Bucky Barnes was not in bed when Y/N woke up. At first they only noticed because the other side of the mattress felt cold when they reached across it half asleep. Usually Bucky slept lightly enough that even moving too much would wake him, so an empty bed at this hour immediately felt wrong.
The apartment was quiet when Y/N walked out of the bedroom. The only sound came from the television still running somewhere in the living room, low enough to barely hear. They followed the flickering light and stopped in the doorway when they saw him asleep on the couch.
Bucky looked uncomfortable as hell. One arm thrown across his stomach, his head tilted awkwardly against the couch cushion like he had only meant to sit there for a few minutes before passing out accidentally. The blanket from their bed was hanging half onto the floor.
Then Y/N noticed the metal arm sitting on the coffee table, placed there carefully beside him.
Their stomach tightened a little at the sight.
“Bucky?” they said quietly.
The reaction was immediate.
Bucky woke up like someone had fired a gun next to his head. His whole body jerked forward hard, breathing sharp before his eyes even focused properly. For one bad second he looked completely ready to fight whoever was standing over him.
Then he recognized Y/N.
Everything in him dropped after that. His shoulders loosened and he dragged a hand down his face roughly before leaning back again.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Y/N walked over slowly and sat down on the edge of the couch, glancing once more at the arm on the table before looking back at him. “Why are you sleeping out here?”
Bucky stayed quiet for a moment. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere on the floor instead of them.
“I had a nightmare.”
His voice sounded rough from exhaustion more than sleep.
Y/N waited without pushing him and eventually Bucky exhaled through his nose, rubbing his hand against his jaw.
“You moved in your sleep and I grabbed you.” His expression tightened immediately after saying it. “For a second I thought somebody was on me.”
Y/N remembered it then. Barely. The feeling of being pulled awake for half a second in the middle of the night before Bucky suddenly let go and got out of bed. They had been too tired to fully process it at the time.
“You let go,” they said quietly.
“After a moment.” His jaw clenched hard enough Y/N could see it. “I woke up and realized it was you .”
The room went silent again. Bucky leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring down at his remaining hand like he could not stand looking anywhere else.
“I just kept thinking about it after that,” he admitted finally. “What happens if one day I don’t stop fast enough.”
Y/N’s chest hurt hearing that because he sounded genuinely afraid of himself. Not dramatic or angry. Just looking tired and scared in a way that he looked worn down.
Bucky glanced over at the arm sitting beside them on the table.
“So I took it off.”
Like that explained everything.
But Y/N stayed where they were, looking at him quietly instead of reacting with anger like he expected.
“You should be pissed at me for that,” Bucky said quietly. He still was not looking at them. “I grabbed you hard enough to leave marks.”
“Why?” Y/N asked quietly. “You had a nightmare and scared yourself so bad you took your own arm off.” They shook their head slightly. “I’m not angry at you for that.”
Bucky stayed silent.
Y/N moved closer, kneeling in front of him so they were at the same level before speaking again.
“I know who you are, Buck. I wouldn’t still be here if I thought you were gonna hurt me, and I know you wouldn't do that on purpose.”
Y/N slowly lifted a hand to his cheek, making Bucky finally look at them again.
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Bucky has been gone for weeks, he texts, as much as that man ever does. Still signs his name at the end of every one like you won't realise its him if he doesn't.
But the surprise you feel when an honest to god letter arrives in between your regular bills has you blushing like a schoolgirl.
"Hey sweetheart,
I don’t even know where to start. Sam’s giving me that look again the “you’re brooding too loud” one, so I figured I’d put some of it down on paper instead of pacing a hole through another safehouse floor.
This mission’s a mess. You already know that. Flag Smashers, bad intel, too many close calls. I can handle all of that. What I’m not great at is being away from you this long.
Nights are the worst. When everything finally goes quiet, my brain has too much room to wander, and it always ends up back with you, your voice, your laugh, the way you look at me like I’m already home.
I keep thinking about all the things we said we’d do when things slow down. And I mean really slow down. Not takeout on the couch because we’re both exhausted (though I love that too). I’m talking about getting dressed up, taking you somewhere nice, someplace with low lights and good music, where I can actually focus on you instead of exits and threats. I want to take my time with you. Hold your hand across the table. Pretend the world isn’t constantly on fire.
Every time I come back from a fight, I catch myself thinking, okay, one step closer to you. That’s been keeping me steady out here. You keep me steady.
Sam says I should tell you I’m being “responsible and careful.” I am. But mostly, I just want you to know that I miss you like hell. And I’m counting the days until I can come home, knock on your door, and remind myself what normal feels like—with you right there.
Save me a smile. I’ll bring the rest of myself back as soon as I can.
Yours,
Bucky"
You smile. Reading the letter through twice before texting him that he's a sap and you love him. The letter tucked into your wallet.
Summary: It all started with a family wedding Ripley Todd would've rather skipped. But in a twist of fate or cosmic humor James Bucky Barnes volunteers to suffer with her. After the wedding, when everything is left to settle government secrets begin to disrupt the peace and quiet he's been trying to preserve as he heals.
