#ssmapril2026

When you’ve finished the last of the linen, he calls out, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you return, because that’s the rhythm of you – easy, practiced, a hundred small conversations stitched together over years of living too close not to know each other well.

There’s a pause as you turn around to face him, basket resting against your hip, extra clothespins in your free hand.

“You got plans tomorrow?” he asks, and it lands just slightly off.

Not wrong, just a little unexpected.

You narrow your eyes a little. “That depends. Is this you making conversation, or am I going to regret it?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, scratching at the back of his neck in that tell you’ve learned to recognise – the one that means he’s thinking too hard about something that should be simple.

“Don’t read too much into it,” he says immediately, which of course guarantees that you will. “I just – there’s this thing. A day trip. To Rockaway.”

You blink. “Rockaway Beach.”

“Yeah.”

“With you?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

He presses on, words coming a little faster now, like he’s trying to get ahead of your reaction.

“I had a ticket – well, two tickets. Was supposed to go with Steve, but he’s not feeling great again, so –” a shrug, casual in a way that really isn’t “– I’ve now got an extra. Thought maybe you’d want to come. No pressure. It’s not –” he gestures vaguely between you “– not a date. Just… a trip.”

It is, without question, the most not a date invitation you have ever heard.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Bucky Barnes,” you say slowly, “are you asking me to skip my perfectly respectable Saturday plans to accompany you to the seaside – purely as a matter of logistics?”

He meets your gaze, jaw tightening just slightly. “Yes.”

“And not,” you add, with deliberate innocence, “because you enjoy my company.”

“That’s –” he stops, recalibrates. “That’s not what I said.”

“Mm-hm.” You let the syllables stretch, just enough to make him shift his weight.

There’s something almost endearing in it – the way he refuses to name things outright, like if he keeps them small enough they won’t scare you off. Or himself.

“So what you’re telling me,” you continue, turning back to the clothesline, “is that you’re abandoning your shift at the shipyard –”

“I’m not abandoning –”

“– skiving off, then,” you correct, sweetly, “in order to take me on a completely platonic, entirely incidental outing to Rockaway Beach.”

“They said they didn’t need me this week,” he mutters, which is not quite a denial.

You smile to yourself, smoothing out a sheet, just to give your hands something to do.

“And Steve’s just – what? Conveniently ill?”

“He is ill.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

You turn to face him, hands on your hips, letting him see the full extent of your scepticism.

He holds your gaze this time. There’s something in it – steady, quiet, a little too intent for a man who’s just offering up a spare ticket.

“Come with me,” he says, softer now. Not pushing. Just… there.

And that does something inconvenient to your chest.

Because the truth is, you would have said yes before he even finished asking. Because you have always been a little bit in love with him, in that patient, undramatic way that settles into the bones and refuses to leave. Because there is a part of you that has been waiting – foolishly, persistently – for him to look at you like this.

Which, apparently, he will.

You sigh, as though the world’s most put upon woman.

“Well,” you say, with great deliberation, “it would be terribly wasteful to let a perfectly good ticket go unused.”

Something in his shoulders eases – just a fraction, but you see it.

“Right,” he says. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“Purely for financial reasons,” you add.

“Of course.”

“Because Steve’s sick.”

“Because Steve’s sick.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary.

“Pick me up at eight,” you say.

And if he looks a little too pleased about it – well, that’s not your problem.

Bucky is early.

Not conspicuously so – nothing so gauche as arriving half an hour before the appointed time – but early enough that when you glance out the window and see him already on the stoop, hat in hand, hair still damp at the temples like he rushed a little more than he’d admit, something in your chest gives a small, traitorous tilt.

You take your time.

You smooth your hair, unnecessarily. Adjust the line of your sleeve. Consider, briefly, whether your new baby-blue pleated dress is too much for a seaside excursion conducted under the strictest understanding that it is not, under any circumstances, a date – and decide, with equal parts logic and stubbornness, that there will be no better occasion for it.

When you open the door, he looks up immediately – and then, just as quickly, looks away.

“Morning,” you say, as though the air between you is not suddenly carrying more weight than it did yesterday.

“Morning.”

Another beat. His gaze flicks back, steadies, then catches – just for a second – on the line of your dress, the way it sits just a touch nicer than it strictly needs to for a day trip you are both pretending is incidental.

You lift an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm-hm.”

You step past him and onto the stoop, close enough that your sleeve brushes his arm – light, intentional, entirely defensible.

He goes still.

And you smile, because you are, at heart, a terrible person.

The trolley rattles like it resents the rails, all sharp corners and jostling turns, its windows thrown open to the heat of the city. You sit side by side on a narrow bench, your knees knocking every time it lurches, the air thick with the smell of hot metal and something sweet – caramel, maybe, from a vendor who boarded three stops in and never left.

Bucky spends the first half of the journey looking at everything except you.

He watches the conductor, watches the passing streets, watches the reflection in the window as though it might offer him an escape route. You, in contrast, watch him – openly, unbothered – taking quiet inventory of the way his shoulders relax by degrees as the city gives way to stretches of open sky, the way his hand rests on his thigh, fingers tapping out a rhythm he doesn’t seem aware of.

“By the way,” you say almost idly, as the trolley begins to slow at the sight of the ferry stop, “I saw Steve this morning. He sends his regards. He also asked me to inform you that you are, in his words, a knucklehead.”

Bucky startles. “What?”

“I went to see him,” you continue. “To make sure he wasn’t gravely ill or anything. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve never seen him look better. I caught him halfway out the door – something about trying to enlist again.”

He goes a touch sheepish.

You smile, already stepping ahead of him toward the water.

The ferry is better – unexpectedly so. Broad and steady, with benches worn smooth by years of use, the salt air cutting clean through the lingering heat of the morning. The city recedes behind you, all steel and concrete softened into something almost distant and manageable. Ahead, the ocean stretches out in that impossible, endless blue.

Someone hands you a picnic basket on boarding – sturdy wicker, tied with a ribbon that feels just a touch too nice for a Iittle day trip. You settle onto the bench beside him and untie it with ceremony.

Bucky watches – not the basket, you. You feel the quiet weight of his attention, and take your time with it. Inside: two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a small jar of something that might be jam, a wedge of cheese, and – most importantly – two plums, dark-skinned and perfectly ripe.

You lift one, pleased. “Well. This alone justifies the ticket pricing.”

You can hear the thoughts form in Bucky’s head. He’s looking at them – no, not just looking. Considering, in that careful, understated way of his, coming to a firm decision that he won’t regret.

A little puzzled, you offer them to him. “You like plums, don’t you?”

It’s not a question.

He exhales, almost a laugh. “They’re… alright.”

“Mm-hm,” you hum as you hand him the larger one. He turns it once in his hand, and then presses it back into yours

“Here.”

You blink. “That’s yours.” 

“I know.”

“Bucky –”  

“Take it.”

There’s something in the way he says it – quiet, certain – that makes you pause.

“You like them,” you repeat, softer now.

He shrugs, eyes already drifting out toward the water as though the conversation has concluded. “You’ll like it more.”

It’s a terrible argument, but you find that you accept it anyways.

“Fine,” you say, even as your heart skips a little beat. “But if it’s bad, I’ll expect compensation.”

That gets you a look – brief, sharp, amused. “Noted,” he says.

You bite into the plum, the skin giving way cleanly, juice spilling over your fingers before you can quite catch it. You squeak, more at the suddenness than anything else.

“Careful –”

Too late. The juice runs over your thumb, your wrist. You laugh, a little under your breath, and try to catch it, which only makes it worse.

“Here,” he says, already reaching. The handkerchief appears as though he’s been expecting this, and his hand closes lightly around your wrist to steady it.

It is, objectively, a practical gesture.

It does not feel like one.

His thumb presses briefly against the inside of your wrist as he wipes away the juice, slow enough that you are aware of it, quick enough that it could still be denied.

“Messy,” he mutters, more to the situation than to you.

“You gave it to me,” you point out.

“Yeah,” he says, a little rougher than before. “I did.”

A beat.

You glance down at the second plum, still resting untouched in the basket, then back at him.

“Here,” you say, and hold your half out.

He looks at it – at the mark of your bite, at the juice still bright along the edge. There’s a flicker – hesitation, something more complicated than that.

Then he leans in. He’s not close enough to touch you – close enough to take a bite. The moment stretches – thin, precise – as he straightens again, swallowing.

“Good?” you ask, lightly.

He nods once and doesn’t elaborate.

You don’t push, but you don’t miss the way he doesn’t look at you immediately after. Or that when he finally does, there’s something there that hadn’t been before – something quieter, and far less easily dismissed.

The both of you finish the plum together, passing it back and forth without comment, the sticky sweetness lingering on your fingers, your lips, the space between you.

The ferry cuts steadily through the water. The quiet that settles is not empty. It is, if anything, fuller than before.

Rockaway, when you arrive, is bright and loud and unapologetically alive.

The beach is crowded in that cheerful, chaotic way telling of a Saturday well spent. Families are staked out under striped umbrellas, children shrieking at the edge of the surf, vendors calling out over the crash of the waves. The sand is hot underfoot, the sun relentless, and the two of you fall, without quite discussing it, into the earnest choreography of settling in – he shakes out the blanket, you catch the far edge before it snaps back, both of you adjusting it in small, overlapping movements until you’re distracted from how little distance there is between you.

You insist on wading out farther than is strictly sensible, daring the waves to knock you off your feet; Bucky follows, muttering under his breath, but never more than an arm’s length away. When a particularly ambitious swell catches you off guard, it’s his hand that closes around your wrist, steady and unyielding, hauling you back before you can go under.

“Careful,” he says, low and sharp, like it’s a warning meant for himself as much as for you.

“You’ll catch me,” you reply, easy, as though that settles it.

It does not, but he doesn’t argue.

You spend the afternoon stretched out on the sand, the picnic basket between you, the sun turning everything slow and golden. You talk – about nothing, about everything, about things that don’t quite matter and things that very much do, slipping between them without friction. He tells you stories in fragments, as though he’s testing the weight of them in the air before letting them go; you meet him there, never pushing, never pulling away.

At some point, you fall quiet.

Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because the day has softened around you, the heat pressing your eyelids heavy, the sound of the ocean settling into something almost hypnotic. You lie on your back, staring up at the endless blue, aware of him beside you in that particular, heightened way that proximity creates.

When you turn your head, he’s already looking at you.

He looks away first.

By dusk, you are both exhausted in the best ways – sun-dazed, hair full of salt, skin warm and pink from the day’s indulgence. A good kind of tired.

The platform for the night streetcar back to Brooklyn is narrow, poorly lit, and entirely inadequate for the number of people now gathered upon it, all of them clutching bags and blankets and the vague hope of getting home before the storm breaks.

The air has changed; you notice it first in the wind, how it picks up without warning, sharp and insistent, tugging at the hems of skirts, sending sandy grit skittering across the platform. The sky. Which had been clear for a spectacular sunset not an hour before, is now bruised at the edges, clouds rolling in low and fast.

“Bucky,” you say, tilting your head back, watching the horizon disappear. “I think –”

And the rain arrives all at once.

It’s not a quick sprinkling, not the tentative start of something that can be waited out, but a full, unrelenting sheet of water driven sideways by the wind, soaking through clothes and hair and skin in seconds. Someone swears, ‘Hurricane!’ A little kid shouts excitedly as he gets pulled along by his frazzled mother as the crowd surges instinctively towards the meagre shelter that the platform provides.

Bucky’s hand closes around your wrist before you could even register the movement, pulling you back from the edge, positioning himself between you and the worst of it.

“Stay here,” he says, already scanning the tracks.

As though you could go anywhere.

The conductor appears with the air of a man who has long since accepted that the universe is not interested in his schedule. He shrugs, wide and helpless, rain dripping from the brim of his cap.

“Tracks are flooded,” he calls over the noise. “Last car’s been cancelled. Try again tomorrow.”

There’s a collective groan as you exchange a look with Bucky.

It is, in its own way, perfectly absurd.

“The bus?” you suggest, already knowing the answer.

“Closed,” he says, confirming it anyway.

Another beat.

Then, simultaneously: “We could –”

You both stop, laugh – soft, incredulous, the kind of laughter that comes when there are no good options left and you’ve decided, tacitly, to find that funny.

The only lodging within sprinting distance is Mrs. Doyle’s boarding house above the bait shop, its sign swinging precariously in the wind, paint peeling just enough to suggest character rather than neglect.

Inside, it smells faintly of salt and something that has been fried earlier in the day. Mrs. Doyle herself is a woman of indeterminate age and absolute authority, who takes one look at the two of you – drenched, sand-streaked, dripping onto her freshly polished floor – and says, without preamble, “One vacancy. Double bed. Take it or leave it.”

Bucky opens his mouth to protest.

You stomp on his foot and pay.

He carries your bags up three flights, the narrow staircase creaking underfoot, his jaw set in that particular way that suggests he is very carefully not thinking about something.

You follow, acutely aware of the way your dress clings – heavy with rain, fabric turned sheer in places you would rather it not be. The air is warmer inside, but not by much, and the damp only makes everything feel closer, more immediate. At the top of the stairs, he hesitates for a fraction of a second before opening the door.

The room is small, but not unkindly so. As promised, there is a bed – neatly made – a narrow window rattling in its frame, a chair tucked into the corner. It’s small in a way that offers no illusions about distance or privacy.

