"How come you're here?" You ask in a small voice.

"Wanted to check on you," He tells you honestly. "I... I was in it, too. Everyone, in fact. The whole of New York. And when I came out, the first and only thing I could think of was whether you were okay. I prayed you were out of town for work so you wouldn't have had to go through that. I'm sorry, snow pea."

With furrowed brows, you slowly crawl over to him and wrap your arms around him. He holds you tightly, and you realize just how much you missed him physically as well as emotionally. His strong, firm grip always made you feel so safe and protected, and it's exactly what you need right now.

"Thank you for coming," You whimper against his neck.

"I'll always be here for you, snow," He vows, rubbing your back. "No matter what happens. No matter how far away you might be. How much time it's been. Whenever you need me, wherever you are, whether that's in hell itself... I'll find you."

You hold him tighter, practically on his lap as you take in the familiar smell of his aftershave. His hair's longer than it was the day he walked out, but just as soft as you remember it.

Pulling back so you can look at his face, you scan his features, looking for proof that he isn't your Bucky. But there's nothing different about the way he looks at you. The way his eyes melt into yours. Leaning up, you gently kiss his lips. He kisses you back softly as though he's afraid to break you. His hands are on your waist but his touch is feather-like. It isn't until you deepen the kiss that he grips you tighter, falling into old habits as your tongues clash.

When you pull away, he brings up one of his hands to your face, cupping your cheek.

"Are you okay?" You ask him, feeling guilty for not having asked earlier.

"I'm okay," He assures you with a smile.

"Really? It can't have been easy," You say with a frown, knowing what he would've seen.

"It wasn't. But I'm here with you, now," Bucky says softly. "So I'm more okay than I have been in three years."

You wince at the mention of how long you've been apart, because now, as you sit on his lap with your arms around him, it feels like it's been no time at all.

"Jamie?" You utter.

"Yes, snow pea?" He replies, stroking your bottom lip with his thumb.

"Will you stay over tonight?" You request in a small voice.

"I'll stay as long as you need me to," He promises. "Have you still got that blow-up mattress?"

You give him a flat look.

"What?" He asks with a chuckle.

"There is no way you're sleeping on a blow-up mattress, Barnes," You say with an eye-roll.

"Fine. The couch, then?" He asks, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Shut up," You grumble, hitting his chest. "We have a lot to catch up on so you should probably sleep in here with me."

"A lot to catch up on," He agrees with a hum. "I think you're right."

Your fingers entwine with his, your chest against his, the beating of his heart calming yours. Though you still feel wounded from what you went through in the Void, this time, you know you'll survive.

"I've got you, baby," Bucky mumbles, his smooth voice wrapping around you like a warm embrace. "I always will."

ughhhhh a tight warm bucky hug is exactly what i need rn </3

bucky masterlist

i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.

It started as a flicker—barely a thought, just an off-feeling in your chest. The kind of gut instinct you couldn’t shake even when you told yourself you were being paranoid. You weren’t nauseous. You weren’t even late yet. Your next cycle wasn’t due for another few days. But the feeling was strong. Heavy. Familiar in a way that scared you.

You told yourself it was stress. You tried to brush it off.

Still, that same afternoon—while Bucky was stuck in a debrief with another congressional committee—you found yourself quietly slipping out to the pharmacy and buying a pregnancy test. Just one. Just to shut the feeling up. You didn’t tell him.

You waited until he left again the next day, locked in his office for hours, drafting policy proposals and doing interviews you never had the patience to watch in full. You stayed in the bathroom, reading the test’s instructions over and over again. Your hands trembled a little as you peed on the stick and set your phone timer. Three minutes.

You weren’t expecting anything. You told yourself that. But you exhaled so hard it almost hurt.

When the timer buzzed, your hand hovered. You picked the test up.

Two lines. One faint. But undeniably there.

You stared at it for longer than you meant to, pulse crawling up your throat.

Could be a false positive. Could be a fluke. The box did say early testing wasn’t always accurate. So you tucked the test into the back of the bathroom drawer, locked your phone, and waited for your period to come.