Warnings: Eventual NC17, mentions of domestic violence (not by Bucky), military dark humor, vulgar humor, torture.
Tags: (Let me do my best lol) Bucky Barnes, Soft Bucky, Bucky in his healing era, Sam and Bucky Friendship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Team Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Someday maybe happy ending, Ao3 fic
Authors Notes: Consider these warnings to carry through until the end of the line. Also, FYI (for me as well) this was supposed to be a romance fic and we just found a blackhole and yeeted us in there.
The morning came soft and golden; it slipped through the cracked doors and settled over the floorboards. Bucky blinked awake on the floor of his bedroom. His back ached, his neck was stiff, but for the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn’t wake to the sound of gunfire in his head. Just birds outside, and the low hum of a world still turning.
He pushed himself up into a sitting position, dog tags dangling. He scrubbed a hand down his face, the metal one cold against his skin, and exhaled. The faintest sound reached him from the cracked bedroom door: a soft, even breathing. He let it wash through him like proof that the night was over. For a long moment, he just sat there, elbows on his knees, watching the light crawl up the walls. He should’ve moved—showered, changed, done anything—but he didn’t. Not yet.
He glanced at his phone, charging on the floor beside his pillow. Missed calls. Missed text messages. He scrolled through them, thumb hovering over Sam’s name before moving past it. He wasn’t ready for Sam’s voice yet, or the inevitable “You good, man?” that never had a simple answer.
Christina Raynor, though—that was different. She asked questions that had places to go.
He tapped her name before he could talk himself out of it. The line rang twice.
“James, this is a surprise,” came her voice, clipped and clear as ever.
“Morning, Doc.” His voice came out rough, too low.
“You sound tired,” she said.
He huffed a small laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Didn’t get much sleep.”
“Are you having nightmares again?” There was a pause, the kind that told him she was waiting for him to fill the silence.
“She had a panic attack,” he said finally, staring at the light leaking across the hall. “Last night. Bad one.”
“She?”
“Ripley Todd,” he said quietly. “A—uh—a friend…”
Raynor didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was even, measured. “And how are you doing with that?”
Bucky exhaled, thumb running over the edge of his dog tag. “Trying not to make it about me.” He stopped, rubbing at the spot just under his sternum where the memory still sat, sharp and heavy. “She thought she was drowning in the shower. I couldn’t… I didn’t know what to do except go in after her.”
“You did what you could,” Raynor replied. “And it sounds like it helped.”
“I don’t know if it did.” He swallowed hard. “She’s been through worse. You can see it in her eyes. She’s used to patching herself up alone.”
There was a pause, the kind Raynor used when she was taking his measure. “Sounds like someone else I know.”
He gave a quiet snort. “Yeah.”
Her tone softened slightly. “Where is she now?”
“Still sleeping,” he said. His voice dropped without meaning to. “Finally.”
“She’s safe?”
He nodded even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah.”
There was another quiet pause, and then: “James, I’m going to make a suggestion, and I need you to listen before you argue with me.”
He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes on the sliver of light between the cracked doors. “Go ahead.”
“I think I should come to you,” she said. “You could both use a professional set of eyes on this. You’re too close to it—and I don’t mean that as criticism.”
He frowned. “Too close?”
“Yes,” she said evenly. “You have a tendency to throw yourself between the people you care about and whatever hurts them. It’s what you were trained to do. It’s also what makes you dangerous—to yourself, mostly.”
He didn’t answer. The silence stretched until she broke it again.
He could hear her shuffling around on the other end of the phone, gathering her things. “James, tell me the truth. How do you feel when you look at her?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”
“The kind that matters,” she said. “You’ve been through hell to get to where you are now, and I need to make sure you won’t spiral back.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again. The truth sat there, lodged in his throat. “She… she makes the noise stop. For a while.”
Raynor hummed softly, the sound almost kind. “And when she’s not around?”
“It comes back,” he admitted. “A little. Not much. Not enough to worry about.”
“That’s not nothing, James.” Her tone shifted—no longer clinical, but knowing. “You care about her. Maybe more than you’re willing to say out loud.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “Doc—”
Raynor’s voice softened. “Let me come by. I’ll check on her, on you. No sessions, no notebooks—just conversation. You both need a reset before this eats you alive.”
He hesitated. “You really think that’s a good idea?”
“If it’s trauma, I want eyes on her myself.”
Bucky looked toward the open door again. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll text you the address.”
He sat there a minute after the line went dead, thumb brushing over the screen. He’d hung up on her a dozen times before. This time, he didn’t want to.
When he finally stood, the quiet felt different—less empty, more expectant. He stretched the stiffness from his shoulders. The floor creaked under his weight as he crossed to her doorway.
She was still asleep, tangled in the sheets. The early light brushed her face, softening the bruises, turning them gold. Bucky stood there a long time, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the faint twitch of her fingers against the pillow. A strand of hair had fallen across her cheek, sticking to her skin in the faint sheen of sweat. He resisted the urge to brush it back. She needed rest, not someone hovering over her shoulder.