You step inside anyway, turning slowly, taking it in with the composed interest of someone who has decided, quite firmly, that you are not going to be flustered, no matter what happens tonight.

Behind you, Bucky sets the bags down with more care than necessary. The door clicks shut.

And then – nothing.

Not the comfortable quiet you’ve grown used to over months of knowing him, but something much thinner, more precarious. The already small room seems to contract around it. Even the storm outside, so loud on the stairwell, is reduced to a dull, steady percussion against the window, distant.

Somewhere, water drips. You fix on it immediately – on the uneven rhythm, the way it fills the space where conversation ought to be. It becomes, very quickly, unbearable.

“I should –” you blurt.

“You can –” he starts, at the exact same moment.

You both stop.

Abruptly enough that you both turn – too fast, too close – and nearly collide with the fact of each other.

For a second, neither of you recovers.

His gaze drops – reflex, unguarded – caught by the damp cling of your dress, the outline it no longer bothers to obscure. Just as quickly, it snaps back up again, ears flushing red in the low light, like he’s been burned by the mistake.

You feel it anyway, that flicker, that look.

The silence that follows is not an improvement.

It lingers, faintly mortifying, as though the room itself has taken notice and is waiting – patiently, expectantly – for one of you to behave with a degree of competence.

It certainly won’t be you.

Your eyes shut for the briefest moment as you gather yourself – too aware of your pulse, of the way the air has shifted, of everything that has just happened without being acknowledged.

“I’ll –” you manage, gesturing toward the adjoining door with a motion that is, at best, approximate.

“Yes – right,” Bucky agrees, at precisely the same moment. “You should –”

Another pause, shorter this time. No less disastrous.

You turn, despite yourself.

He’s already stepped back, as though anticipating your need for space before you did. One hand lifts in a small, almost formal concession – that he drops immediately, like even that was too much.

You nod, as though accepting an invitation rather than fleeing the scene of a minor but undeniable social collapse, and push your way past him with all the dignity available to a woman whose dress is still damp, whose thoughts are no longer entirely under control, and who is, quite suddenly, painfully, aware of both.

The door closes behind you and you allow yourself a single breath – sharp, unguarded – before your breathing settles again into something more manageable. The bathroom is mercifully private; the mirror, though slightly warped at the edges, proves unhelpfully honest. You brace your hands on the edge of the sink and look at yourself.

Your hair’s coming loose. Your skin’s still flushed. The dress – well. The dress is doing you absolutely no favours right now. You straighten anyway, smooth it down. Push your hair back like that’s going to fix anything.

Outside, beyond the thin piece of wood called a door, the floor creaks, just once. He’s still out there, obviously, but the reminder of it – of him pacing, or shifting his weight, or maybe even just standing there thinking is enough to make your stomach twist.

You exhale again, slower.

It would appear you are not the only one attempting, with limited success, to recover a sense of equilibrium.

You draw a steadying breath, turn the tap – not because you need to, but because the small, ordinary sound provides a useful counterpoint to the silence – and allow yourself one final moment of deliberation.

There is, after all, only so long one can reasonably remain in a bathroom without inviting speculation. And speculation, at present, is the last thing you desire.

By the time the bathroom door closes behind you, Bucky has already decided – firmly, decisively – that he is not going to make this worse.

It is, he reflects, a resolution he has arrived at several times over the course of the day, each one with diminishing success for its various reasons.

Mrs. Doyle, with the brisk efficiency of a woman who has seen every possible variation of human foolishness and elected not to comment on any of it, has taken pity on the both of you in the interim. The linens had arrived first – clean, if not particularly soft – followed by an armful clothing that appear to have been liberated from some long-forgotten fishing vessel.

He is, at present, attempting to negotiate with one of the shirts.

It is enormous, evidently owned by a man at least twice as large as Bucky. The cotton is stiff from repeated washing, the collar wide enough to sit awkwardly at his collarbone, and across the front – rendered in a shade of blue that has survived both time and poor judgement – is a fish of such improbable proportions that it can only be described as aspirational.

Beneath it, a slogan.

He reads it once. Then again.

He decides, with quiet finality, not to read it a third time.

The towel in his hands has already done what it can; his hair is still damp at the temples, the ends curling slightly in a way he knows will only worsen as it dries. He drags the fabric once more over the back of his neck, more for the sake of occupation than necessity, and lets it fall.

The room is too small.

Not physically – his room at home honestly isn’t much larger – but in the sense that there is nowhere for his attention to go that does not eventually circle back to the closed door across the room.

He has not sat down. He does not intend to.

The chair – narrow, wooden, positioned by the window in a manner that suggests it has never been expected to serve as a bed – has already, privately, been designated as his bed for the night.

It is, under the circumstances, the only reasonable course of action.

The alternative –

Well, he will not be thinking about the alternative.

The bathroom door handle turns.

He stills, instinctively, the towel going slack in his grip.

The door opens and whatever careful arrangement he has constructed in his mind – of distance, of propriety, of behaving like a man who has known you for years without incident – collapses with quiet, immediate efficiency.

You step back into the room, and Bucky Barnes, aged 23-and-a half, knows he’s well and truly screwed.

Your skin – he cannot, with any certainty, determine whether the colour is owed to the sun or the heat of the shower, and finds, unhelpfully, that the distinction matters. And the shirt – if it can still be called that, given the liberties it has taken with proportion – falls past your thighs, the hem shifting with each step, revealing and concealing in a rhythm that is far more distracting than anything shorter might have been. And the fabric – the fabric has been worn thin. Too thin.

He notices this in the same moment that he notices the slightest lift beneath the cloth, your nipples having pebbled into hard little points –

He looks away. Immediately.

The motion is sharp enough that it might, under other circumstances, have been interpreted as abruptness. Here, it is simply self-preservation. He exhales, once, slow and controlled, as though recalibrating something internal that has slipped its alignment.

“Uh –” Bucky begins, because speech, however ill-advised, is definitely preferable to silence. “Mrs. Doyle – she, uh – found some extra things.”

You glance down at the shirt, one corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself. “I noticed.”

He nods, eyes fixed somewhere just to the left of your shoulder, a safe, neutral point that requires no adjustment.

“Yeah. I, uh –” he clears his throat and immediately regrets it “– I’ve got one too.”

He realises, belatedly, that this is not information you require.

“Right,” you say, polite enough not to comment on the irrelevance.

The silence that follows is different from the one before. He moves before it can settle.

“I’ll take the chair,” he says, too quickly to be entirely casual, already turning toward it as though the matter is decided. “You should – take the bed.”

It is a reasonable offer. It is also, judging by the look you fix him with, the wrong one.

“Don’t be an idiot,” you insist.

He pauses.

“I – what?”

You gesture toward the chair, unimpressed. “Yes, by all means – do demonstrate how you plan to fold yourself into that and emerge in the morning with your spine intact.”

“It’s fine,” he insists, stubborn now. “It’s only for one night –”

“Exactly,” you cut in, quick, before you lose your gumption. “One night. So just get in the bed.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you don’t give him the opportunity.

Your hand closes around his arm – firm, decisive, entirely unconcerned with the fact that this is, perhaps, the worst possible strategy for convincing him of anything resembling calm – and you tug.

He goes.

Not because he’s compelled to – he could, very easily, resist – but because the alternative would require a level of composure he no longer possesses.

The mattress dips as you guide him toward it, the space shifting under the combined weight, the proximity rearranging itself into something that is, quite suddenly, undeniable.

“See,” you say, cheeks pink. “Plenty of room.”

He looks at the bed.

Then at you.

Then, very deliberately, at the bed again.

There is, objectively, space.

This is not the issue.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, a gesture that has, over the course of the day, become both habit and refuge.

“Yeah,” he says, finally, voice a touch rougher than intended. “Looks like it.”

The lights have been out long enough that the room has comfortably settled into darkness, the storm reduced to a distant hush beyond the window. The bed, which had appeared adequate in the abstract, has revealed itself – upon practical application – to be barely sufficient.

Or perhaps it’s not the bed.

You’ve chosen to lie on your side – very deliberately on your side – back to him, arms tucked in as though neatness might somehow create distance where there is none.

Because Bucky Barnes is lying – not figuratively, but literally – right there. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without touching. Close enough that every shift of the mattress registers. Close enough that you are, quite unhelpfully, aware of the rhythm of his breathing.

You close your eyes.

You open them again.

This is fine, you tell yourself. Entirely fine. You have shared space with him before – schoolrooms, sidewalks, picnic mats, conversation that stretches late into the evening – all without incident. This is no different; this is merely an extension of that. A practical solution to a minor inconvenience.

It is not, you remind yourself, anything else. So you will go to sleep. You will –

Ah-choo! you sneeze.

It is loud.

Not catastrophically so, but loud enough in the small room that it feels like a declaration. You flinch immediately after, as though you might take it back, and shift a little under the covers, attempting to recover some dignity.

The silence that follows is immediate.

Then –

“Hey.”

His voice, low in the dark, just behind you.

“Are you asleep yet?”

You freeze.

There is, briefly, a very real consideration of pretending. You could, in theory, commit to it. Regulate your breathing. Ignore the question. People sneeze in their sleep, presumably; stranger things have occurred.

You do not.

“…Yes?” You say hopefully.

Another breath.

“Right,” he says, softly, as though confirming something to himself.

And then – nothing.

This is, somehow, worse.

Because now you are both awake. Which means the awareness you’ve been trying to ignore is no longer one-sided. Which means he can hear your breathing, the small shifts you make, the fact that you are very clearly not sleeping. You consider, not for the first time, whether turning over would improve or worsen the situation.

You stare at the wall.

This is fine.

This is –

“Cold?”

The question is gentle, careful.

You hesitate.

The air has cooled since the storm broke; the damp has not entirely left your skin, and the thin cotton of the borrowed shirt is doing more for modesty than for warmth. But the question feels – somehow – like more than an observation.

You nod anyway.

The movement is small, almost imperceptible, but in the quiet it feels sufficient. He does not respond immediately, and for a moment, you think – hope, perhaps – that the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.

Then there’s a slight shift behind you. The mattress dips and fabric rustles as he moves closer. Your breath catches, just a little.  And then – more deliberate still – his arm comes around you. There’s a fraction of a second, no more, where it hovers, as though awaiting objection.

You don’t.

It settles at your waist, firm but careful, the heat of him immediate now, solid at your back. He draws you in just enough that you’re no longer balancing on the edge of the mattress, no longer pretending there’s distance where there isn’t.

“Better?” he murmurs, close enough now that the word brushes against your shoulder.

You exhale the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

It’s not an answer. It is, however, the closest you can manage.

And if you shift – just slightly – into the warmth of him, if your hand, almost without instruction, comes to rest where his arm crosses your waist –

Well.

It is, after all, a practical arrangement.

Nothing more.

And you lie like that for a while – listening to gentle pitter-patter of rain against glass, matching your breaths to his, telling yourself the heat blooming everywhere he touches is simply shared body warmth and nothing more. The quilt is thin, the storm unrelenting; any sensible person would do exactly this.

Still, your pulse flutters each time his thumb idly strokes the curve of your waist, as if it can’t decide whether to soothe or to claim. His breath fans the back of your neck in slow, measured drafts – controlled, disciplined, the way a man sounds when he is counting silently to keep from speaking.

“It’s warm now,” you whisper at last – only to realise how true it is, that the chill has been chased so thoroughly from your skin that every point of contact feels alive. Behind you his breath catches; something firmer than hip bone nudges the curve of your backside, unmistakable even through quilt and cotton.

“Bucky?” you reach back, half-afraid, half-certain, and your fingers brush the rigid outline straining his shorts.

He jerks, mortified. “Sorry – God, I’m sorry. Spent all day tryin’ to keep my head and –”

“Have you?” you roll to face him. A flash of lightning cuts across the room, picks out the hunger he can’t hide – the way his gaze drops to the rise and fall of your chest. You take his hand, guide it over your heart, let him feel the rapid thud beneath your breast and the soft peak beneath his palm.

“You can stop trying,” you hear yourself say, feeling very, very far away.

His answering sound is half-groan, half-confession.

At first, he treats the oversized shirt like fragile gauze, smoothing both hands up your sides as though afraid too much pressure might wake you from whatever spell has let him this close. His thumbs stroke tentative semicircles just beneath the hem of the sleeves, each pass gathers courage and cotton alike until the fabric rides high enough to bare the lower curves of your breasts to the thin storm-light.

Your answering breath, a soft, startled little “oh”, is all that he needs. He exhales, shoulders squaring, and cups you fully at last. Warm palms mould to pliant flesh; his thumbs sweep inward, hesitant, then firmer when a second, needier sound slips from your throat. Shyness melts by degrees – fingers knead, lift, and test weight as if cataloguing proof that you are real and here and his for the holding.  “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice crushed at the edges, “tell me to quit and I will.”

“Keep going,” you whisper, and the plea opens something in him.

When his thumbs find your nipples – already stiff from cold and want – he pauses, seeking your eyes. You nod, dizzy with the ache of waiting, and he plucks. The quick sting blooms into heat so sweet your spine arches off the mattress. A second pinch, harder, makes your breath hitch; pleasure fissures through the faint scrape of pain, leaving both peaks throbbing and wet under his circling thumbs. You hear yourself whimper; he answers with a low, reverent curse, confidence catching like fire in dry grass.