It didn’t.

—

The next evening, Bucky was humming low under his breath in the kitchen, layering lasagna sheets like some war hero–turned–domestic god. You told him you’d set the table. Instead, you went into the bathroom again.

This time you brought five different tests. Two of them were digital.

Your hands didn’t shake as much this time, but your heart still did. You weren’t even sure what you wanted the answer to be. You weren’t planning for this. You’d never even let yourself imagine it.

You waited on the cold tile floor, knees to your chest, staring at the row of tests on the counter.

Positive.

Pregnant.

Double lines.

Double lines.

Pregnant.

It was real. It was all real. And somehow you weren’t surprised. Your body had known.

But you didn’t tell him.

Not that night. Not the next day either.

You read somewhere that early pregnancies could be fragile, and maybe you needed time—to adjust, to breathe, to even believe it yourself. You thought: twelve weeks. That’s when I’ll tell him. When I’m sure everything’s okay.

So you kept the secret. Quiet. Close.

It wasn’t hard at first. You felt fine. No morning sickness. No major symptoms. Just… tired. A little lightheaded sometimes. But nothing dramatic.

Then one morning, you woke up shivering with fever, body aching like you were coming down with something nasty. It was the first time Bucky saw you that way—slumped on the couch, bundled in a blanket, half-asleep with your forehead damp with sweat.

He panicked.

You never got sick. In your whole time together, you’d only ever had one cold, and you still powered through like a soldier. But now? You could barely keep your eyes open.

He made soup. Texted Sam. Cancelled his meetings for the next three days. Sat on the floor beside the couch, cradling your feet in his lap, running his metal hand over your skin to gauge your temperature. You’d never seen him that still, that focused.

When you saw him reaching for the phone again, you reached for his hand.

“Don’t,” you croaked softly. “I’m okay. It’s just a fever. Probably something nasty going around.”

“You never catch anything nasty,” he muttered, brows still furrowed.

You gave him a tired smile, voice hoarse but teasing. “That’s because you’re the one who’d shut down completely if you were the one in this blanket.”

He huffed a soft, reluctant laugh. But he still looked worried. He didn’t call the doctor—but only because you insisted.

Bucky took the next three days off entirely. No briefings. No dinners. He nursed you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Made warm broths. Pressed cool cloths to your forehead. Cooked whatever you wanted, even when your cravings barely made sense. He watched over you like you were breakable.

And somehow, he still didn’t suspect.

Not once did he mention your period. Not once did he count the days.

By day four, the fever was easing. You could move again. Shower. Change clothes. Brave through small chores like folding laundry or wiping down the kitchen counter. You were still tired—bone tired—but you masked it when Bucky was around. You smiled more. Sat up straighter. Made jokes just to ease the look in his eyes.

And when he was gone—when he left for Capitol meetings or early morning roundtables—you slept.

You slipped out once, too. Quiet and careful. While he was caught in back-to-back interviews, you went to the clinic alone and met a doctor. You wanted to know. Needed to hear it from someone else.

Five weeks pregnant, the doctor said.

You held your breath as the ultrasound wand moved across your stomach. There was nothing but a soft blur of shadows.

No heartbeat yet.

But the doctor smiled gently and told you not to worry—it was too early.

“Come back around week eight,” she said. “We’ll most likely see the heartbeat then.”

It didn’t mean anything was wrong.

So you nodded. Took the list of supplements they offered. Bought the vitamins. And started taking them in secret, tucking them behind other bottles in the cabinet, swallowing them quietly when Bucky was too busy reading news reports to notice.

You hadn’t told him yet.

But you were sure of it now.

Your body wasn’t whispering anymore. It was humming—quiet, steady, certain.

You were pregnant.

And someday soon, you were going to have to tell the man you loved that his whole world was about to change.

—

You didn’t tell him right away.

You waited. Waited for something firmer, clearer. Something that said yes, this is real, not just a whisper in your body.

So three weeks after that first quiet visit, you went back to the clinic. Alone again. Your palms were cold, pressed between your thighs as you sat on the edge of the exam table. The nurse adjusted the wand and angled the screen toward you.