Still, he stayed longer than he meant to, just listening. Each quiet breath felt like proof—proof she’d made it, proof he hadn’t failed again.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Raynor’s voice replayed, soft but certain.
You care about her. Maybe more than you’re willing to say out loud.
He exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could work the thought out of his muscles. “Yeah,” he muttered, the word barely more than air. “Maybe I do.”
With a sigh, he pushed off the frame and went downstairs. Bucky cracked a few windows, letting the damp spring breeze roll through the house. Outside, the world looked scrubbed clean—puddles glinting on the driveway, sunlight catching the wet edges of the white porch railing.
He started the coffee maker, the familiar hum grounding him. The quiet tick of the machine filled the space between his thoughts. He disarmed the alarm system, moved through the kitchen, each small sound—drawer slides, cupboard clicks—anchoring him in the ordinary.
When the coffee finished, he poured a cup and leaned against the island, watching the local news play soundlessly on the TV in the living room. The crawl at the bottom of the screen ran through political headlines, weather reports—nothing that needed his attention. Normalcy—something he’d spent years not trusting—felt strange in his hands.
He took a sip, pausing when he saw the mug. Turning it in his hands, he stared at the cartoon unicorn holding up two middle fingers with the font back the fuck up, sprinkle tits.
He sighed heavily and took another drink.
That was when he heard it—soft footfalls on the stairs. Bare feet on wood. Light, careful, predatory. His lips curved a little. He turned to look down the hall just as Ripley appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
Her hair was clipped back, a few wisps escaping to brush her cheek. The bruising along her jaw had gone already begun to yellow, her split lip healing into a pale line. She was still wearing the Henley he’d given her, sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms.
“You move quiet,” he said, voice low but carrying. "The wedding you sounded like a herd of elephants rolling through."
She blinked at him, caught off guard. “Force of habit,” she said softly. Her voice was still rough around the edges. "Settling back in."
He nodded once, taking another sip of coffee. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I lost a fight,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her ribs. “With a train.”
He couldn’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Terrorists, trains, both start with T."
She grunted in response, filling her electric water kettle at the sink, eyes staring at the TV. Bucky watched her, brows furrowing slightly. Water began to spill over her hand. Nothing. Not a blink, barely a breath.
In that moment he knew calling Raynor had been the right choice.
He licked his lips, and stepped forward, turning off the faucet. "I got this," he said softly, laying his hand over hers, she jumped, fumbling with the pot; he caught it. "Hey, hey, hey," He held a hand up, eyes locking on hers. "Maybe not the news on TV, huh?" He set the kettle down, turning it on. And reached for the remote.
Bucky lowered the volume until the news anchor’s voice faded into nothing. He switched the channel to something mindless—a morning cooking show, two people arguing cheerfully about the proper way to make a pasta dish. The brightness of it felt wrong, too sharp against the gray that still clung to her.
Ripley’s hand was still hovering in the air, fingers trembling just enough for him to notice before she balled them into a fist and tucked them against her chest. She swallowed hard, throat working, eyes flicking anywhere but him. “Sorry,” she said finally. Her voice was soft, paper-thin. “Guess I zoned out.”
He leaned against the counter, keeping his tone even. “You don’t have to apologize.”
She nodded once but didn’t move, staring down at her hand like it had betrayed her. The air between them felt too still. Bucky could almost see the gears turning behind her eyes—the slow, mechanical grinding of someone forcing themselves to stay upright when the ground wasn’t steady yet.
He handed her a dish towel. “Here,” he said. “For the water.”
Her fingers brushed his when she took it. Warm skin, cold metal. Her eyes flicked up at the contact, and for a second—just one—something broke through the fog. A spark of awareness. Then it was gone.
“Thanks.” She turned away, drying her hand, pretending to be absorbed in the act.
Bucky busied himself with pouring her a cup of hot water. He began opening cupboards, searching for tea.
“Cabinet next to the mugs,” she said dryly, watching him struggle.
He dropped a tea bag into the mug, set it in front of her. She played with the tag, bobbing the tea bag up and down.
“You have an interesting array of mugs,” Bucky said lightly, cocking his head at the one he had chosen for her — Punch Today In The Face.
“I like my mugs to represent my personality,” she replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll find one just for you.”
She dug into the fridge for a vanilla creamer, added it to her tea, and took the first sip.
Bucky checked the clock on the stove. “Doc’ll be here soon,” he said finally.
Her head snapped up. “Doc?”
“Raynor,” he explained, careful, neutral. “She was my therapist. I called her this morning.”
Ripley’s jaw flexed, her grip tightening on the mug. “You what?”
“She’s not here to dig,” he said quickly. “She just wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am okay.” The words came out sharp, defensive, too fast. “I’m perfectly okay.”
Bucky met her eyes, steady and unflinching. “You need help, Rip. After what you went through…”
The air between them went still. Her throat bobbed once, twice.
He softened his voice. “Look, she’s not here to put you on paper. No reports, no forms. Just talk. You don’t even have to if you don’t want to. I just… thought it couldn’t hurt.”