He rolls the tender buds between finger and thumb – slow, deliberate, watching your lashes flutter shut – then bends to flick his tongue over one, soothing, before dragging his teeth across the tip in a barely there scrape. The soft-sharp contrast sends a pulse straight to your core; you gasp, and he does it again, emboldened, mouth and hands working in concert until every breath is a tremor and your world narrows to the bright ache of each practiced pinch and the soft heat of his tongue that follows.

You thread unsteady fingers through his hair. “James –”

“James now, is it?” he murmurs, the rumble of his words travelling straight through you. “Careful – you’re givin’ yourself away.”

Heat climbs higher, immediate and unhelpful.

You huff a breath – something halfway between a laugh and a protest – and push at his shoulder, not nearly as effective as you’d like. You press your lips together, trying – and failing – to compose yourself.

“Am I?” you murmur, and then, before you can think better of it – “You really like them, huh?”

You’d meant to sound teasing – flirty, even – but the words come out breathless instead.

Bucky freezes, cheeks flushing darker than the storm-lit room. “Sweetheart, they’re –” He swallows, eyes fixed where his palms cradle you, thumbs stroking shy little passes over the peaks. “They’re the prettiest damn things I’ve ever seen.”

Something hot and fond twists behind your ribs. You slip the shirt higher, baring skin to the waist. The cool air sets your nipples aching; his gaze goes a little wild.

“If you like them so much,” you murmur, sliding your fingers through the soft hair at his nape, “would you like to…fuck them?”

The word falls from your lips vulgar and velvet. Bucky’s breath leaves in a ragged rush, as though you’ve punched the air from his lungs.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” He sounds half-plea, half-prayer. “Don’t say things you don’t –”

“I do.” You guide his hand, letting him feel the heat low between your thighs – proof slick on his fingers. “I want you to.”

Whatever leash he’d kept on himself snaps. He kisses you, hard and grateful, then lies back, kicking free of his undershorts. Thick and flushed, his cock rests against the taut plane of his stomach, already beaded at the top.

You straddle his legs, breasts swaying just above him. His hands rise – still reverent, but no longer shy – kneading, lifting, thumbs circling until each nipple prickles with sharp pleasure-pain. You press the soft weight together, forming a warm valley.

“Like this?” you ask, voice gone husky.

He cannot speak. Hands rise – one to hold, one to guide – and he slides into the warm valley you create. The head emerges near your collarbones, silvered with moonlit pre-come, before retreating again, slow and reverent. A guttural sound breaks from his chest, half prayer, half disbelief.

You set an easy rhythm, gliding up and down, the soft press of flesh around him made slick with his own want. He groans, fingers flexing against your sides before wandering up to pinch your nipples, gentle at first, then sharper when your soft moan eggs him on. The mild sting fuses with heat, spiralling low in your belly.

“Look at you,” he rasps, the words breaking apart. “So damn beautiful – lettin’ me…fuck your tits.”

Each time the crown peeks near your chin you dart your tongue out, tasting salt. He jerks, fingers tightening on your breasts, urging firmer pressure, faster motion. You close your lips around the swollen tip as it rises, suck once, feel him twitch hard against your tongue. Pace tumbles into ragged thrusts; heat gathers under his skin like a fuse run too short.

“Gonna –” His voice cracks. “Gonna make a mess of you, pretty.”

“Please.” One hand slips between your thighs, circles the throb there, chasing your own crest even as you squeeze him tighter. The coil inside bursts just as he groans your name: thick pulses stripe your throat, chin, breasts in hot, shuddering bands. The sight – moonlight glancing off slick skin, his jaw clenched in blunt ecstasy – tips you off the edge; pleasure crashes through your limbs, sticky and incandescent. After, you fold against his chest, both of you damp and panting while the rain spends itself against the roof. He strokes your hair with fingertips still trembling.

For a long moment there’s only the storm and two hearts racing. Then he gathers you close, lips brushing the slick he left on your skin, thumb stroking a nipple already tightening again.

The morning trains may run, but neither of you will be in any rush to catch them.

yap! why yes, of course they got freaky in the fish shirts

DIVIDER: @/saradika-graphics

You sat curled on the couch in one of his shirts, bare legs tucked beneath you, pretending to read while very much listening.

“No, absolutely fucking not,” Lloyd snapped at the screen, his fingers stabbing at the trackpad like it had personally wronged him. “I’m not holding a meeting in a room called The Serenity Suite. What am I, a divorced yoga instructor?”

You bit the inside of your cheek and sank a little deeper into the cushions.

A few seconds later, he clicked again.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, leaning closer to the laptop, eyes narrowing. “Why does every hotel in Prague look like it was decorated by a horny vampire?”

Your book lowered just enough for you to peek over the top. “Work going well?”

His head turned slowly.

Lloyd sat at the dining table with his sleeves pushed up and his espresso cup clenched in one hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to polite society. His hair was mussed from dragging his fingers through it, making him look like a dangerous man having a ridiculous morning.

“No,” he answered flatly.

You hummed, soft and sympathetic in a way that was entirely fake. “Shocking.”

His eyes narrowed before he turned back to the laptop. “I am trying,” he explained with exaggerated patience, “to choose a private venue for a very delicate meeting.”

“A murder meeting?”

His jaw ticked. “A business meeting.”

“So murder-adjacent.” You smiled down into your book, letting him hear it in your voice even if he couldn’t see your mouth.

Lloyd huffed and scrolled again, his expression darkening with every glossy promotional photo. “Too exposed. Too ugly. Too many exits. Not enough exits. Carpet’s suspicious. Chandelier’s tacky.” He paused, squinting at the screen with genuine disgust. “I hate that chair.”

“You hate the chair?” You glanced over at him properly then, unable to help yourself.

“I can tell it has bad lumbar support from here.”

The answer came so seriously that laughter bubbled straight up your throat.

“You’re being dramatic.”

Lloyd didn’t even look up. “I have killed men for less.”

“You kill men for fun.”

“That is beside the point.” He reply came to fast not to be funny.  Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, bright and amused in the clean, expensive quiet of the penthouse.

His eyes flicked to you over the laptop screen.

Dangerous. But not actually dangerous.

Not to you anyway.

Lloyd’s anger had different shapes. The sharp, quiet kind he brought home from work. The cold, surgical kind that meant someone was probably having a very bad day.

And then there was this.

This ridiculous, sociopathic creature in a too-expensive shirt, personally victimised by venue photography and ergonomic seating.

Your favourite kind.

Mostly because it was so easy to make this moment worse.

“Maybe pick the Serenity Suite,” you offered lightly. “You could do a breathing circle before the murder.”

His jaw flexed.

“There’s not enough espressos in this world to deal with this,” he growled, shoving back from the table so abruptly the chair legs scraped against the floor.

“With the venue?” you asked, all innocence.

“With you.” He snatched his empty cup off the table and stalked toward the kitchen. “With the location. With the general decline of professional standards.”

You listened to him move through the kitchen by sound alone. The ceramic clink of his mug against the counter. The opening of the pod drawer. The aggressive little click of a capsule being loaded into the machine.

Then nothing.

A pause.

A very long pause.

The kind of pause that had teeth.

You lowered your book.

From the kitchen, Lloyd called, far too calmly, “Sweetheart.”

Your stomach fluttered, making your blood warm.

That tone never meant anything good.

You looked over the back of the couch. “Yes?”

He appeared in the doorway holding the coffee machine’s removable water tank between two fingers.

Empty.

His expression had gone terrifyingly blank, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes fixed on you with the focused horror of a man who had found betrayal in his own home.

“Why,” he asked slowly, lifting the tank a fraction higher, “is my machine dry?”

You blinked at him, as if you apparently had no instinct for self-preservation. You tilted your head and offered, “Machines need hydration too?”

Lloyd stared.

You smiled.

And just like that, the bad chair, the horny vampire hotel, the Serenity Suite, and every incompetent bastard who had ever sent him a brochure with the words luxury conference experience on it disappeared.

Now there was only you.

And the empty water tank.

And Lloyd Hansen, looking like he’d finally found something worth punishing.

“You did this on purpose.” The accusation came low and flat as he stepped out of the kitchen, socked feet nearly silent against the polished floor.

“I forgot.” You widened your eyes just enough to make it insulting.

His stare sharpened. “You never forget things that annoy me.”

“That’s not true.”

“You remembered the tuna.”

Your mouth twitched.

His eyes narrowed instantly.

“Oh, there it is.” He pointed the empty tank at you like he was presenting evidence in court. “That face. That’s the face of a woman who woke up and chose violence.”

“I woke up and chose hydration awareness.” You smiled brighter.

“You woke up and chose to die on a very stupid hill.” Oh, he was getting all huffy now.

“You’re being dramatic again.” Your tone getting melodic.

“I am being deprived of basic human rights.”

“It’s water, Lloyd.”

“It’s espresso infrastructure.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

He caught it anyway.

The closer he came, the harder it was to keep your expression innocent. Mostly because innocent had never worked on him. Lloyd liked your innocent act the same way he liked a locked door.

Something to test.

Something to break open just to prove he could.

“You’re lucky I’m busy,” he warned, stopping beside the couch.

You glanced past him toward the abandoned laptop. “You looked busy bullying interior design.”

His moustache twitched again.

God, you loved that.

“Maybe you should take a break,” you suggested sweetly, letting your book fall closed over one finger. “You’re getting emotional.”

Shot fired.

Lloyd froze.

Then he laughed once.

Low. Flat. Dangerous in a way that made your thighs press together beneath his shirt.

“Emotional?” he repeated, each syllable slow enough to be a threat.

You shrugged, trying for casual even as your pulse kicked. “A little.”

“I’m not emotional.”

“You’re holding an empty water tank like it owes you money.”

“It does owe me money. The machine cost more than your first car.”

“My first car had personality.” You diverted the conversation

“Your first car had mould.”

“It had charm.”

“It had tetanus.” He grunted. You laughed then, unable to help yourself.

For a second, Lloyd just watched you.

Annoyed, yes.

Always annoyed.

But there was something else tucked behind it. Something warmer and sharper all at once, the kind of look he got when you forgot to be afraid of him and remembered he was yours.

Or at least, he liked to think you were his.

He set the empty tank on the coffee table in front of you.

Carefully.

He leaned down, one hand braced on the arm of the couch, the other sinking into the cushion beside your hip. The couch dipped beneath his weight, drawing you a fraction closer whether you wanted it or not.

The air shifted.

“There are two types of people in this world,” Lloyd murmured.

You tipped your face up to meet him. “Alive and dead?”

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Helpful and irritating.”

“Which one am I?”

His gaze dropped to your bare thighs, lingered on the hem of his shirt where it had ridden dangerously high, then slid slowly back to your face.

“That depends how the next thirty seconds go.”

Your pulse kicked again. This was too fun.

He knew exactly how fast he could turn ridiculous into ruinous.

You lifted your chin. “Are you threatening me over coffee?”

“I’m threatening you because you’re being a brat.”

“I thought you liked me like this.”

His smile sharpened, bright and wicked enough to make your stomach turn over.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed, leaning closer until the words brushed warm against your mouth. “I love you like this.”

The word should have softened him.

It didn’t.

With Lloyd, love was possession with better lighting. Affection with teeth. Devotion standing too close and daring the rest of the world to reach for what belonged to him.

“But liking it doesn’t mean you get away with it,” he added.

You swallowed.

His eyes flicked to your throat.

You saw the exact second he noticed.

Smug bastard.

“Lloyd.” His name came out quieter than you intended, thinned at the edges by the sudden press of him in your space.

“There she is,” he murmured, pleased in that awful, knowing way. “Voice went all sweet.”

“You’re imagining things.” You offered still sounding sweet.

“I have an exceptional memory for things I enjoy.”

You tried not to smile.

Failed.

Lloyd’s gaze softened by the smallest fraction.

Then his hand moved.

Just two fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face up until you couldn’t hide the smile from him. His thumb brushed along the curve of your jaw, slow and taunting, barely enough to count as touch and somehow more irritating because of it.

“Cute,” he murmured.

“I hate you.” You purred it though.

“No, you don’t.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.” His thumb dragged once more, following the line of your jaw until your breath caught.

A barely-there touch.

Infuriating.

Deliberate.

You leaned into it before you could stop yourself.

His smile widened.  “Oh, that’s embarrassing.” 

You smacked his chest.

Lloyd caught your wrist before your hand could retreat, his grip firm but not painful. He lifted it with theatrical care, pressed his mouth to the inside of your wrist, and watched your face the entire time.

The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

“You’re still not getting an apology,” you managed, but the words came out much less convincing than you wanted.

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“You were about to.”

“No.” His mouth brushed your pulse again, a soft scrape of lips and moustache that sent heat skittering under your skin. “I was about to make coffee.”

You blinked.

He let go of your wrist and straightened.

The loss of warmth was instant.

Rude.

He picked up the tank from the table and turned back toward the kitchen.

You stared after him. “That’s it?”

He didn’t look back. “That’s it.”

“You’re just making coffee?”

“That’s what the machine does when people remember to fill it.”

You narrowed your eyes as he crossed the kitchen.

The tap turned on.

Water rushed into the tank.

He was ignoring you.

Lloyd Hansen, international nightmare and professional pain in the ass, was ignoring you.

On purpose.

You stayed on the couch for ten whole seconds.

Maybe twelve.

Then you shoved your book aside and padded after him.