“There,” she said softly. “Right there.”

A tiny rhythm blinked on the monitor—irregular, still faint, but undeniably alive.

A heartbeat.

You covered your mouth with both hands. You didn’t cry, not quite, but your eyes went glassy with warmth. It wasn’t fear this time. Not even nerves. Just… awe. A slow rush of something that felt bigger than joy.

You were a mom now. A tiny life was growing inside you, and it already had its own pulse. Its own tiny rhythm that matched nothing in this world but itself.

And suddenly the fear about telling Bucky didn’t feel as heavy. You still didn’t know exactly how, but you knew one thing for certain: he’d be a good dad. Maybe the best. You’d seen it already—in the way he took care of your fever like it might steal your breath. In the way he looked at you like the world never made sense until you existed.

You spent the next few days curating a box.

You tucked in both ultrasound scans—the first one, and the newer one from your latest visit, where the baby looked more like a little lima bean than a blur. You carefully cleaned and dried the pregnancy tests, lined them up in order, like stepping stones leading to the truth. And in the corner of a baby blue velvet pouch, you placed one tiny pair of LEGO-sized shoes you’d found at a novelty store downtown. No laces. Just molded plastic. They made you laugh the second you saw them, and you figured Bucky would too. Humor was how you both survived the hard stuff.

You tied it up with twine and hid the box in your nightstand drawer. Waiting for the right moment.

—

That moment came quietly.

It was a weekend. The kind that moved slow, where the sunlight stretched across the sheets and neither of you had anywhere to be. He was spooned around you, your back to his chest, one arm slung across your middle, chin nestled in your hair.

“You look…” he hummed, low and lazy, “kinda glowy lately. You know that?”

Your cheeks warmed. “Glowy?”

“Yeah. Like you’ve got this extra something. Little dash of beautifulness I can’t quite figure out.”

You smiled against his forearm, heart thudding louder now. You turned in his hold until your cheek rested on his chest, hand splayed over his sternum. The rhythm of his heart was steady under your fingers.

“I’ve got something for you,” you murmured.

That got his attention.

“Yeah?” His brow ticked, lips curving at the corner. “What kind of something?”

“Sit up,” you whispered, voice softer now. “And close your eyes.”

He did—without teasing, without hesitation. You could see him trying to guess by the way his jaw shifted slightly, but he kept his eyes shut, a little grin playing at his lips.

You reached for the drawer, fingers brushing the twine-wrapped box.

“Okay,” you said, voice just a little shaky. “You can open them.”

Bucky opened his eyes.

And went still.

The grin slipped from his mouth, lips parting slowly. His eyes scanned the open box in his lap—the scans, the tests, the tiny plastic shoes—and everything inside him shifted in that moment. His brows drew together. His mouth moved but no sound came out at first.

Then—

“Wait…”

His voice cracked slightly, low and careful.

“You’re…?”

You nodded.

He blinked twice, still looking at the contents of the box like they might dissolve if he stared too hard. Then he looked up at you.

And you didn’t expect it—how fast he moved. One second he was sitting there, and the next his arms were around you, pulling you tight against him, burying his face in your neck like he couldn’t hold himself together otherwise.

The first words he said were not about the baby.

“How are you, baby? How’s your body?”

You blinked against his shoulder, caught off guard.

“Are you okay? Have you been in pain? Was that fever—was that because of this?” He leaned back just enough to cup your face, eyes flicking over every part of you like he was cataloging anything he’d missed. “Have you had morning sickness? You didn’t say anything, you—Jesus, sweetheart, are you okay?”

You laughed, breath catching a little at how serious he looked. “You’re asking all the questions like you’re the one growing it.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “I’m serious. I’m trying to catch up.”

You kissed his jaw, smiling. “I’m okay, Buck. No morning sickness, no pain. The fever passed. I’ve been tired, that’s all. And I’ve been taking my vitamins.”

He exhaled hard, like he’d been holding that breath for weeks. His eyes finally flicked back to the box.