Ripley stared at him, breathing uneven. For a moment, he thought she’d tell him to shove it—that she’d pack a bag, walk out, disappear again.
Instead, she closed her eyes, pressing her palms against the counter. “Fine,” she said finally, the word dragging out of her like it cost something. “But if she starts with the touchy-feely bullshit, I’m walking.”
Bucky nodded once. “Deal.”
The doorbell rang—not sharp, but a steady, polite chime that felt too normal for the tension hanging in the air. She jolted, spilling tea with a curse. She waved him away when he stepped toward her.
Bucky set his mug down and moved to the door. Ripley tossed the dish towel at the tea she spilled and ran her hands down her face, wincing at the bruises.
Bucky opened the door to Dr. Christina Raynor standing on the porch, crisp and composed in a navy blazer and jeans, a messenger bag slung across her shoulder. Her sharp gaze swept over him in a heartbeat—bare-chested, loose sweatpants, that perpetual soldier stiffness he couldn’t shake.
“Morning, James,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her eyes flicked toward the kitchen, where Ripley stood braced against the counter, posture guarded. “You must be Ripley.”
Raynor’s mouth curved, unimpressed. “Oh, you’re gonna be a fun one, huh?”
Bucky watched the smallest twitch of Ripley’s brow—half challenge, half curiosity. He had to fight the urge to grin. “Coffee’s hot,” he said instead. “Help yourself. I’m gonna go put a shirt on.” He moved up the stairs, waiting for the explosions to begin.
Ripley stared at Raynor, brown eyes taking her in. “You don’t look like a shrink,” she said quietly.
Raynor gave a little scoff. “And you, Staff Sergeant Ripley Evelyn Todd, don’t look like you’re just some girl who waltzed into James’ life.”
Ripley ran her tongue over her teeth and reached for her mug, steadying the tremor in her hand. “Did your research, huh? How much security clearance do you have?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Raynor took a seat at the kitchen island, settling in with the kind of poise that suggested she was used to walking into rooms full of people who didn’t want her there.
Ripley, defaulting to the manners her mother had drilled into her, grabbed a mug—Boston Bruins—and filled it with coffee.
“Sugar? Creamer?” she asked, tone clipped but polite.
“Both, please,” Raynor said softly, studying Ripley over the rim of her glasses. Her gaze was feline, sharp, taking in every detail—the stiffness in Ripley’s movements, the way she favored one side, the mottled bruises tracing the line of her jaw and neck.
“Being a ghost operator is a far cry from combat military police,” Raynor observed casually as Ripley set the sugar dish, bottle of creamer, and a spoon in front of her.
“So I’ve been told,” Ripley replied, her voice edged in ice. She lifted her tea again, the mug steady now, the counter a clear line drawn between them.
Raynor stirred her coffee, watching the swirl of cream lace into the dark. “You know, I’ve read your file,” she said finally. “Redacted as it was. You had quite a record before you dropped off the radar.”
Ripley’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one too.”
“Doesn’t bother you?”
“What—people reading about my life in a folder?” Ripley’s tone sharpened. “Happens more often than you’d think.”
Raynor hummed. “Doesn’t mean it should.” She tilted her head, voice softening slightly. “You don’t trust easily, do you?”
Ripley’s mouth twitched—something between a smirk and a flinch. “You make that sound like a flaw.”
“It’s not,” Raynor said. “It’s survival.”
A pause lingered, long enough for Ripley to look away. She glanced toward the ceiling without meaning to—quick, instinctive, her eyes tracking Bucky’s position by sound alone. Floorboards, subtle weight shift, the faintest creak of his step.
Raynor noticed. Of course she did.
“He’s at the top of the stairs,” Raynor said casually, taking another sip of her coffee. “Listening.”
Ripley’s lips curved faintly. “I know.”
“You’re not bothered?”
Ripley looked back at her, eyes sharp but unreadable. “He deserves to know the truth no matter how he finds it."
Raynor studied her for a moment—measured, assessing, maybe even impressed. “You protect him,” she said finally, more statement than question.
Ripley shrugged one shoulder. “Old habits die hard. I protect my teammates.”
“He’s not your team.”
Ripley’s gaze flicked toward the stairs again, softer now, her voice almost too quiet to catch. “He is right now.”
Upstairs, Bucky froze where he stood—barefoot, leaning just out of sight. The words landed like a slow, deliberate punch. He exhaled quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose before sinking onto the top step, elbows on his knees. He didn’t mean to listen—at least that’s what he told himself—but his chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with guilt.
Downstairs, Raynor smiled faintly, like she already knew. “You know, Ripley,” she said, setting her mug down, “for someone who says she’s fine, you’ve built one hell of a perimeter around yourself.” The therapist looked down at her coffee mug. "No dating, barely contact your family, Instagram is your only social media, no gym membership—you haven't taken a sexual partner in over a year—"
“Occupational hazard,” Ripley said flatly. "Got my medical records I see…"
“Mm.” Raynor glanced toward the stairs, her voice taking on that wry note she saved for Bucky. “Seems you and James have that in common. You both have perfected the art of bullshit.”