He had his back to you, broad shoulders relaxed as he slotted the water tank into place. The machine hummed awake, lights blinking like everything was perfectly normal.

Like he hadn’t just left you sitting there wound tight and annoyed.

You stopped beside him, close enough that your arm almost brushed his. “I hate when you do that.”

He loaded a fresh pod into the machine with maddening calm. “Do what?”

“Start something and walk away.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You absolutely do.”

Lloyd pressed the button without looking at you.

The espresso began to pour.

Slowly.

Painfully slowly.

He watched it drip into the cup with obscene patience, one hand braced against the counter, the other resting loose at his side like he wasn’t entirely aware of you vibrating beside him.

You watched him.

His mouth twitched like he was trying very hard not to enjoy himself.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re annoying,” you shot back, though your eyes still tracked the flex of his hand against the counter.

Lloyd’s smile sharpened. “You started this.”

“You overreacted.” You folded your arms tighter, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away.

“You sabotaged my espresso.”

“I forgot water.”

He gave you a slow, offended blink. “You committed domestic terrorism.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Lloyd turned just enough for his shoulder to brush yours, close enough that the heat of him crowded into your space again. “You’re still here.”

That shut you up.

Lloyd finally turned his head, looking at you over the curve of his shoulder.

Smug. Awful. Gorgeous in a way that made you furious and flushed.

“You want something?” he asked, voice dropping into that lazy, coaxing register that always made your stomach flip.

You crossed your arms. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” the retort came quick.

“Then why are you in my kitchen wearing my shirt and glaring at me like I disappointed you?”

“Maybe because you did.”

His eyebrows lifted.

There.

That got him.

You felt a flicker of triumph.

“You want attention,” he concluded, turning properly now, his hip settling against the counter.

“I want you to stop being dramatic.” You corrected.

“No,” he corrected, stepping closer, “you want my hands on you and you’re too stubborn to say it.”

“Wrong.” Your face warmed. He was too fun..

“Liar.”

“Asshole.”

“Brat.” The espresso machine clicked off.

Neither of you moved.

The coffee sat steaming between you.

Lloyd didn’t reach for it. Instead, he stepped closer.

You stepped back. Your hips hit the counter.

His hands came down on either side of you, caging you in without touching anywhere interesting.

“You know,” he murmured, head dipping until his mouth hovered near your cheek, “there really aren’t enough espressos in this world to deal with you.”

You lifted your chin, pulse racing hard enough now that you could feel it in your throat.

“Good thing I'm better then coffee then."

For a second, his expression shifted. The irritation cracked open just enough for something dangerously fond to show through. Then it was gone, tucked behind that sharp, wicked grin.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Lucky me.”

His hands gripped your waist. The world tilted as he lifted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

You gasped, fingers catching in the front of his shirt, the warm steam from his abandoned coffee curling between you as his body slotted into the space between your knees.

Lloyd leaned in, his mouth hovering just above yours.

“Apologise.”

“No.” You smiled.

His eyes darkened.

“Botany powers?”

You met Barnes’ doubt-filled eyes, refusing to waver despite him towering over you and the team staring.

“Yup.”

“You sure you can keep up with us?”

He probably wasn’t trying to be a dick, but he sure as hell sounded like one.

Pursing your lips together, you moved your hand just slightly. The potted Monstera plant on the edge of the hall sprung to life, shooting out as long vines.

Bucky barely had time to yelp before they wrapped around his ankles and yanked him face-first onto the floor.

“Yeah, I think I’ll keep up just fine, Sarge.”

You stare down the neat geometric angles of railing descending down the stairwell, not quite registering the sharp cuts. For a moment you debate tossing your phone between the kaleidoscopic angles but it’s not worth it. In the span of a five minute phone call, you are drained and it’s only 10 AM on a Thursday morning. Is it worth trying with them anymore?

A door slams open, three maybe four flights of stairs down pulling you from your thoughts. Right, you still need to finish your workday. Reluctantly you slip the phone back into your pocket. Taking three deep breaths, you return to your desk. 

The rest of the day passes with a heavy knot in your chest and cotton between your ears. Thick emotions from the morning hover close to the surface, like a pot just seconds away from bubbling over. But that is just enough to keep you from making any progress. A quiet battle rages, between the part of you that wants to extend empathy and the part of you that’s had enough, volleying the same old arguments in your head. It’s the world’s worst roller coaster and you just can’t seem to get off it.

As soon as it is a respectable hour to leave the office, you pack your things. Just as you are about to close your laptop, you get pulled into a last minute discussion. The meeting drags on, everyone pontificating about nuances that you just can’t seem to care about right now; it’s not your job to care. You fidget in your chair, as someone drones on. Why did they even need you here? You decide it’s payback for the creaky noises of your standing desk. 

When you finally escape and make it home, the silence of your apartment is welcome. You drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes. Exhaustion seeps into your bones. Before you can even make it to your couch, you collapse on to the floor, uncaring of the dull pain as your knees hit the wooden floor. The knot in your chest tightens and the bottled emotions of the day comes spilling out. You hunch over your knees as tears run down your face.

Grief.

Anger.

Disappointment.

All of them bubbling up to each pore, like it might just tear right out of you. All your efforts with your parents feels so futile and you feel like a fool for believing it might get better. 

But now, in this moment there was nothing left to do but cry. 

The shadows in your apartment lengthen as the light of day fades into twilight. Your tears have long since dried up. Your stomach gurgles at you and you are suddenly aware that all you’ve eaten today has been a protein bar and a few handfuls of M&Ms. 

Pasta. 

Yeah pasta sounds good. 

You push yourself off the ground, every muscle and joint displeased with having to budge. Pins and needles travel up your legs as you amble to your kitchen trying to shake them off. 

You bring the water to boil and let the pasta cook as you get a saucepan ready to heat up the tomato sauce. You drop some oil in the pan as you gather the rest of the seasonings. Basil, oregano, and balsamic vinegar. 

You hold the bottle, fingers worrying at the edge of the label. A memory floods you, unbidden. It’s of your mother tossing some nondescript amount of balsamic into the sauce as she tells you it's a good way to add a bit more tang. It was simpler, maybe. Fourteen and just learning to cook from her, free from all the complications of your teen years, and the decisions that you’d made for yourself in your adult life and the pain they’d brought. Your vision blurs with unshed tears. The next moment you are bawling on the floor, clutching the bottle of vinegar to your chest with only the over door for support.

It feels so silly to break down over a bottle of vinegar but the rush of emotions are anything but. It’s the timer for the pasta going off that pulls you out of your spiral. 

The pan is smoking. The oil has burnt off leaving stubborn black marks. 

“Fuck, fuck, shit!” 

You spring into action.

Burners off. Vent fan on.

You take the pan to the sink to cool it off. Thick steam rises as the water hits the pan, hissing and fizzling. You just hope and pray that the smoke alarm doesn’t go off. That would certainly be a cherry on this shit sundae of a day. 

Just as the pan is cooling, you hear a knock on your door. 

“Now what!?” you groan.

Turning off the tap, you leave the pan in the sink to answer the door. Whoever it was, you hoped it’d be quick. You open the door to find Sam greeting you with a brilliant smile and a bouquet of flowers. A grin that quickly fades as he take you in, frazzled in your crumpled work clothes and the smoky apartment behind you.

You had been seeing Sam for a short while now. Brief enough that you weren’t ready to let him see you like this, especially after the day you’ve had. You’re not sure what he’s doing here. He’s too well dressed for a casual drop by. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, stepping into the apartment and pulling you into a brief hug.

“Yeah I’m fine,” you say. “It’s just… been a day and just left the pan on for too long”

“Well these are for you,” he says with a small smile as he offers  you the bouquet with a flourish. “Let’s see if we can’t turn this day around.”

“These are beautiful,” you say, as you take in the collection of roses and peonies in your favorite shades. “I’m glad to see you today but what are you doing here?”

Sam frowns.

“We made plans, remember? The Minutes play and dinner.” 

Oh oh!  In the whirlwind of the day you’d forgotten about your plans for this evening. Going out was the last thing on your mind. Sam stands in front of you in a neatly pressed shirt and a fresh fade, his confusion quickly growing into concern. He brought the play  up at least once a day since he bought the tickets for you both and you are loath to disappoint him.  You set the flowers aside on the counter, resigning yourself 

“Give me a moment to get ready,” you finally say, with a smile but your voice rings hollow to your ears. 

You turn towards your bedroom but Sam catches your hand and draws you into his arms. He holds you tight, his chest expanding with the deep, slow, and easy breaths, coaxing you to match it. You bury your face in his chest – solid and warm, the first and only moment of comfort you’ve had all day.

“We don’t have to go out tonight,” Sam says, lips brushing the top of your head. 

The rumble of his voice seeps into your bones, easing the weariness of day and you sag against him. You don’t want to go anywhere, you just want to stay here until the warmth of his embrace, and his soft murmurings mend the tear in your spirits, stitch by stitch.

But you can’t, can you?

“But it’s their last run,” you say, reluctantly pulling back. 

“I don’t care about that,” Sam says. “Your comfort is more important than any of that.”

There is nothing in his tone other than sincerity. You search his face for any signs that he’s just being polite but all you see is earnest concern. 

“You sure?” you ask. 

“Yeah, baby, I’m sure,” he says gently, without missing a beat.

The truth was you were exhausted. You would rather pull out your nails than put yourself together enough to go to play and dinner. Something about the way he’s rubbing circles on your arms, the way he waits patiently for your response, and the way he took your disastrous scene in stride, uncurls a tightness wedged in your chest. Sam will accept whatever your answer is with no resentment, and your protective walls ease, though you don’t entirely believe it.

“I can’t go,” you admit quietly. 

“Not a problem,” Sam says, placing another kiss on your forehead. “Go get out these work clothes and I’ll take care of the food.”

“Sam, you don’t have —” 

“I want to,” Sam says firmly. “Now, go.” He nudges you towards your room. 

You take uncertain steps towards the bedroom, throwing back tentative looks at Sam as he surveys the damage in the kitchen. 

“I’ve got this,” he calls to you, catching your glances. “Go!” 

It’s much later. A shower, change of clothes, food and mundane conversation have  tempered your whirlwind of emotions, but exhaustion has left you numb. A movie plays on TV, Ever-after, that you are only half paying attention to. You are curled up against Sam’s side, legs swung over his lap, and face half buried in his chest. The steady thumps of his heart soothe any remaining nerves from the day. 

“What’s got you so twisted up, baby?” Sam finally asks during a commercial break.

His tone is so tender that you nearly start crying again. Your chest tightens at the thought of having to recount your shifting relationship with your parents. You are willing to open up to Sam about it but not tonight. Sam waits patiently for your response, a large hand running up and down your thighs. 

“Family stuff,” you mumble.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks.

You shake your head. It’s too much, far too much history to wade into. And tonight you’re already wrung out. 

“Another time,” you say, tilting your head to meet his eyes. “I… it’s just a lot and I…” you trail, the aching feeling already growing at the edges of your heart.

Sam gives you an understanding look and a knowing squeeze on your leg.

“Whenever you are ready,” he says. 

Comfortable silence falls between you. Sam pulls you closer and nuzzles into your hair as the commercial lists out a truly horrific list of side effects of a medication.

“Sorry about the play,” you say at length. “But I’m glad you stayed.” 

“It was never even a question,” Sam says, tipping your chin up to face him.

He leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a gentle reassurance that he is exactly where he wants to be tonight. As you kiss him back, you’re slowly beginning to believe it.

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Rain hammered down against the glass windows of the Veteran's Affairs office, the perfect accent to the dark storm clouds outside. Every so often the gloom would be broken up with a bright crack of lightning, illuminating the sheets of water pouring off every surface. It was the perfect day to be at home, cuddled under some blankets with hot chocolate. But no. Katie was stuck at the VA after handing off her half-day shift to the next receptionist. She stood next to one of the windows, arms wrapped around her middle as she pumped herself up for the long journey home. One of the conditions of her being free during her evaluation was having her license revoked, which meant either a long, soaking wet walk, or she'd have to take public transit. In her opinion, being crammed into a sardine can with strangers who were just as wet and probably twice as smelly - at least! - might actually be the worse option, compared to the walk.

Meanwhile, Sam, the lucky jackass, had left just before the storm started pouring down while she was still wrapping up her shift, taking away any option she might've had to bribe him for a ride.

Maybe she could stick around the VA and just wait it out. After all, she had her laptop with her, which meant she could get some work done in a quiet unused room somewhere.

But the storm wasn't giving any signs of letting up any time soon, and it wasn't like she could just live at the damn VA. Besides, her backpack was waterproof enough for anything important to survive the trip to the bus stop. A loud clap of thunder interrupted her train of thought. As soon as she got her license back, she was going to march into Nick Fury's office and tell him where to shove that damn bus pass he'd given her. Budget out the wazoo, all the coolest toys and gadgets, and Katie was stuck with a cheap-ass bus pass and no ride in the worst weather.

Well. Not the worst. Normally, she loved a good storm. It was just the idea of being stuck inside a cold, wet, smelly tin can of a bus with strangers that she hated.

Sighing, she pulled out her earbuds and put them in her ears. Time to get it over with.

Katie pulled up a random playlist, hit 'play', and put her phone in a sandwich bag, then stuffed it in her pocket. She pulled the door open and stepped out into the downpour. Damn near instantly, the water soaked through her jacket and her shirt, making her clothes stick to her skin. Rain puddled in her running shoes, leaving her with soggy, squishy socks.