You watched him, amused. “You’re not curious about the baby, love?”

He blinked. “Shit. I didn’t even ask.”

You smiled gently, heart soft. “I know.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m just… I’m so used to it being us. You’re the only thing I’ve ever really had.”

You nodded. “I know.”

He looked down at your belly—not showing yet, not even a hint—and placed his hand there. Just rested it, like he was trying to feel something through the skin.

“How far along?”

“Thirteen weeks yesterday.”

He looked up, eyes shining with something thick and quiet.

“And the baby’s okay?”

You nodded. “Healthy. Measuring right on track. I even heard the heartbeat last week. It’s strong.”

He pulled you back into him again, holding you even tighter this time. His lips brushed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“You’re gonna be the best mom,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “God. I’m so fucking in love with you.”

And you just smiled—because at that moment, the world felt steady. Full.

You didn’t know what would come next, but you knew you’d face it with him. With his hand on your belly, and yours over his heart.

Together.

—

Time slipped by like soft wind. Weeks passed in a rhythm that grew more familiar by the day—naps in sunlit rooms, grocery lists that included pickles and strawberries, quiet Saturday mornings with Bucky curled around you like a human blanket. You were twenty-four weeks along now, and it felt real in every sense. Visible. Tangible.

Bucky had never missed a single checkup—not once. And today was no different. He was already in the waiting room with your hand held tight in his, thumb brushing little circles into your wrist like it was muscle memory. His eyes had this light in them—like he couldn’t wait to see his kid again.

Every time he heard the heartbeat, he got a little quiet. You’d learned to read the change in his face—how his smile turned a bit softer, his eyes just a little glassier. He never said much in those moments, but his grip on your hand would tighten, and he’d kiss your temple like he couldn’t help it.

He was attached. In love. With both of you.

He’d even taught himself how to read ultrasound scans—seriously taught himself, like some people learn how to restore motorcycles. The last visit, before the tech even said a word, Bucky had leaned forward with this quiet little grin and whispered, “She’s a girl, isn’t she?”

The technician had paused. Blinking. Then turned to look at the screen again.

“…I didn’t even say anything yet,” she’d laughed. “How did you—?”

You chuckled, rubbing your belly, voice warm.

“He’s just overjoyed. And very skilled at everything.”

Bucky blushed and ducked his head, but you saw the quiet pride on his face. And he’d earned it—he really was learning. You found three pages of names tucked inside his notebook, all neatly written in his sharp, precise print. Girls’ names this time. Ones he liked the sound of when said with your last name. Or his.

—

Despite how overwhelmed he sometimes looked when he stared at your growing belly like it still surprised him… Bucky never let the nerves get louder than the joy. And he never once forgot you in the process.

He treated you like you were royalty. No—like something holier than that.

He came home during lunch hours just to eat with you, even if it meant rushing back into meetings with food stains on his shirt. He brought flowers one evening. Plums the next. There was no pattern—just whatever reminded him of you. Your body started to ache in the evenings, so he massaged your hips, your calves, your shoulders, murmuring low praises as he worked out the knots.

He got serious when your OB mentioned blood sugar.

“I’ve been reading about gestational diabetes,” he said one night, flipping through a folder of printed articles. “You’ve got me now, doll. That means no extra spoonfuls of honey. And you’re down to one coffee a day, max.”

You gave him a look. “Are you going to monitor my espresso shots?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “And I’ll replace them with kisses. More effective.”

Even weekends became little love letters. He’d take you out—to museums, parks, bookstores, lakesides. Nothing too crowded. Nothing that would make you tired. He kept a blanket in the trunk of the car just in case you needed to lie down somewhere. Always thinking ahead. Always thinking of you.

It wasn’t just something he started doing after you got pregnant. It was simply who he was. It was in his DNA. This quiet devotion. This way he loved you in every language—words, time, touch, gifts, acts. He spoke all five fluently. And with you, he was always fluent.

—

Sometimes, late at night, you’d lie awake and watch him sleep beside you—his hand resting over your belly without even thinking, as if that was where it belonged. As if he already knew what it meant to protect someone too small to be seen.