Ripley let out what could only be considered a scoff, a dry, tired sound that almost passed for a laugh. She nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Where d’you want to start, Doc?”
It wasn’t surrender, not exactly—more like a ceasefire. Permission, in Ripley’s language.
Raynor leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice calm but cutting. “Let’s start,” she said, “with why your face looks like that.”
Ripley’s jaw tightened. “You mean the bruises?”
“That’s a start,” Raynor replied evenly. “But I mean what’s underneath them. The kind of thing that doesn't show up on an X-ray.”
For the first time, Ripley didn’t have a comeback. Her eyes flicked to the window—morning light spilling across the counter, haloing the edges of her mug—and then down to her hands. Her knuckles were raw, faint scabs where skin had split and healed unevenly.
Upstairs, Bucky’s breath hitched quietly in the silence that followed. “C’mon, Rip,” he murmured under his breath, barely audible.
Raynor’s voice stayed low, steady, relentless in its gentleness. “You’ve been through hell, Sergeant.”
“All nine circles, Doc.” Ripley leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. “Bucky’s been through worse.”
“We’re not talking about him,” Raynor said, taking a slow sip of her coffee. She winced, nose scrunching slightly. “Who made this?”
“He did.” Ripley’s mouth twitched with the faintest ghost of a smile. “I don’t drink coffee.”
Raynor huffed out a small laugh. “How did you survive the Army for—what was it, just shy of fifteen years?”
“Energy drinks and Diet Coke.”
Raynor nodded once, brows lifting. “That’s a choice.”
“I appreciate the foreplay, Doctor Raynor, really I do,” Ripley said dryly, straightening a little, “but can we get to the point?”
“Panic attack. Last night.”
“I was waterboarded forty-eight fucking hours ago,” Ripley shot back, her tone rising just enough to crack the air between them. “Give me a break if I have a moment to fucking process that.”
Raynor didn’t flinch at the venom in Ripley’s tone—if anything, she looked almost impressed. “That’s fair,” she said evenly, setting the mug aside. “But trauma doesn’t check your calendar before it kicks in.”
Ripley exhaled through her nose, a sharp sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. The light caught in her hair, haloing the streaks of gold against the bruises mottling her jaw. Her body language was pure defiance—shoulders square, chin lifted—but Raynor could see the tremor working through her hand where it rested on the counter.
“You can tell me what happened,” Raynor continued, voice low and precise, “or you can tell me what it felt like. Pick one.”
Ripley’s hand tightened around the edge of the counter. Her knuckles went pale. “It felt like drowning. Which, ironically enough, was the point.”
“Good,” Raynor said quietly. “Keep going.”
Ripley looked up at her, disbelief flashing in her eyes. “You’re serious.”
“Always.”
She scoffed, shaking her head. “You shrinks really do get off on this kind of thing.”
“On helping people stop reliving it? Yeah,” Raynor said, voice steady but soft. “That’s kinda the job.”
Ripley looked away again, jaw working. The muscles in her neck twitched once, twice—telltale signs of someone fighting against memory. “It’s not that I can’t talk about it,” she said finally, quieter now. “It’s that I still feel it. The water, the panic, the noise.” Her fingers twitched like she could still feel the zip ties biting into her wrists. “It’s all still right there.”
Raynor nodded once. “That’s because your body hasn’t realized you’re safe yet. Your mind’s trying to convince it otherwise.”
Ripley huffed out a bitter laugh. “Okay, well, it can stop. I enjoy showering and bathing too much.” She scrubbed a hand over her face, exhaustion weighing her down. “My body’s got a hell of a memory.”
Raynor leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on her knees. “That’s because you trained it that way. Hyper-awareness kept you alive. But it also means you never stop scanning for the next hit.”
Ripley’s head snapped up, eyes sharp. “You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not,” Raynor said. “Until it eats you alive., until that's all you know, all you're waiting for.”
For a beat, neither woman spoke. The air hummed, sunlight glinting off the edge of Raynor’s watch. Ripley’s breathing evened out slowly, the fight starting to drain from her shoulders. She blew out a long breath, her gaze shifting to the window, where the wind toyed with the curtains.
“You’re good at this,” Ripley muttered finally, voice low but sincere.
Raynor gave a small shrug. “You make it easy.”
Ripley barked out a dry laugh, short and humorless. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”
“I’m not insulting you, Ripley,” Raynor said, leaning back in her chair. “I’m trying to help you connect the dots.”
“What dots?”
Raynor’s lips curved in that faint, knowing smile that always made her patients uneasy. “Let’s talk about James.”
That got Ripley’s attention. Her head lifted, brown eyes narrowing, suspicion sharpening her tone. “He can speak for himself.”
Raynor met Ripley’s gaze evenly, one brow arching with the faintest trace of challenge. “He doesn’t need to, I’m asking you about him.”