"Great," she muttered.

The warmth of your love's like the warmth from the sun And this will be our year, took a long time to come Don't let go of my hand, now darkness has gone This will be our year, took a long time to come

Not even the deeply unfortunate lyrics thrumming in her ears could warm her up as she walked toward the nearest bus stop. The 90s teenager in her wanted to call it "ironic", but she doubted pulling up one of her own damn playlists could count as anything other than Alanis-branded irony.

A dark blue car pulled up to the curb a few feet ahead of her, and she felt a twang of sympathy for whoever had been dumb enough to go anywhere in this weather.

HONK!

The sound of the car horn cut through her thoughts like an explosion. Katie's head snapped up toward the car, ready to spit fire and brimstone, but when she saw Sam waving her over from behind the wheel all her ire melted away.

Smiling through the flood, she jogged up to the open passenger side window and leaned in. "What the hell are you doing out in this?"

"Driving you home," he shot back, leaning over and pushing the door open for her. "Get your ass in the car."

"I'm soaking wet," she protested, looking down at the leather seats with a grimace.

Sam laughed. "Katie, this ain't exactly a Lexus, and it's seen worse than a soaking wet ginger." He sat back in his seat, grinning at her with his arm draped casually over the back of the passenger seat. "Just get in."

Katie looked down at the seat, chewing on her bottom lip and getting wetter by the second. Sure, Sam wasn't exactly driving the kind of car she'd seen Tony Stark driving around in, but she was pretty sure that it'd be bad to just drown the seats in water.

"You know, you're not the first wet person to get into a car." Sam's eyes sparkled with amusement.

He had a point.

Slipping her backpack off her shoulders, Katie slid into the passenger seat and shut the door. "If there's any damage -."

"I offered you the ride, not the other way around," he said, pulling back into traffic. "Don't worry about it."

Brushing off the warm flush she felt in her cheeks, Katie asked, "What are you doing back this way, anyway?"

Sam shrugged. "Had to run an errand. Good thing, too, or you'd be a drowned rat." He gave her a sidelong smile as they came to a stop at a red light. "Moreso. What the hell made you decide to walk in this?"

As if to accentuate his point, a loud clap of thunder echoed nearby, followed by a burst of lightning in the sky.

"It was either walk a few blocks to the bus or live at the VA," she muttered, looking up at the clouds through the window. "And I don't think I can afford to rent the whole VA."

Sam's smooth chuckle sent a rush of warmth through her soaked clothes. "How the hell do you work in DC without a car?"

"Never said I don't have a car," she groused. In her mind's eye she saw the beat up old Ford Mustang her father had given her for graduation, just sitting in her building's underground parking, waiting to be driven again. "Just can't drive it for the time being."

Luckily, Sam didn't press, just asked for her address and offered to stop for dinner along the way. "I know this little place, run by this sweet old lady from New Orleans, has great shrimp creole! Warm you up real good."

Katie looked down at her still-dripping clothes with a wry grin. "Not exactly restaurant-ready."

"We'll get it to-go." Sam's hand dropped behind her seat, fidgeting around in the back of the car, then came back with a hoodie. "Speaking of warming you up, go on. I can see you shivering."

The way Sam brushed off her concerns so casually, the way he didn't care she was dripping all over his leather seats, offering to buy her food.... And now he was offering her his hoodie, all while asking for nothing in return. Nobody had taken care of her like this since she was a kid, at least not anyone who wasn't her family. She shook off her disbelief and that fuzzy feeling in her heart, slipping the hoodie around her. It smelled like...like Sam, warm spice and a comfort she couldn't put her finger on. 

"Looks way better on you than me," he said as he started forward with the green light.

Katie looked up at him with a smile, cheeks burning once again. "Fine, but I'm buying and you're coming back to my place to eat with me."

Sam arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth ticking up briefly before he opened it to speak.

But Katie cut him off. "I'm not taking 'no' for an answer, Sam. I owe you." She grinned a little wider. "I even made a Tarte à la Bouillie we can have for dessert."

The surprise on Sam's face was priceless. "Tarte à la Bouillie? You made Tarte à la Bouillie? From scratch?"

Katie pulled the hood strings a little tighter, subconsciously seeking out the comfortable feeling surrounding her. "Yeah, baking helps me unwind. I was gonna bring it to the office, but...." She'd had every intention of bringing them in, but her unmedicated brain had been struggling to remember...anything lately.

Only when Sam's hand slid into hers did she realize she'd been fidgeting with the hoodie strings. "Sounds like a deal to me," he said, squeezing her hand gently.

Katie squeezed back, shoulders relaxing as Sam pulled onto the Baltimore-Washington Highway.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If this hadn't been the most unexpected day Sam had had in a while. He allowed himself a small smile as Katie took the dishes he'd just washed, dried them, and put them away. Homemade Tarte à la Bouillie after shrimp creole for dinner. Not only homemade, but homemade for him. Katie had made it with him in mind for no reason other than she thought he might like it. Hell, she even pronounced it correctly with that sexy French accent rolling right off her tongue. If he'd ever had even a moment of doubt that offering her a ride home had been a good idea, that would've immediately tamped down on it. The more he got to know her, the more screwed he was - in the best way possible.

The whole apartment looked exactly how he would've expected - bright colours, eclectic decor, dishes and flatware that didn't match, a worn but comfortable green sofa they'd eaten dinner on because she had no dining set. Next to the TV there was a record player and bluetooth speaker dock. Old and new, comfortable and colourful. Though he had to admit he was a little surprised by the sheer volume of specialty kitchen gadgets scattered on the counters - a deep fryer, a soup maker, a coffee maker with what he could only assume was a milk frother balancing precariously on top; he could only imagine what lurked in the cupboards.

"So," she drawled, turning back to face him as he washed more of the dishes. "How was it? How'd I do?"

"Pretty damn good," he admitted, licking his lips at the lingering taste. "Don't think I've had Tarte à la Bouillie like that since...shit, since I was a kid. Don't ever tell my sister I said that, though - she hits hard." Without thinking, he reached up to rub his shoulder at the memory of the last time Sarah had hit him. Ever since they were kids, Sarah had always been tough as nails, but with a soft spot for the community. It had never even occurred to her to move away from Delacroix, Sam was pretty sure. Her roots ran deep there, whereas Sam was still finding a place he truly felt at home. 

"Promise," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Damn, he could drown in those blue depths and die happy.

Clearing his throat, he drained the sink and wiped it down while Katie put the last of the dishes away. From the corner of his eye, he caught the time showing on his watch and cursed under his breath. He'd been there hours and yet it felt like he'd only just got there. "Getting late," he muttered. "I should probably get going."

There was only the briefest pause in her movement and Sam allowed himself to hope she wanted the night to continue just as badly as he did. "Yeah." It was spoken so softly, Sam almost didn't hear her, like a light breath on the wind. But maybe he imagined the wistfulness in her voice because when she turned around and leaned back against the counter she was all sunshine and smiles, none of it put on for show. "Thank you again for the rescue, Sam."

Sam chuckled softly. "I think you more than made up for it with that dessert."

"Can be won over with food," she teased. "I'll make a note of that."

As they walked through the apartment to her door, Sam felt his cheeks starting to ache from all the smiling, but unable to stop. "You volunteering tomorrow?"

"Long as nothing comes up with actual work, I'll be there with bells on," she said, hands working their way into the back pockets of her jeans.

Sam reached out and tweaked her nose, laughing when she swatted his hand away. "I'll see you then," he said, slipping on his shoes. In the back of his mind he was already planning to stop by that expensive bakery and pick up some cookies for her just to see the way her face lit up. He'd do anything for that smile of hers. And when she stepped closer to hug him, he lost himself in the sweet and spicy scent of her perfume.

"Thank you again," she muttered against his shoulder.

"Any time," he sighed. "I mean it."

All too soon, she stepped back, lip firmly between her teeth again. "Goodnight, Sam."

He couldn't help himself, all those Saturday mornings watching cartoons came rearing up and he said, "'Night, Ralph."

That beautiful laughter went right through him, lighting up every inch and ensuring he'd need a cold shower the second he got home.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Sam," she giggled.

"Tomorrow," he said, forcing himself through the door.

Still, your grip tightened around the strap as you stopped at the bottom of the metal steps, headset crackling softly in one ear while the rest of the lot moved around you in controlled chaos.

Someone shouted for a runner near the mouth of the alley. Someone else cursed over a missing prop weapon that apparently had been signed out by second unit and never returned. A golf cart rolled past carrying two makeup artists, one assistant director, and what looked like half a corpse slumped between them, the dummy’s rubber arm bouncing obscenely with every bump in the pavement.

Normal set stuff.

Mostly.

You told yourself that like it helped.

The back lot smelled like hot dust, burnt coffee, fake smoke, and cable rubber warming under the late morning sun. All around you, people moved with purpose. Crew in black shirts, utility belts, and radios. Grips hauling stands over one shoulder like they weighed nothing. Costumes darting through with garment bags lifted above their heads. Across the lot, some of the stunt team were packing up from the tents, hauling mats, crash pads, and rigging cases toward the far side of the back lot where the rigging bay was being set up, all broad shoulders and bruised elbows, laughing too loudly over some story you were not yet familiar enough to be included in.

That was fine.

You were new.

Not brand new, not green enough to be useless, but new to this. New to a production this big. New to call sheets that looked more like military briefings. New to trailers with names printed on plaques instead of gaffer tape. New to actors whose faces were on billboards and stunt coordinators whose reputations could make or break careers with one phone call.

You had worked on sets before. Smaller ones. Cheaper ones. Productions where half the stunt mats had duct tape on the seams and lunch was whatever sandwiches had survived under cling wrap by the time you got to them. Jobs where everybody did a bit of everything because there was never enough money, never enough time, never enough hands.

You knew how to work hard. You knew how to keep your head down. You knew how to listen the first time and remember the important things without needing someone to repeat themselves.

But this was different.

This job had weight.

This was the sort of production people talked about before they talked about you. The kind of line on a resume that made someone’s eyebrows lift. The kind of opportunity you were not supposed to get by accident.

Except, in a way, you had.

The usual stunt team assistant had been pulled across to another unit two days ago when scheduling went sideways, and your name had been offered up like a solution before anyone had time to argue. You had been useful enough on smaller jobs, organised enough that someone remembered you, quiet enough that no one minded having you around.

And you were cheap. 

That was how you got here.

A swap-in. A patch job. A temporary fix with a headset and a clipboard, trying desperately not to look like one.

You adjusted the strap of the harness bag on your shoulder and glanced down at the tablet tucked under your arm.

Barnes, B. Harness suit. Back lot sequence. Rigging prep before movement rehearsal. Confirm notes from yesterday’s fall reset. Check left shoulder adjustment. Relay any changes to Jensen

Simple.

Practical.

You could do practical.

You liked practical. Practical had steps. Practical had labels. Practical told you where you fitted. As long as you followed the list, checked the bag, confirmed the notes, and did what you were there to do, nothing could go wrong.

At least, that was what you kept telling yourself while you tried to force down the ugly little voice in your head whispering that you did not really belong here. That sooner or later someone was going to realise you were a swap-in, a patch job, a cheaper pair of hands wearing a headset and pretending that made you part of the machine.

Your mind kept circling back to that morning, when you had first arrived and made your way toward the stunt tents with your pass flipped backwards and your stomach sitting somewhere near your throat. You had been trying to follow the site map without looking like you were following the site map, which meant you were already distracted when Nick Fowler stepped out of his trailer in sunglasses and a white shirt that probably cost more than your rent.

You had almost tripped over your own feet.

You had not stared.

Not really.

Maybe a little.

Everyone stared at Nick Fowler eventually. That was half the reason he was Nick Fowler.

Movie star. Leading man. Studio darling. The sort of man who looked unreal even when he was just standing near a craft table, one hand curled around a takeaway coffee, smiling at someone from publicity like whatever they were saying was the most fascinating thing he had ever heard.

You had seen him on screens before. Everyone had. You had seen him bruised beautifully in action trailers, brooding in expensive suits, bleeding from the mouth in close-up while some trembling heroine touched his face. You had seen him sell violence like romance and romance like a threat.

Seeing him in person had been worse.

Not because he was nicer. Not because he was warmer. Just because he was real in a way celebrities were not supposed to be. Tall. Broad. Dark-haired. Ridiculously composed while half the crew orbited around him like he had his own gravity.

He had looked effortless, which somehow made him harder to ignore. Like the whole lot bent around him without him needing to ask. Like even standing there with one hand curled around a takeaway coffee, smiling at someone from publicity, he already knew the light would find him.

You had dragged your attention away before anyone caught you looking.

Since then, you had been doing a very good job of not thinking about Nick Fowler.

Mostly.

Your earpiece popped with static.

“Stunt assist, where are we on Barnes?”

You pressed two fingers to the mic at your cheek, shifting the bag higher before you answered.

“Outside his trailer now. I’ll confirm notes and bring him to rigging.”

“Copy. Don’t let him wander. Wilson wants him moving in 20mins”

You looked up at the plaque on the trailer door.

B. Barnes

Right. No pressure, then.

You breathed in through your nose, out through your mouth and tried to shake the heat out of your palms. The harness bag was heavy against your hip, the tablet hard beneath your arm. You could feel the faint press of your lanyard against your chest, your pass flipped backwards because of course it was. You fixed it quickly, smoothing your thumb over your own name like that might make you feel more official.