You felt blessed. Not in the way people toss the word around lightly.

But truly, deeply, humblingly blessed.

To have him by your side.

And to be carrying his child.

Your daughter perks up at the voice and lets go of your hand, wobble-running straight into Yelena’s legs. “Lena!”

Yelena scoops her up with practiced ease, already spinning her like a pizza. “You’re taller than last time. What are they feeding you, huh? Dinosaur nuggets? Uncrustables?”

You smile, brushing hair from your face. “Babysitter called in sick. Bucky’s off running recon with Ava and John. It was either bring her with me or let Alpine babysit.”

Yelena shrugs. “Cat would’ve done a decent job.”

But before you can respond, a voice bellows from across the room like thunder cracking through a storm.

“OH MY GOD.”

You freeze.

“THERE IS A CHILD.”

Alexei appears like a bear-sized ghost from around the corner, eyes wide, beard fluffed, hands halfway to the sky in pure dramatics.

“She is real! You made her!” he gasps, pointing between you and your daughter like he’s just discovered human biology. “You and Barnes! You spawned!”

Your daughter clutches tighter to Yelena’s neck, blinking slowly. “…Who’s that?”

“That’s Uncle Alexei, baby,” Yelena mutters, clearly second-guessing every life choice.

“Uncle?” Alexei gasps, one hand pressed to his heart. “She called me uncle? Did you hear that? She has taste.”

“She didn’t call you anything, actually,” you say dryly.

He ignores you, kneeling down like he’s approaching a skittish woodland creature. “Little one. What is your name?”

Your daughter snuggles further into Yelena’s shoulder, unsure.

Yelena whispers it to him.

Alexei lights up. “Beautiful. Like tiny ballerina-slash-assassin.”

Then he spots the plushie.

His jaw drops. “Is that… a deer?!”

She nods.

He gasps. “A baby deer,” he glances directly at you. “You brought Bambi to the Tower. Look at this! I will call her Bambi forever now. This is perfect.”

You groan. “Her name is not Bambi.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexei says with utter seriousness. “Her superhero name is Bambi now.” He looks at the plush deer again, as if he needs confirmation. “This is Bambi. Your child… she is Bambi.”

“Why are you like this?”

The elevator dings softly behind you. Bob steps out, hugging a datapad to his chest, eyes flicking up—and stopping cold at the sight of a tiny human standing in the middle of the room surrounded by chaos.

He freezes like he just walked into the wrong universe.

“Oh,” he says, voice soft. “Oh. Um. Hi.”

Alexei scoops your daughter’s plush out of her hands (gently, somehow) and holds it up like a prize. “The deer has arrived.”

Your daughter lets out a tiny, distressed “Nooo!” and Yelena sighs, prying it back and handing it to her. She immediately clutches it to her chest, pouting.

Alexei melts. “She loves it. Look at the loyalty. I respect it. She will be a warrior.”

“She’s three,” you say.

“And already wiser than John,” Bob mutters, sliding onto the couch and giving your daughter a gentle wave. “Hi… I’m Bob.”

Bob offers a cautious smile from his corner of the couch, clearly doing mental math on how to interact with a three-year-old while holding a fragile datapad full of intel. “Is that your deer?” he asks gently.

Your daughter nods, eyes wide but curious.

“What’s your name?”

She hesitates, glances at you, then whispers, “Bambi.”

You sigh. Yelena smirks. Alexei fist-pumps like his soul just ascended.

“Haha! See?! Bambi!”

“She only said that because you pressured her!” you argue.

Alexei ignores you completely, now crouching beside Bob like they’re co-conspirators. “This changes everything. We must get her a cape.”

Bob blinks. “Wait, for the deer or…?”

“Yes.”

Before you can intervene, your daughter climbs out of Yelena’s lap and toddles unsteadily across the rug, her tiny socks making her slide a little on the hardwood. She waddles straight up to Bob and shyly offers him the plush deer for inspection.

Bob stares, caught completely off-guard. Slowly, reverently, he reaches out and pokes it once, like he’s been offered something sacred.