“He’s fine,” Ripley said, the words clipped and steady, even as her body betrayed her. She straightened subtly—feet planted, shoulders squared, a slight shift that positioned her directly between Raynor and the staircase where Bucky lingered unseen. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just instinct: the quiet reflex of someone who’d spent her whole life standing between danger and someone she cared about. “He’s following your rules, he's got a home—leave him alone.”
Raynor tilted her head, voice deceptively mild. “Then how did he end up in Afghanistan?”
Ripley’s answer came without hesitation. “How’d he end up in Madripoor when he was still under your care?”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Raynor’s mouth—a hint of amusement, admiration, and irritation all tangled into one. “Touché,” she murmured, leaning back in her chair. “Though in my defense, that one had a diplomatic loophole attached.”
Ripley’s eyes flashed, not quite a smile but something close. “There’s always a loophole,” she said quietly, her voice dropping low.
For a moment, silence stretched between them. The tension in the room hummed, charged but unspoken. Raynor’s gaze didn’t waver—she was measuring Ripley, reading her tells, cataloging every flicker of breath and shift in stance. Ripley, for her part, met her look head-on, chin high, refusing to give ground.
Finally, Raynor exhaled slowly, setting her mug down on the counter with deliberate precision. “James,” she called, voice calm but carrying up the stairs. “Stop eavesdropping and come in here.”
Upstairs, a board creaked—the smallest admission of guilt.
Heavy footsteps moved down the stairs, slow and reluctant. When Bucky appeared at the bottom, his expression was caught somewhere between guilt and defiance. Barefoot, hair tousled, he looked almost disarmed without his usual armor of restraint.
Raynor gestured lightly toward the open space beside Ripley. “Have a seat, James.”
He hesitated, then crossed the room, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight. Ripley didn’t move away, but the shift in her shoulders was subtle—a recalibration. She didn’t trust Raynor yet, not fully, but she’d already decided she wasn’t letting Bucky take any more than he had to.
Raynor noted it all—the quiet alliance, the protective distance, the current of unspoken understanding between them. She steepled her fingers, studying them both. “Good,” she said finally. “Now we can stop pretending this isn’t about the two of you.”
"Pretty sure my panic attack isn't Bucky's fault," said Ripley moving to stand beside him. Just enough to ground herself. "Considering he didn't hold the bucket or put the cloth over my face."
"What drove you to go on that mission?" Raynor challenged her.
"Oh, I'm sorry," sniffed Ripley, rolling her eyes. "You think I had a choice?"
"I know you had a choice, Delta team was up for it, the team leader for Omega volunteered."
Bucky froze from where he had been fiddling with his coffee mug, his blue eyes shifted to Ripley. "What?"
Raynor raised her brows, tucking her lips. "James, meet the team leader for Omega," she told Bucky quietly. She watched his face cloud over, jaw tightening. Raynor drew in a breath. "Ripley, I'd like to see you on a regular basis, and I think your director would agree."
"I won't have this on my record," Ripley stepped away from Bucky, away from Raynor. A trapped animal.
Raynor didn’t move, didn’t raise her voice—she didn’t need to. “You nearly drowned, Sergeant. You’re not getting a mark on your record for that. You’re getting help.”
“I don’t need help,” Ripley snapped, sharper than she meant. The air in the kitchen went still. She backed up another step until her hip hit the counter, every muscle coiled. “I need people to stop acting like I'm broken”
“No one said you broken,” Raynor said evenly. “But you’re bleeding through the bandages—metaphorically.”
Ripley’s throat bobbed. “I’m not your patient.”
“No,” Raynor agreed softly, “but you should be.”
Bucky took a slow step toward her, setting his mug down on the counter, hands open and empty. “Rip,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a plea. It was an anchor. "C'mon."
She didn’t look at him. Her breathing had gone shallow, the storm rising again behind her eyes.
Raynor’s expression softened—just slightly, the way it did when a point had landed. She rose, smoothing her jacket. “James,” she said quietly, “you should give her some air.”
Bucky hesitated. Ripley’s shoulders had gone rigid, her hands fisted against the counter’s edge.
“C’mon,” Raynor nodded toward the garden door. “Take me outside. Show me around.”
She watched as Bucky stepped away from Ripley, his eyes holding onto hers until the last possible second. Bucky stepped out into the cool air, the door clicking shut behind them. The garden was damp from rain, the earth still dark and rich. Raynor followed a few steps behind, folding her arms as she took in the yard.
“She’s something, huh?” Raynor said lightly.
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s one word for it.” His gaze tracked a pair of sparrows hopping through the wet grass. “She volunteered for that mission?”
“Does it matter?” Raynor asked.
“Yeah… no. Kinda.” He raked a hand through his hair, staring at the cherry blossom tree in the yard. The branches swayed, scattering soft petals over the puddles. “I just—I think it was because of me.”
Raynor tilted her head. “Why would it be because of you?”
He shrugged one shoulder, jaw tight. “I was her plus-one at a wedding. Things got a little—it was—”
“You slept with her?”
“No!” He shook his head fast, wincing. “No. I mean, I wanted to, but she—”
“Turned you down,” Raynor finished, one brow arching.