You belonged here.

You had been hired. Assigned. Trusted with a task.

Small task, maybe, but still.

Do the small things properly and people gave you bigger things. That was how this worked. That was how you built a career without a famous last name, without family in the industry, without anyone waiting around to open doors for you.

You checked the call sheet again even though you did not need to.

Trailer: Barnes. Location: Row C.

You were at Row C.

You were at Barnes.

You had the harness.

Everything was fine.

A crash echoed somewhere behind the facade buildings, followed by three people yelling at once and then laughter when someone shouted, “Reset!”

You flinched anyway.

Great. So professional.

You squared your shoulders, climbed the two metal steps, and lifted your hand to knock.

Your knuckles had barely touched the door before a voice called from inside.

“Yeah, come in.”

Low. Male. Unbothered.

You shifted the bag once more, balancing the tablet under your elbow, and pushed the door open with your free hand.

The air inside the trailer was cooler than outside, touched with expensive cologne, clean laundry, and the faint stale sweetness of coffee that had been sitting too long. The blinds were half-drawn, slicing the room into strips of dusty light. A couch ran along one wall, a small table crowded with water bottles, protein bars, tape, pens, and a notebook. A jacket had been tossed over the back of a chair. Someone’s boots sat near the kitchenette, one upright and one on its side like it had given up halfway through being put away.

And on the couch, stretched out like he had never once hurried for anyone in his life, was who you were looking for.

At least, that was what your brain decided in the first second.

Because there was that strange, startling hit of recognition. Dark hair. Broad chest. Long legs. Blue eyes lifting from his phone as you came in, sharp enough to catch you before your thoughts had properly settled. For one stupid, breathless moment, all you could think was how much Barnes looked like Fowler.

You had been told they were brothers. Half-brothers, technically. Different dads. But you weren’t someone that let stuff like that matter to you, not like it did some of the others who loved a good industry gossip on set.

But looking at him now, half-dressed in costume, white tank clinging to warm skin and hard muscle, one arm thrown along the back of the couch while the other loosely held his phone, you would have believed twins. He looked the part of the movie star too well. Too at home with it. Lounging in the dim trailer, browsing his phone like the whole production could wait until he felt like standing up.

You had expected practical.

You had expected someone focused. Maybe a little blunt. Maybe already halfway into work mode, asking if Wilson and Torres had changed the reset again or whether the shoulder adjustment had been fixed after yesterday.

Instead, he smiled.

Slow.

Amused.

Like you had arrived at exactly the right time for something, only you had no idea what.

You hesitated for half a breath, just long enough for your nerves to kick you in the ribs.

Do not be weird.

Do not stare.

Do your job.

“Hi,” you started, clearing your throat, stepping fully inside and letting the door fall shut behind you. “Sorry to interrupt. Their starting to set up over on the rig." 

His eyes moved over you, not rushed. Not subtle either. From your headset to the tablet under your arm, down to the harness bag hanging off your shoulder, then back to your face.

“You are?”

Something about the question landed strangely, but you pushed past it.

“I’ve got your harness suit for the back lot sequence, and I was told to check if there were any notes you needed relayed before prep. Sam wants you moving over there in twenty.”

The man on the couch looked at you for another beat.

Then his smile deepened. 

“You’re new.”

It was not a question.

Heat prickled at the back of your neck, but you managed a small laugh, the kind you used when senior crew made jokes you were not sure were jokes yet.

“That obvious?”

“A little.”

“Good to know I’m blending in seamlessly.”

His eyes brightened like he enjoyed that.

You shifted your weight, suddenly too aware of how small the trailer felt with the door closed.

You didn't want to say you felt unsafe. Not exactly. Just closed in. Quiet in a way the lot outside had not been. The kind of quiet that made every rustle of fabric and soft hum of the air conditioning stand out.

You put the harness bag down on the little table nearby, careful not to knock over the crowded line of water bottles and tape rolls, then unlocked your tablet with a quick swipe of your thumb.

The checklist opened where you had left it, all clean boxes and neat little notes, but the time in the corner of the screen seemed to glare back at you. Twenty minutes sounded generous when someone said it over comms. It felt much smaller standing here, watching him lounge on the couch like the whole back lot was not already shifting around the space he was supposed to fill.

He did not seem phased by it. Not even a little.

You anchored yourself to the checklist anyway.

“I just need to confirm a few things before we head over. Yesterday there was a note about the left shoulder sitting too high after the second reset. Was that adjusted at fitting?”

He blinked at you.

Not blankly.

Worse.

Entertained.

“Left shoulder,” he repeated.

“Yes.” You looked up. Expecting a proper answer. “On the harness.”

“Right.”

He sat forward then, phone forgotten on the cushion beside him. The movement made the muscles in his arms shift under the tank, and you hated that you noticed. Hated more that he seemed to notice you noticing.

“Shoulder’s been giving me trouble,” he nodded.

That was not really an answer.

You tapped your fingers lightly against the edge of the tablet.

“Okay. Is it still sitting wrong, or was that corrected?”

His mouth twitched.

“You tell me.”

You stared at him. What? 

He stared back, utterly unhelpful.

For one dreadful second, you wondered if this was some kind of stunt team thing. Some hazing-adjacent test for the new assistant. Make her ask the same question four ways and see if she cracked.

You did not crack.

You smiled politely.

“I can check once you’re in the suit,” you offered, thankful you had experience outside of your scope now “I just need to know whether there were notes from fitting that haven’t made it back to rigging.”

“Notes,” he repeated again, like the word amused him.

“Yes. You had a notebook yesterday, apparently?”

That made him pause.

Only for a second.

Then he looked around the trailer as if he had never seen the inside of it before.

“Notebook,” he murmured. “Yeah. I’ve got that somewhere.”

He stood.

You took an automatic half-step back, not because he moved toward you exactly, but because he unfolded from the couch with a kind of lazy height that changed the dimensions of the room. He was taller than he had looked sitting down. Broader too. The tank hung tight around his body, low around the neckline, exposing the hard line of his collarbone and the hard lines of tones mussel. 

Not helpful.

Very much not relevant to the task.

He moved toward the small table and began looking through the clutter with no urgency at all.

Not searching. Browsing.

He picked up one notebook, flipped it open upside down, glanced at a page, then set it back on top a roll of athletic tape. He opened a drawer. Closed it. Picked up a pen. Looked at the pen like it had personally failed him. Put it down again.

You watched in growing concern.

This wasn't what you had expected. 

Maybe he’s tired? The thought came to you.

Maybe he had taken a hit yesterday. Stunt people did that. Got rattled and refused to admit it because the whole job was pretending impact did not hurt.

Or maybe Bucky Barnes was just odd.

That was allowed.

Plenty of people on sets were odd. You had once worked with a fight coordinator who refused to step onto a green mat unless he had eaten exactly two bananas. A lead actress on another job had cried because someone changed the brand of sparkling water in her trailer. One gaffer had called every cable by a different woman’s name and somehow everyone knew which was which.

Compared to that, a stunt double being mildly strange about his own notes was not the end of the world.

Still.

You checked your watch.

Sixteen minutes. Fifteen. This was taking too long. 

“Sorry-” The word came out tighter than you wanted, clipped around the edge of your nerves before you could smooth it over. Your fingers tightened around the tablet. “I don’t mean to rush you, but we’re tight on prep, and surely you remember what you wrote down? Even just the basics would help.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, and the blue of his eyes caught you for half a second longer than you wanted. Too bright in the dim trailer. Too amused.

“You always this bossy?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

His smile widened, morphing, sharper this time, like he had hooked a finger under the edge of your composure and found it interesting when it lifted.

“I’m not being bossy,” you pulled back. “We're on a schedule.”

A quiet laugh left him.

Warm. Low. Much too pleased.

“Schedule,” he repeated. “That what we’re calling it?”

You did not know what to do with that.

So, you did what you always did when you did not know what to do.

You went back to the work.

“We really need to get you into the harness for this quickly so we can get going." 

His gaze flicked to the harness bag.

Then back to you.

But somehow the air in the trailer changed around it.

“Do we?” he asked, the way he said the word made your stomach knot. 

You stared at him again.

“Yes,” you nodded slower this time, because surely he was joking.  “That is generally the idea before a rigging rehearsal.”

He smiled like you had given him exactly what he wanted. That, more than anything else so far, should have warned you.

But you were new, and nervous, and painfully aware of the voice in your ear that could crackle to life at any second asking why Barnes was not at the back lot yet.

You did not have time to untangle why Bucky Barnes was being weird.

You had a harness suit to fit, notes to confirm, and a reputation to build one completed task at a time.

So you set your tablet down on the small table, unzipped the bag, and pulled out the harness.

You held the harness out to him.

His eyebrow lifted as he looked at it, then back at you.

“What happened to we?”

You blinked.

He stepped closer, still smiling, taking the harness from your hands with the same lazy ease he seemed to do everything else.

“Pretty sure it takes two people.”

Your fingers flexed uselessly at your sides, suddenly empty. While you he stood in the middle of the trailer with one foot already through the lower opening of the harness and that same lazy almost-smile still cutting across his mouth like he knew you were trying not to look. watching as he stepped into the harness, sliding it over his pants.  “You said we’re on the clock,” he added, blue eyes fixed on you like this was all far more entertaining than it should have been. “Better hurry and help.”

Your eyes narrowed, focusing on him.

Which was irritating, because of course you were trying not to look.

Or at least, not to look in any way that could be mistaken for anything other than professional attention.

Professional attention was allowed. Necessary, even. You had to look at the way the harness sat over his hips. You had to make sure the leg loops were not twisted. You had to check the waist belt did not catch on the costume pieces he was already wearing.

You had to assess whether the shoulder straps were going to sit correctly once you brought the upper section into place.

That was work.

 You weren’t looking at the body that was underneath.

Get it together 

The fact that his tank had ridden up slightly when he stepped into the rig, exposing a narrow line of skin above the waistband of his pants, was not relevant.

The fact that he had the kind of torso that made fitted wardrobe choices feel deeply unfair was also not relevant.

"I think you're supposed to start helping now." He prompted. Snapping you back into the moment as you reached out to help. 

You gripped the loose strap hanging near his hip and pulled your focus back to where it belonged.

“Can you turn slightly?”

He did.

Slowly.

Because apparently even following a basic instruction needed to be done like he had an audience.

You kept your expression neutral as you stepped in closer and gathered the back panel of the harness, lifting it so it would not snag. The trailer seemed to shrink around you the moment you moved into his space. The cool air conditioning still hummed overhead, but it did not quite reach the warmth collecting under your collar.

He smelled good.

That was your first mistake, noticing that.

Not the stale coffee smell of the trailer. Not sweat or fake blood or the faint chemical tang of makeup adhesive you had come to associate with stunt prep. Something cleaner. Expensive. Warm against the cotton of his tank and the bare skin near his neck. 

Made your head feel a little heavy. 

Stop it.

You swallowed and reached for the left shoulder strap.

“This is the side that was sitting high?”

His gaze dropped to your hands.

“If you say so.”

Your fingers paused on the hardware.

A flicker of irritation cut cleanly through the nerves.

“I’m asking because the note says it was sitting high yesterday.” going back to the earlier conversation. 

“Makes sense.”

You looked up at him, brows pitching. 

He looked back down at you, entirely too calm.

For a second, the tablet on the table might as well have been screaming.

Thirteen minutes.

You could feel the time slipping under your skin, every second too loud, every silence too stretched. Somewhere outside, a truck reversed with a shrill electronic beep. A voice over comms crackled faintly through your earpiece, distorted and distant, someone calling for a prop reset on another unit.

The whole production was moving.

Waiting.

And he was smiling at you like this was the most relaxed part of his morning.

"We can make adjustments once I'm in." 

“Right,” you breathed, more to yourself than him. “Okay.”

You stepped around him and guided the rear strap up between his shoulder blades. The motion brought you close enough that your knuckles brushed the warm line of his back through the thin cotton of his tank.

Barely anything.

A touch that meant nothing.

Still, his head turned slightly.

You saw it from the corner of your eye. The small shift. The attention sharpening.

“You done this a lot?” he asked.

“Done what?” You asked trying not to lose focus.

“Strapped men in." There it was again. That edge under the words. That little hook hidden in something that could have been innocent if he had not sounded so pleased with himself. 

Your jaw tightened. You fed the strap through the guide loop and tugged it flat.

“I’ve worked with stunt gear before.” You didn’t want to play the game, but he was drawing you in.

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“No,” you returned before you could stop yourself, “but it’s the answer I’m giving.”

He laughed. Not that anyone outside would hear. Just a soft, low sound that curled in the small space between you and made your stomach tighten in a way you resented immediately.

“You always like this when you’re nervous?”

Your hands stilled.

“I’m not nervous.”

“No?”

“No.”

He hummed like he did not believe you. You didn't believe you. Not with the way your pulse felt in your throat. 

You reached for the buckle at his side a little too sharply.

The metal clicked louder than it needed to.

“Arms slightly forward.”

He obeyed, but his mouth was still curved when you stepped around to face him again. You had to lift the front section of the harness against his chest, lining the straps beneath his arms and checking that the straps sat flat over the tank. It was a normal adjustment. Routine. Something you had watched a dozen riggers do without blinking.