“She trusts you,” Yelena says with a smirk. “You’ve been chosen.”

Alexei claps him on the back. “Welcome to the Uncle Club.”

Bob pales. “I—I didn’t sign up for that—”

“Too late,” Yelena and Alexei say in unison.

You step in before your daughter hands over her entire soul to the team. “Alright, Bambi’s gotta go with me to the debriefing room for a bit. She’s quiet during meetings, I swear.”

“Wait, she’s sitting in?” Bob asks, blinking.

“She can’t stay here,” you whisper. “He’s already planning her costume reveal.” You point at Alexei as you roll your eyes.

Alexei winks. “Tiny leather jacket. I know a guy.”

You hoist your daughter up, her head instantly finding your shoulder, deer tucked between you. She’s calm now, observing the chaos like she’s already used to it—which, to be fair, she probably is.

Yelena holds the elevator door open for you. “Want me to come with?”

You smile gratefully. “Please.”

Bob waves. “Bye, Bambi.”

Alexei bows. “We will train in the art of war when you return.”

Your daughter yawns.

“Yeah,” Yelena mutters, smirking. “She’s terrified.”

As the elevator doors slide shut, you glance down at the sleepy toddler in your arms and murmur, “She kind of is ruling the tower right now.”

Yelena chuckles beside you, hands in her pockets. “Please. Alexei is probably already imagining her leading The New New Avengers.”

———

The common room is unusually quiet.

Which, considering who lives here, means there are only three simultaneous conversations instead of seven, and no one’s actively throwing knives at the wall.

You’re curled up on the far couch with a warm mug of coffee tucked in your hands, your legs folded under you, eyes tracking the scene in front of you with the kind of resigned affection that only comes from parenting amidst chaos.

Your daughter is sitting cross-legged on the rug, her beloved deer plush nestled in her lap, while Bob sits beside her like he’s attending a high-stakes diplomatic summit. His tablet is open, and he’s very seriously showing her a game where she gets to decorate cupcakes.

“Okay,” Bob says, voice calm and precise, “this one has rainbow sprinkles. That means it’s the most powerful one.”

Your daughter giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one’s Bucky’s!”

Bob raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Excellent choice. Very dangerous cupcake.”

Across the room, Alexei is sitting backward in an armchair—knees up, arms draped over the backrest like a golden retriever in a human body—just watching the entire interaction with rapt fascination.

“Look at her. Tactical decisions. Cupcake strategy. She is genius,” he murmurs, eyes wide. “You see this? She will rule us all.”

“Alexei, she decorates cupcakes,” you say tiredly.

“Exactly!” he says, like you’ve proved his point. “That is unpredictable. That is art.”

Bob glances up, sheepish but undeniably soft. “She’s really good at this. Like… scary good. She beat my high score.”

“She’s three,” you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time today.

“Exactly,” Bob echoes, completely serious.

Your daughter turns and beams at you, holding the tablet up in victory. “I made a cat cupcake!”

“You’re a creative genius, sweetheart,” you say with a smile, setting your mug down. “Now let Bob breathe before he has a full-blown cupcake identity crisis.”

“She beat me twice,” Bob mutters, looking at the screen with quiet betrayal.

Alexei grins. “You have been defeated. Welcome to the Bambi Era.”

That makes your daughter puff up with pride, hugging her deer closer. “I’m Bambi.”

You blink at her.

“Okay, okay. You’re Bambi.” you murmur, already accepting defeat.

Alexei makes a dramatic gasp and holds his hand to his heart. “The prophecy is fulfilled.”

And that’s when the elevator dings. The doors slide open with a mechanical hum, and your husband, Bucky steps out—followed closely by Ava, already pulling off her gloves, and John, still mid-complaint about something Ava definitely tuned out five floors ago.

All three look a little winded, mission dust still clinging to them, that sharp post-field energy still buzzing in their shoulders.

Bucky’s the first to clock you.

Then—his eyes land on the small deer-plush-carrying toddler sitting in the middle of the Avengers’ common room rug like she owns the place.