Bucky grimaced. “That obvious, huh?”
“James,” she said quietly, “you’re not hard to read. Especially when you’re blaming yourself.”
He frowned, glancing at her. “I’m not blaming myself.”
“Sure you are.” Her tone softened. “You just call it something else. You think if you’d done something differently, she wouldn’t have ended up in country being tortured. That’s not empathy for a fellow soldier—it’s penance.”
He stared at the ground, thumb brushing his dog tag. “Feels the same sometimes.”
“I know it does.” Raynor let out a slow breath. “But one saves her. The other saves you. You can’t do both at once.”
Silence hung between them for a moment, filled only by the sound of rainwater dripping from the eaves. Bucky’s shoulders eased a little. “She’s a runner,” Raynor said at last.
“Yeah, no shit. I can see that.”
“No.” Her voice was calm, deliberate. “You’ve seen her leave, but you don’t understand why. She doesn’t run from danger. She runs from what she wants—because wanting something means she can lose it.”
He nodded slowly, eyes still on the blossoms. “So what—you’re saying I’m part of the problem?”
“I’m saying you’re part of the equation.” Raynor’s tone stayed even, professional but kind. “You make her feel safe, and that terrifies her. You also make her feel things she can’t compartmentalize. For someone like Ripley Todd, that’s worse than fear.”
He let out a humorless laugh. “It’s not one-sided.”
“I know.” She folded her arms again, voice softening. “You trust her. You want her. I saw it the second I walked in. You were tuned to her breathing like it was background noise.” She smirked faintly. “And that woman in there—she’s tuned to yours. You’ve both been scanning for danger so long, you don’t realize you’re scanning each other.”
Bucky’s throat worked once before he said quietly, “It’s not danger.”
Raynor’s smile was faint, almost sad. “No. It’s attraction. And trust. Both are dangerous if you don’t know which one’s driving you.”
He didn’t answer. The wind stirred, scattering petals between them.
“Here’s what I need,” Raynor said finally, shifting back to business. “I need to see her again. Officially this time. When she’s calmer. You’ll get her to me.”
He gave her a look, dry and wary. “You make it sound like a mission.”
“It is one.” Her mouth curved faintly. “And you’re the only one she’ll take orders from.”
Bucky sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really think she’ll go for it?”
Raynor’s eyes flicked toward the house. “No,” she admitted. “That’s why I’m giving it to you.”
He shook his head, half a laugh, half a groan. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” Her tone lightened, but her gaze softened again as she added, “Be careful with her, James. Attraction’s the easy part. Trust is the hard one. Don’t make her regret giving you both.”
He turned toward the house, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “I’ll take you out the side gate,” he muttered, voice steady again.
Raynor’s mouth curved faintly as she followed. “Good choice.”
He didn’t answer. The gate creaked open on its hinges, and as she stepped through, he lingered—just a moment longer—watching the petals collect on the threshold like snow. Then he shut the gate behind her, the soft click louder than it should’ve been.
a/n: i'm so madly and completely in love with bucky, so this is what i think would be like to be loved by him. if you disagree with these, boohoo!
silent but deadly romantic
he's not going to say I love you constantly, but he shows it. "Do you need something, baby?" Even if you say no, he's going to bring you something. A favorite snack. Fixes the loose door you barely noticed. Eyeing the person that gives you trouble at work.
physical touch turns him into putty
He's so touch-straved, so once you inititiate affection, he clings. Arm wrapped aorund your waist. Kisses on the side of your neck. Fingers laced together under the table. Constantly pulling your back to his chest if you stray a little to far.
extremely territorial over chores
You try to do the dishes after cooking, but he's eyeing you so bad. "You cooked. Go rest." You try to vacuum, and he already beat you to it. Not that he thinks he can do it better - never. He just wants to feel useful in the home he shares with you.
you hung the moon
You could be doing something so mundane - folding towels, brushing your teeth, laughing at some stupid tiktok - and he'll stop whatever he's doing to watch you with this soft, stunned look. like he st can't believe you let him stay.
gaslighter
You wake up freezing and he’s cocooned like a burrito? “That’s weird,” he mumbles, clearly sweating. “Must be the draft.”
you don’t notice his haircut
It’s a half-centimeter trim. You blink and suddenly he's quiet, eating cereal angrily, whispering “new hair, new me, same neglect.”
gets jealous, but doesn’t know what to do about it
He’ll just stand there glaring at whoever’s making you laugh a little too hard, arms crossed, jaw tight, like he’s trying to kill them with eye contact alone.
grumpy little observations
“That guy’s voice is annoying.” Translation: “Don’t talk to him, talk to me.”
“You left your sweater again.” Translation: “It smells like you and I’m keeping it forever.”
overwhelmed by happiness sometimes
He’ll be brushing his teeth or tying his boots, and it’ll hit him—he’s loved. He’s safe.
never thinks he deserves you—but he protects you like he does
Doesn’t care if it’s something small or world-ending. If you’re stressed, he’s fixing it. If you’re in danger, he’s between you and the threat before anyone blinks.
he would defiently love being close to you. the momment he started to feel safe and comfortamble with you he would always find a way of touching you even when there were people around you.
pet names is a must in your relationship from darling to sweetheart to doll wich was his favorite one to be honest.
leaving litle notes here and there for you to find like in the bed when he went running with steve or when he had a urgent mission.
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SUMMARY: You’re just having a really bad day and Bucky wants to know how to help.
WARNINGS: some language.
After waking up twenty minutes late, brushing your teeth turned into an Olympic sport while you pulled out an old ‘stand by’ outfit. You shoved a granola bar in your bag and rushed out the door.
“y/n, you’re late.” Your boss scolded over her glasses. Honestly how did she even know you were late, was she waiting at your desk or something? “This happens again and there will be . . . disciplinary actions.”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand.” Sliding behind your desk, dodging the glares and cold shoulders your coworkers suddenly had. Propping your elbows up on the edge and catching your forehead in your palms you wondered what had happened to your alarm. It’s never messed up before. Shaking away your confusion, you unlock the computer and start going through some emails.
Ms. y/l/n,
Please come by my office and see me before you go out to lunch.
-Randy
Randy was your direct supervisor. A really nice guy and everything. Probably was just adding onto your responsibilities. When he fired someone, you usually were called on to pick up all the slack. At this point you were working about four position and still only being paid for the one. You worked away the first half of the day before stopping by Randy’s office on your way to lunch – purse already in hand.
“y/n, I’m sorry but there just isn’t any more money in the budget. I had no other choice.”
“But I-“
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. Please collect your things and go.” Randy had given that speech before. Hell, you had heard him give that speech before. You never dreamed he would be giving you that speech, though. The room still spinning, you got up and walked out the office. Heading towards the front door your gaze was fixed on your shoes – still processing had just happened.
It’s okay, you though, I’ll get through this and everything will work out. I’m just going to put this behind me and deal with it tomorrow. Besides, I’ve got a hot date tonight. You smiled at yourself. Tonight was date night with Bucky. Even though you had been dating for a while now, having a standing date night provided some much-needed stability. Tonight was his turn to plan everything. You didn’t know exactly what he had planned but, after hours of begging, he gave you a hint. Three words: ankles, tongue, and chocolate.
CLANK! Your car started bouncing along the road as you pulled over to the shoulder.
“You’ve got to be f-“ you cut yourself off with a laugh, “Of course.” Shaking your head in disbelief of the flat tire in front of your eyes. Just what this day needed. After rolling up your sleeves and popping the trunk to get the spare, you realized you never refilled the old spare that was sitting flat in your trunk, now. Cursing under your breath you ripped out your phone and called a tow truck,
“Hi, I need a tow truck . . . I have a flat tire.”
“Sure thang, hun, it’s a two hour wait but you’re on the list.”
You sat in your car for two and a half hours waiting on that damned tow truck. Once he finally got there, you had to sit in his cab on the way back home. His filthy, disgusting, garbage filled cab.
You grabbed the mail on your way inside. Flipping through the water bill, a shut off notice from the electric company, and some adds from the local Grab ‘n Go, you found a First Class envelope addressed to you,
Ms. y/l/n,
Thank you for being patient with us during these trying times. Everyone is experiencing an unprecedented amount of change and transition right now.
While it is our mission to serve the public, we regret to inform you that we cannot accept you into the Business College of our University at this time. While you have excellent references and outstanding achievements, we only have a limited number of openings this semester to fill. Please submit your application again next semester.
You dropped the letter and went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Propping yourself against the counter you studied the sink.
“Gorgeous!” a smile thick enough to hear on his voice as he wrapped his arms around your waist and started kissing your neck. “I’ve got the quiet the plans for us. First we’re gonna-“ What a shitty day. You had such high hopes for the day and it all got blown to hell because of the damn alarm clock! You felt him stop kissing your neck, “Sweetheart you okay?” he pulled away from you and turned you to face him. He studied your eyes that filled with water at the genuine concern painted across his face, “Hey,” he lifted your chin when you started to look away and wiped a tear from your cheek, “crappy day?”
You laughed through the annoyance of the day. Through the though of having no income. Through the smell of cheap fires in the cab of the tow truck. Through the rejection in that letter.
“I, I just.” You began before having to stop in an attempt to compose yourself.
“Just tell me what you need.” You looked into his eyes. He was serious. It wasn’t a line. He really wanted to know what to do to help you.
“Honey, I love you . . . more than you could ever know . . . more than I could even tell you. And tonight, I know we had plans. I know they were hot and sexy and beautiful plans, but I just need you tonight. I need you to wrap me up in your arms. I need to feel your weight against me, to feel safe curled against your chest. I need to know you’re here. To know that nothing can hurt me when your beside me. I need to smell you. Not just when you’re passing by and I catch a slight scent – no I need to breath you in. I need to rest with you.”
“I’m sorry . . . our plans–“
“No,” wrapping a piece of your hair behind your ear, “let’s rest.”