Except your fingers were near his ribs now.

His very solid, very warm ribs.

And he was watching you.

Not the harness. Not your hands.

You.

“You got a name?” 

You glanced up, startled despite yourself.

“I gave you my name.”

“Did you?” His head tilted slightly, smug curiosity 

“Yes.”

“Huh.” His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was pretending to search his memory. “Must’ve been distracted.”

Of course he had been.

Because God forbid anything about this be straightforward.

Maybe this is just… a family thing. Barnes being related to a movie star, bad habits had rubbed off. 

You told him your name again, clipped and professional, while you pulled the right strap through the buckle and flattened it with your thumb.

He repeated it once, like he was checking the shape of it.

Then his mouth tipped.

“Nah,” he decided. “Too formal.”

Your fingers paused.

“I’m sorry?”

He hummed, eyes narrowing with smug concentration. “Maybe new girl.”

“No.”

“Bossy.”

“Definitely not.”

“Schedule,” he tried, like the word entertained him all over again.  "Call sheet?" 

You gave him a flat look.

His smile only widened.

“Got to find something for you,” he murmured, gaze dropping briefly to your hands before lifting back to your face. “I’ll figure it out.”

Your fingers slipped on the harness.

Only slightly.

His smile widened.

You hated him a little for noticing.

“You work with Wilson long?” he asked.

“No. I was brought in when Mara got pulled to second unit.”

“Mara.” He looked amused. “That why you look like you’re expecting someone to yell at you?”

“I don’t.” You pointed out 

“You do.”

“I’m focused. If you could to-”

“You’re wound tighter than this thing.”

You pulled the waist strap snug before you could think better of it.

Not hard enough to hurt.

Just enough that his breath shifted.

A small thing.

Barely there.

But you caught it.

His gaze flicked down, then back up to your face.

For the first time since you had walked in, something in his expression sharpened past amusement.

Your pulse gave one stupid, traitorous kick.

“Sorry,” you muttered, immediately easing the strap back a fraction. “Too tight?”

“No. But what guy does like something tight?"  Then he smiled again, smooth as anything. “Just checking if you knew what you were doing.”

You gave him a look before you could stop yourself.

“I do know what I’m doing.”

“I’m starting to see that.”

There was absolutely no reason for that to make heat crawl up your throat. Maybe it was delay reaction to his 'tight' comment. 

You dropped your attention back to the buckle.

“Can you widen your stance a little?”

He did not move right away, cocking an eyebrow in question. 

“For the leg straps,” you added, because apparently everything required legal clarification now.

“Right.”

Still smiling, he shifted his feet apart.

The movement made the loose lower straps fall against his thighs.

You stared at them.

At the straps.

Only at the straps.

Mostly.

Then you crouched.

It was fine.

It was work.

You had knelt in front of people for harness checks before. Dozens of times. Men, women, stunt performers, actors who complained the entire way through basic safety fittings, background performers who sweated through their costumes from sheer terror before they were even clipped to a wire.

This was nothing.

This was a leg loop.

A buckle.

You reached for the strap hanging near his right thigh and guided it around, careful not to brush more than you had to. The black webbing was stiff between your fingers, the metal hardware cool. You fed it through the keeper and tugged it flat, checking the lay against the seam of his pants.

Above you, he was quiet.

Too quiet.

You tried not to think about the angle.

Tried not to think about how close you were kneeling. How his legs framed the space in front of you. How the trailer door was closed behind you. How anyone walking in right now would probably get the wrong idea before they got the correct one.

Your cheeks warmed at the thought.

No. Absolutely not.

You were not going to invent embarrassment before it happened.

“Does that pinch?” you asked, tugging the strap once to check the tension.

“No.”

“Any restriction when you move?”

“Depends what kind of movement you mean.”

Your eyes closed for half a second. Not everything had to be a joke. Why couldn’t he take this seriously.

You opened them again and stared very hard at the buckle.

“Rigging movement.”

“Right.”

He sounded like he was fighting a smile.

You moved to the other leg before you could say something that got you fired. The second strap was sitting twisted from where he had stepped through. You leaned closer to untangle it, slipping one hand beneath the webbing to flip it flat.

Your knuckles brushed his inner thigh.

This time, the breath he took was not quite as easy to miss.

Neither was the way your own chest tightened in answer.

You froze.

Just for a second.

Then forced yourself to continue.

“Sorry,” you managed, voice low and careful. “Strap was twisted.”

“Don’t apologise.”

The words were softer than the others had been.

Not less amused exactly.

But lower.

Closer somehow.

Your fingers worked faster.

Too fast.

You had to redo the loop because you had threaded it wrong the first time, which only made the heat in your face worse.

You could feel him looking down at you.

You did not look up.

“You really are new,” he murmured.

That cut differently.

Your hands tightened around the strap.

For a second, the embarrassment flared hot enough to burn clean through the nerves.

“I know how to fit a harness.” You objected

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”

“You implied it.” Why was he making this so hard? You were both part of the stunt team, that was supposed to mean something.

“I implied you’re nervous.”

“We're on a schedule.” Again, as a professional that should mean something to him.

“There’s that word again.”

You pulled the strap snug and sat back on your heels, looking up before you could stop yourself.

“Because we are on one.”

"I'm sure they'll wait." 

The amusement in his face did not disappear, but it changed shape.

His head tilted slightly, blue eyes running over your flushed face, your tight mouth, the headset hooked over your ear.  For one second, he looked almost interested in something other than the game.

Then the trailer door opened.

Everything happened at once.

The burst of bright daylight.

The sound of the lot rushing back in.

Your head snapping toward the door.

The man standing there.

Dark hair. Broad shoulders. FX bruises blooming ugly along his cheek and jaw, fake blood smeared at his hairline, the tank torn and dirtied like he had already been thrown through half a building and come out irritated about it.

A notebook was gripped in his hand.

The notebook.

For one impossible second, your brain refused to organise what you were seeing.

Because the man in the doorway looked like the one above you. 

Well, not exactly.

Not now that you were seeing them. 

Brothers

How had you mistaken Nick Fowler. 

The Nick Fowler.. 

IDIOT 

The man in the doorway looked like him, but rougher. Harder. Real in a way the one standing above you had only been pretending to be. 

This one looked made of impact.

Muscle. Timing. Balance. Bruises.

And he was looking at you.

Assessing eyes. Focused. 

Kneeling between Nick Fowler’s legs.

Your hands still on the strap at his thigh.

The blood drained from your face so fast you felt dizzy.

“Oh my god,” you breathed.

Nick looked down at you.

Then over at the doorway.

Then he smiled.

The real Bucky Barnes did not.

His jaw tightened, eyes cutting from you to Nick with a kind of cold, immediate understanding that made your stomach drop through the floor.

For half a second, no one moved.

No one spoke.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through the trailer, low and sharp.

“Nick.”

Not loud. Worse.

Controlled.

Nick lifted both hands slightly, like he had been caught stealing biscuits instead of actively ruining your life.

“What?”

You scrambled backward so fast your heel caught on the edge of the open harness bag.

The tablet clattered against a water bottle behind you. Something rolled off the table and hit the floor with a small, useless sound.

“I-” Your voice broke. You pushed yourself up too quickly, nearly knocking into Nick’s hip, then lurched sideways to put space between you and both of them. “I’m so sorry. I thought- I mean, you were- the trailer said-”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you.

For one terrible second, you braced for the anger.

For the sharp correction. The look that said you had just proved every ugly little thought in your head right. Swap-in.

Patch job.

Cheap pair of hands. Could not even tell the talent from the stunt double.

But his expression shifted.

Not soft.

Not exactly.

But the edge of it moved away from you.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You blinked. Yes you had. 

Nick made a small sound, almost a laugh.

Bucky’s stare snapped back to him.

“You think this is funny?”

Nick shrugged, still standing there half-strapped into Bucky’s harness like the whole thing was a mildly inconvenient party trick.

“Honest mistake.

“No,” Bucky shot back. “An honest mistake is correcting her when she walked in.”

Nick’s mouth curved.

“I didn’t say I was you.” Nick shrugged, crossing his arms. 

“But you let her think it didn't you?” The accusation there. 

Your fingers curled uselessly around the strap of the harness bag, though you did not remember picking it up. Your ears were hot. Your chest felt tight. You wanted to shrink so small you could slip under the table and disappear between the water bottles and protein bars.

Nick glanced at you again, eyes still bright with the remains of his amusement.

“She was doing fine.”

Bucky stepped fully into the trailer

The space, already too small, seemed to lose another foot of air.

“That’s not the point.” 

Nick sighed, finally sounding bored.

“Come on, Buck.”

Bucky’s expression darkened.

“Don’t.”

One word.

Flat enough that even Nick paused.

You looked between them, your humiliation tangling with a new, horrible understanding. This was not the first time. Whatever this was, whatever Nick thought he was playing at, Bucky had seen it before.

Maybe not exactly like this.

But close enough.

Close enough that the disappointment in his face looked old.

Nick rolled his shoulders like the harness was annoying him now. Like you had inconvenienced him by not staying an easy joke.

“It was harmless.” Nick shrugged again, easing his weight on his back foot..

“You don’t get to decide that.”

The words landed hard.

Not shouted.

Not dramatic.

Just clear.

And for some reason, that made your throat sting worse than if Bucky had yelled at you instead.

Your earpiece crackled suddenly, too loud in the silence.

“Barnes, rigging bay in five. We need eyes on the line.”

You flinched.

Bucky glanced at your headset, then back to Nick.

“Get out of it.”

Nick’s brows lifted.

“The harness?”

“My harness.”

There was enough threat under it that even you understood the conversation had ended.

Nick looked at him a beat longer, then huffed a laugh and started unbuckling the waist strap with exaggerated patience.

You moved automatically.

“Here, I can-”

“No.”

Both brothers said it at once.

Your hands jerked back.

Nick looked entertained by that too.

Bucky looked like he might actually hit his brother.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Bucky inhaled once through his nose, slow and tight, then looked at you.

“Can you wait outside?”

There was nothing cruel in it.  No sharpness meant for you.

But it still hit like a dismissal.

Like being sent out of the room because you had made a mess too embarrassing to clean while you watched.

You nodded too quickly.

“Yeah. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to-”

But you were already grabbing your tablet, nearly dropping everything, shoving it against your chest with one hand while the other found the harness bag. You did not look at Nick. You did not trust your face not to betray exactly how stupid you felt.

The trailer door handle felt too cold under your palm.

Outside, the daylight hit hard.

The lot was still moving. Still loud. Still normal.

No one out there knew that you had just knelt in front of a movie star because he had let you think he was someone else.

No one knew that your cheeks were burning hot enough to hurt.

No one knew that your first real task for Bucky Barnes had gone so badly that the actual Bucky Barnes had found you with your hands on Nick Fowler’s thigh.

You stepped down from the trailer and stood beside the metal stairs, clutching the bag and tablet to your chest like they might hold you together if you squeezed hard enough.

Behind the closed door, the voices started.

Muffled.

Low.

Angry.

You closed your eyes.

Great.

Perfect.

More delays..

Behind the trailer door, the argument was still happening in low, muffled bursts, both voices too thickened by the walls for you to make out every word. That somehow made it worse. Your brain kept trying to fill in the blanks, offering up every possible version of what they might be saying in there.

Who  is she?

New assistant.

Is she stupid?

Apparently.

You opened your eyes again.

No.

You were not doing that.

You were absolutely not standing outside Bucky Barnes’ trailer, inventing new ways for people to think badly of you like the actual situation was not already doing enough damage by itself.

The lot had not stopped moving just because your stomach had dropped through the floor.

That felt unfair, somehow.

Crew still crossed between trailers with coffees and clipboards. A pair of background performers in half-applied grime laughed near the barricades. They had no idea how much of an idiot you'd jsut made of yourself. 

From across the back lot came the metallic clank of rigging cases being unloaded. Voices called measurements. Someone whistled sharply. Somewhere someone shouted something that carried over the false-front buildings before being swallowed by distance.

Everything was still happening.

The whole production kept breathing around you.

You clutched the harness bag tighter against your chest with the tablet. 

It was stupid, because the bag was not a shield. It could not cover your red face or erase the last ten minutes or explain why you had been kneeling in front of Nick Fowler like some ridiculous, humiliating punchline.

Nick Fowler.

You pressed your lips together until they hurt.

That was the part that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

Not just because he was famous. Not just because everyone knew who he was. Not just because you had seen him that morning in sunglasses and that expensive white shirt and had, unfortunately, almost tripped over your own feet.

Because you had not recognised him.

Not properly.

All the context and behaviour clues had been there.. 

You had looked right at him and turned him into someone else because the trailer door told you to.

Because you were so desperate to be good at this that you had trusted the practical things over your own eyes.

The thought made your face burn all over again.

You shifted on your feet, tablet pressed flat to your ribs beneath one arm. Your headset felt too tight now, the little foam mic sitting near your cheek like an accusation. You could hear chatter through it, fragments of work continuing without you.

“-need the soft pads moved-”

“-copy, bringing wire team over now-”

“-where’s Barnes?”

Your shoulders jerked.

You lifted a hand halfway to your mic, then froze.

What were you supposed to say?

Harness problems?

No. Absolutely not.

Before you could decide, someone else answered over the channel.

“Barnes is on his way. Hold rigging.”

Bucky.

It had to be Bucky.

Your throat tightened.

You should have answered. You should have been useful. Instead, you were standing by the metal stairs like a child sent outside a principal’s office, waiting for someone to decide how much trouble you were in.

The voices inside rose suddenly.

Not loud enough to catch every word, but enough to sharpen into something recognisable.

Bucky first.

“-always do this.”

Then Nick, smoother, lighter.

“-wasn’t that serious.”

Then Bucky again, lower and harder.

“Not to you.”

You went very still.

The words were muffled, but they landed clearly enough.

Nick didn't take other seriously.  

Your fingers eased slightly on the harness bag before tightening again.

You hated that it made you feel better.

Not entirely. Not enough.

But a little.

Enough that your next breath came easier.

At least Bucky knew.

At least he understood that the joke had not landed where Nick thought it had. That it was not harmless just because Nick had been entertained. That you were new enough for the whole thing to feel dangerous in ways Nick probably never had to think about.

Nick Fowler could turn a mistake into a story people laughed about over drinks.

You could turn the same mistake into a reason no one trusted you with anything important again.

The trailer door opened.

You straightened so fast your back nearly popped.

Nick stepped out first.

Of course he did.

He had managed to free himself from most of the harness, he looked exactly the same as before. Untouched. Unbothered. Hair still perfectly disordered. Tank still fitted in that unfair, casual way. Mouth still curved in that smug smile, as if whatever had happened inside had amused him more than it should have.

You wished he looked even a little embarrassed.

He did not.

His blue eyes found you immediately.

There was a different shape to his attention now. Not less playful, exactly. Maybe more deliberate. Like the joke had worked, but your reaction had interested him more than the setup.

“Sorry about the mix-up,” he offered.

It sounded almost sincere.

Almost.

Then his mouth tipped at the corner.

“Straps." 

Your jaw tightened.

Of course.

Of course that was the one he was keeping.

You did not answer.

Mostly because you did not trust what might come out.

Nick’s smile widened, like your silence gave him something too.

“Guess I’ll see you around." 

Behind him, Bucky appeared in the doorway.

Nick glanced back over his shoulder, all easy charm and deliberate provocation.

“Don’t look at me like that, Buck. I’m going to makeup. Apparently I have to go be pretty for a living.”

Bucky’s expression did not change.

“Go.”

Nick put one hand over his heart.

“Wounded.”

“You’ve already held us up long enough.”

Nick’s mouth curved, smooth and smug.

“Lucky no one gets cross when I’m late.” He spread his hands a little, like the whole world had simply arranged itself around that fact. “Perk of being the talent.”

You wanted to hit him on Bucky’s behalf.

Just a little.

Professionally.

Nick laughed under his breath and started down the steps, passing close enough that the faint expensive scent of him caught in the air again. He paused beside you for half a second, just long enough to make the moment feel intentional.

“Careful with him,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough that it almost belonged only to you. “He takes everything seriously.”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

You looked up at him despite yourself.

“Glad to be around some one who does.” You snipped, before you checked yourself. 

For the first time, Nick’s smile faltered.

Only a fraction. Long enough to let you see that something had landed.

Then he recovered, eyes brightening with something sharper than amusement.

“There she is,” he said softly. "Bossy suits you Straps." 

You had no idea what that meant. You were not sure you wanted to.

Nick moved off before you could respond, walking away from the trailer like the lot belonged to him. A passing PA nearly stopped dead when she realised who he was, then recovered so abruptly she almost walked into a lighting stand. Nick gave her a lazy little salute and kept going.

You watched him for two seconds too long, then forced yourself to turn back.

Bucky was still standing at the top of the trailer steps.

The contrast hit harder now.

With Nick gone, there was really no mistaking them.

Not really. Not in how they held themselves. 

The similarities were still there. Same dark hair. Same blue eyes. Same kind of face that made you understand, unwillingly, how genetics could get arrogant. But Bucky wore his differently. There was no polish to him right now, no easy charm laid over every movement. He looked like the job had already happened to him before the cameras had even rolled.

FX bruises darkened one cheekbone. Fake blood crusted at his hairline. A split had been painted across his lip, so convincing your eyes kept catching on it. Dust clung to his black tactical pants and the harness already fitted over him looked lived in, not decorative.

He looked tired.

No.

Not tired.

Tightly held.

Like all the frustration that should have had somewhere to go had been compressed into the line of his jaw and the fingers wrapped around the notebook in his hand.

His gaze moved over you quickly.

Not the way Nick’s had.

Assessing, yes. But not lingering. Checking. Like he was taking stock of damage.

That made you feel worse, somehow.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted before he could say anything.

Bucky exhaled.

Not quite a sigh.

Not quite frustration.

Just a slow release through his nose as he stepped down from the trailer.

“You don’t need to keep apologising.”

“I do, though.” The words came too fast, tripping over each other. “I should have checked. I mean, I did check. I checked the map and the door and the bag and everything, but I should have- I don’t know. Asked more clearly. Or realised sooner. I saw Nick this morning, which makes it worse, honestly, because I did know what he looked like, I just-”

“You were sent to my trailer.”

You stopped.

Bucky’s voice was steady.  Firm enough to cut through the spiral before it could fully get its claws into you.

“He was in my trailer,” he continued. “With my stuff. Letting you think he was me.”

Your mouth opened.  Nothing came out.

“That’s on him.” Bucky pointed out finishing his thought.

You looked away quickly, blinking hard at the row of trailers across from you. Someone had left a coffee cup balanced on the edge of a metal step. A smear of lipstick marked the lid. Very normal. Very specific. Ridiculous thing to focus on while your chest felt too full.

“I still feel like an idiot.” You dropped your head. 

“Yeah. That’s usually part of Nick’s games.” It was how he answered, his voice had changed, that made you look up at him properly. Not dramatic. Not wounded. Just worn-in. Like a bruise pressed too many times.

“He does that a lot?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, but there was no humour in it.

“He gets a kick out of slumming it.” Bucky's eyes flicked away after he said them.

Your embarrassment loosened just enough for irritation to slip through.

“That’s a pretty rude way to put it.” You didn't like the implied idea that pretending to be his brother Nick thought of it as 'slumming it' that was just..ick. 

Bucky looked back at you. For a second, you regretted saying it.

Not because you did not mean it, but because he was still technically the person you had been assigned to assist, and you were already standing in the ashes of a professional disaster. Calling him rude was probably not the recommended recovery strategy.

He did not even look offended.

If anything, something in his expression shifted again, the tightness easing by a fraction.

“You’re right.”

That caught you off guard. Expecting him to be a little more defensive of his family.

“Oh.”

His mouth curved faintly. Barely there. Not a smile so much as the ghost of one.

“It is rude.”

You shifted the harness bag higher against your side, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands now that you were no longer using them to hold yourself together.

“I just meant… I don’t know. People work hard here.”

“I know. Nick’s rude.”

There was no defensiveness in it.

Only agreement.

That made you look at him properly.

He was still watching you with that focused, assessing gaze, but it did not feel like judgement now. More like attention. Like he was listening to what you actually meant instead of waiting for a reason to laugh.

It was disorienting after Nick.

Bucky glanced toward the back lot, where the rigging bay was still being built in organised chaos.

“I’m used to him talking like that,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I should.”

You did not know what to say to that. Luckily, your earpiece saved you. Static popped sharp against your ear.

“Stunt assist, Barnes, we need you over on the back lot. They’re ready to start preparations.”

You jolted, hand flying up to your mic.

“Copy,” you answered quickly. Too quickly. “Moving now.”

Bucky was already looking toward the rigging bay.

The switch was immediate.

Whatever tired frustration had been sitting under his skin flattened into focus. His shoulders settled. His grip on the notebook changed. The performer, the professional, the person everyone had actually been waiting for slid into place with almost unnerving ease.

There he was.

The practical you had been expecting.

“Better get moving,” he pointed out. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, grateful for the instruction. Grateful for work. Work had steps. Work had rules. Work did not require you to know what to do with the strange little ache left behind by someone defending you. “Yes. Absolutely.”

You started walking beside him.

For the first few strides, neither of you spoke.

That was probably for the best.

The lot was busier the closer you got to the back end. Trailers gave way to temporary pathways and cable ramps. Crew moved around you in quick, practiced arcs, everyone holding something, checking something, calling something into a radio. The false-front street opened onto a wider paved area where the stunt tents had been half-collapsed, their poles stacked in piles while the rigging team built the next world out of steel, cable, pads, and controlled risk.

A crane arm cut across the sky. Two wire techs stood on ladders adjusting a line. Crash mats were being laid down in overlapping blocks. Someone had marked the ground with strips of bright tape, arrows and Xs mapping out where bodies would be thrown and where they had to land.

It looked like chaos if you did not know what you were looking at.

You were starting to understand that chaos was just another kind of choreography.

Bucky walked through it like he belonged to the rhythm.

People nodded at him as he passed. Not the wide-eyed recognition Nick attracted, but something steadier. A grip lifted two fingers from around a coil of rope. One of the wire techs called, “Barnes,” without looking up, like his arrival slid a missing piece into place.

Bucky lifted the notebook in acknowledgement.

You tried very hard not to feel like you were trailing after him with your professional dignity leaking out behind you.

“You should know,” he said suddenly.

You looked over.

His eyes stayed forward.

“Nick does that thing where he acts like everyone’s in on the joke.”

Your grip tightened around the tablet.

“Right.”

“They’re usually not.”

There was no easy way to answer that.

So, you did not try to make it easy.

“I wasn’t.”

“No,” Bucky said. “You weren’t.”

The acknowledgement was simple, but it settled something in your chest.

Not all of it.

Enough.

You stepped over a cable ramp, careful not to trip this time. Bucky’s hand lifted slightly at your side, not touching you, just there for half a second in case you needed steadying. You noticed. Pretended you did not. He dropped it again before it could become anything.

Your face warmed for an entirely different reason.

Great.

Apparently embarrassment had layers.

When you reached the edge of the rigging bay, Sam Wilson turned from a conversation with one of the wire coordinators, already frowning at his watch.

“There he is,” Sam called. “Thought I was gonna have to send Torres with a cattle prod.”

Bucky’s expression barely changed.

“Trailer issue.”

Sam’s eyes flicked to you, then back to Bucky.

Something passed between them.

Something quick.

Not enough for you to understand, but enough for your stomach to tighten again.

“Uh-huh,” Sam said.

You stepped forward before silence could make it worse.

“I’m sorry for the delay. I-" The right thing to do was explain. You'd messed up. 

“A trailer issue,” Bucky cut in.

Repeating himself. Not harshly.

Protectively, maybe.

You looked at him.

He did not look back.

Sam’s brows lifted.

Then, to your surprise, he let it go.

“Fine. Jensen wants eyes on the fall reset, and Torres needs your notebook before he starts arguing with the tape marks like they personally offended his family.”

Bucky held out the notebook.

“Where’s Jensen?”

“By the west line.” Sam jerked his chin toward the rig. “Trying to convince production that gravity costs extra.”

Bucky almost smiled.

Almost.

You caught it and immediately wished you had not, because it made his whole face shift in a way that was stupidly unfair considering there was fake blood on it.

Sam looked at you again.

“You good?”

The question was casual.

Too casual.

Which meant he knew enough to be asking carefully.

You straightened.

“Yes. I’m good.” Putting a smile on your face.

Not entirely true.

But true enough for work.

Sam held your gaze for half a second, then nodded.

“Great. Stick with Barnes for the reset notes. If Jensen changes anything, I want it logged before lunch. And if Torres starts improvising, throw something soft at him.”

“Copy.”  You relaxed. Work.

Blessed, beautiful work.

You unlocked your tablet again, the checklist still open, the neat boxes waiting like none of this had happened.

Bucky shifted beside you. You took a second, you still had to run through the list with the right person. 

"Shoulder -" You started but Barne tapped the left strap of his harness.

“Was sitting high yesterday.”

For a second, all you could do was stare.

Then your brain caught up.

“Yes.” You glanced down at the tablet, grateful enough for the practical question that you almost smiled. “I was told to confirm whether the adjustment from fitting was holding.”

“It was better after wardrobe loosened the seam under the arm,” he told you, voice even, efficient. “But it still pulls when I rotate into the second fall. I wrote it down because Jensen wanted to check whether the line was dragging or if it was the costume.”

You typed quickly, relief moving through you so fast it almost made you dizzy.

Actual information.

Clear. Useful. Specific.

This was what you had been expecting all along.

“Okay,” you murmured. “Second fall rotation. Possible line drag versus costume restriction.”

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

He looked toward the rig, then back at you.

“Left hip catches if the lower strap twists after the roll. Not every time. Enough to be annoying.”

You added it.

His attention flicked to the screen, watching your fingers move across the screen. 

“You type fast.”

“Useful survival skill. People talk fast." 

This time, the almost-smile did become one.

Small.

Brief.

Real enough that it did something annoying to your pulse.

“I bet.”

You looked down at the tablet before your face could do anything stupid.

Around you, the rigging bay continued to take shape. The morning had not fixed itself. Your embarrassment had not vanished. Nick Fowler was still somewhere across the lot, probably turning the whole thing into a story that made him sound charming and everyone else sound too serious.

But Bucky Barnes was standing beside you, giving clear notes like nothing about you needed second-guessing.

For the first time since you had stepped into his trailer, you felt your feet find solid ground.

Not completely.

But enough to stand on.

Enough to keep moving.

Enough to do the job.