He stops cold.

“What is she doing here?” he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating from exhaustion.

Your daughter hears his voice—and immediately bolts to her feet, deer plush bouncing from her arms as she runs.

“Daddy!”

And just like that—everything about Bucky shifts.

The steel in his posture melts in real time. That hard edge in his jaw softens. His arms open like it’s instinct, like they were made just for this exact moment.

He drops his bag without looking. Drops everything.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he breathes, catching her in a sweeping hug and lifting her off the ground like she weighs nothing. “Hi, my girl. Did you miss me?”

She nods furiously, burying her face in his neck. “You were so gone.”

Bucky presses a kiss to her hair, eyes fluttering shut for a second, like the entire day fades away the second she touches him. “I’m here now, baby. I’m here.”

There’s a stunned silence behind him.

John looks like someone just hit him with a frying pan. Ava raises an eyebrow and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “holy shit.”

Yelena grins, arms crossed. “Aww. The Winter Soldier has emotions. Someone write that down.”

Alexei is squinting, hand raised like he’s observing wildlife through binoculars.

“She called him Daddy and he went from Terminator to teddy bear in 0.2 seconds,” Bob whispers, genuinely fascinated.

You’re already walking over, arms crossed and smile threatening the edges of your mouth. “Glad to see she’s got you wrapped around her finger, too.”

“She owns me,” Bucky says simply, pressing one more kiss to her cheek. “You should know that by now.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, the rest of the team just found out.”

Bucky turns slightly, finally looking over at the stunned group of adult superheroes who just watched him transform into Dad of the Year.

“She get into any trouble while I was gone?”

“She beat me at tablet games and claimed her superhero name is Bambi,” Bob says numbly.

“She made Alexei cry,” Yelena adds.

“I did not cry,” Alexei huffs, wiping suspicious moisture from his eye. “I was emotionally impacted.”

Your daughter leans back in Bucky’s arms and holds up her deer plush proudly.

“Did you bring me a snack?”

“Your priorities are incredible,” Bucky mutters fondly, already walking toward the kitchen with her still on his hip. “Let’s go find you something good, huh, Bambi?”

She gasps. “You called me Bambi!”

You sigh.

———

Later that evening, the common room has finally quieted. Most of the team has dispersed, save for the ones still floating nearby with post-mission snacks or paperwork. The lights are dimmed, your coffee’s been reheated twice, and you’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, finally off your feet.

Across the room, Bucky is sitting on the couch with your daughter perched on his lap, her deer plush tucked snugly under one arm, the other animatedly waving in the air as she recounts—in painstaking detail—every single moment of her day.

“And then Lena spun me so fast, and Uncle Lexi said I was a ballerina, and Bob showed me a cupcake game but I BEAT HIM, and there were pickles but I didn’t want any ’cause they smell bad—Daddy, are you listening?”

Bucky, absolutely smitten, nods with exaggerated seriousness. “Of course I’m listening, Bambi. Pickles smell bad. Got it.”

She nods proudly. “And the couch is really squishy but not as squishy as ours. But this place has better snacks. And Lena let me jump on the beanbag on purpose. Can I come here always? Please?”

Bucky leans in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll talk to Mama about it. Maybe not always. But often? I think we can arrange that.”

She beams. “Okay. Also I drew a picture of Bob. He looks like a jellybean.”

You stifle a laugh into your mug.

Yelena slides into the chair beside yours with a quiet flop, arms crossed and an amused glint in her eye as she watches your daughter still rattling off to Bucky like it’s a press conference.

“She is so her father’s daughter,” Yelena says.

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Yup.”

“Talks like him. Bossy like him. Stubborn as hell.”

You raise your mug. “And weirdly good at knives for a toddler. We’re doomed.”

Yelena snorts. “And you love it.”

You look over at Bucky again—his eyes soft, his fingers gently braiding a bit of your daughter’s hair as she chatters on about Alexei’s beard and how “Lena said I could have a jet one day.”

Your chest swells with something warm and weightless. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I really, really do.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST