#tower fic

The warehouse was supposed to be empty. It wasn't.

"Fall back!" Bucky shouted into the comm, but Walker was already walking forward, his taco-shitty-shield raised like he had something to prove… which he always did.

The explosion took out the east wall. Bucky felt the shockwave before he heard it, tackling Yelena out of the debris field. When the dust cleared, Bob was pinned under a beam, and Walker was on his back, groaning.

"I said fall back," Bucky snarled, hauling Walker up by his tactical vest.

"I had it under control—"

"You had nothing under control. Bob almost died because you couldn't follow orders."

"Hey," Ava said, helping Bob to his feet. "Everyone's fine. Let's just—"

"Fine? We walked into a trap because someone" Bucky jabbed a finger at Walker. "—couldn't wait for recon."

"The intel said—"

"Well the intel was wrong. That's why we recon first." Bucky's voice was cold enough to frost the air. "Next time, maybe think before you rush in like an idiot."

Walker's jaw tightened. "You know what, Barnes—"

"What I know is that I'm tired of babysitting grown adults who should know better."

Yelena stepped between them. "Okay, everyone back to base. We debrief when we're not standing in a building that might collapse at any minute."

The ride back was silent except for the engine. Bucky stared out the window, jaw clenched, vibranium arm whirring slightly—the tell that he was still worked up.

"You could've gone easier on him." Yelena said quietly.

"He could've gotten Bob killed."

"But he didn't."

Bucky didn't answer.

Back at base, Bucky didn't even wait for the debrief, he dropped his gear and headed straight to the gym.

"Guess we're doing this later," Walker muttered yanking off his tactic vest.

"He's not wrong though," Bob said softly. "I was pinned pretty badly."

"He's also not right," Ava countered. "Shit happens on missions, we all know that."

"He's just…" Yelena searched for the word. "Tightly wound."

"Tightly wound?" Walker scoffed. "The guy's a nightmare. Every mission it's something: too slow, too fast, too loud, didn't follow protocol—"

"He keeps us alive," Bob pointed out.

"He also makes us miserable." Walker grabbed a water bottle. "When's the last time anyone saw him smile?"

They all thought about it. From down the hall, they heard it, the rhythmic aggressive thudding of someone punching a heavy bag like it owed them money.

"He needs to get laid," Ava said suddenly and everyone turned to look at her. "What? I'm serious. The man is wound tighter than a clock. When's the last time he went on a date? Relaxed? Did anything that wasn't working or brooding?"

"Barnes? Dating?" Walker snorted. "Who'd want to date that?"

"Someone with a thing for emotionally constipated super soldiers?" Yelena suggested.

Ava grinned. "I'm just saying, maybe if someone got him out of his head for five minutes, he'd stop biting ours off."

The thudding continued on the background, harder now.

Yelena's eyes lit up with that particular gleam that meant she was having an idea. Usually a bad one.

"What?" Walker asked warily.

"We should hire him a matchmaker."

"A what?" Bob asked.

"Matchmaker. Professional dating service." Yelena was already pulling out her phone. "We set him up, they find him dates, maybe he meets someone and stops being so…"

"Grumpy?" Ava supplied.

"I was going to say 'insufferable', but yeah, sure."

Walker's grin was slow and dangerous. "That's actually hilarious."

"It's mean." Bob protested weakly.

"It's a gift." Yelena said. "We're actually helping him."

"By tricking him into dating?"

"By forcing him to have a life outside of this." Yelena was already scrolling through websites. "Look at this one, 'Professional matchmaking services. Personalized consultations. Find your perfect match'. This is perfect!"

Ava leaned over her shoulder. "How much?"

"Two hundred each for the premium package."

"I'm in," Walker said immediately.

"Ava?"

"Oh, absolutely. This is the best idea you've ever had."

They all looked at Bob.

"I don't know…" he said.

"Bob," Yelena put a hand on his shoulder. "Do you want Bucky to smile? Ever?

"…Yes?"

"Then we're doing this for his own good."

The thudding from the gym was relentless, angry.

"Fine," Bob sighed. "But if he kills us, I'm haunting you."

"Deal." Yelena started filling out the form. "This is going to be amazing."

In the gym, Bucky drove his fist into the bag again and again. The mission played on loop in his head: the explosion, Bob pinned, Walker reckless charge.

He overhears Ava saying something that sounded like "he needs to get laid." Her words echo in his head. He hits the bag harder. Maybe she wasn't wrong, maybe everyone was alright and he was too tightly wound. Too quick to snap, too…

Another punch, the bag swung violently.

It didn't matter. This was who he was: focused, careful. Always three steps ahead because that's what kept people alive. If that made him miserable to be around, then so be it.

His phone buzzed. He nearly ignored it, but something made him check.

Dear Mr. Barnes,

Congratulations! You've been enrolled in our exclusive matchmaking service…

Bucky stared at the email and then slowly turned toward the door. He could hear them in the common room, not the words, but the tone—conspiratorial, excited. They were waiting for him to explode. He looked back at his phone, read the email again.

A matchmaker. They'd hired him a matchmaker.

He should be angry. Should march in there and tell them exactly where they could shove their prank. Instead, he pocketed his phone and headed for the showers.

Fine. They wanted him to date? He'd date.

And when it inevitably failed and proved his point—that some people were just meant to be alone—maybe they'd finally leave him the hell alone.

Your office was smaller than Bucky expected… warmer too. Books lined on wall, plants sat on the windowsill, and the desk was cluttered with papers, a half-empty coffee mug and what looked like a collection of vintage postcards.

You looked up when he entered, and your smile was immediate and genuine. "Bucky Barnes? Come in, come in. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? I have tea but I'll warn you, it's the cheap stuff."

"I'm good."

"Suit yourself." You gestured to the chair across from you—not the stiff formal kind, but an actually comfortable armchair. "So, I'm guessing you know why you're here?"

"My teammates think I need to get laid."

You blinked and then laughed—not a polite chuckle, but an actual laugh. "Well, that's certainly the most direct answer I've gotten. Usually people say something like 'my friends think I work too much' or 'I'm ready to find someone special'."

"Would you prefer me to lie?"

"Absolutely not. Honesty is refreshing." You leaned back in your chair. "For the record, I spoke with Yelena when she set this up. She said you were 'grumpy and needed an attitude adjustment', but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess there's more to it than that."

"Not really."

"So you're just naturally grumpy?"

"Yeah."

You studied him for a moment, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that you were seeing more than he wanted to show. "Okay, different question—are you here because you want to be here or because you want to prove them wrong?"

Bucky paused for a minute and actually think about it. "What if it's both?"

"Then I think we can definitely work with that." You pulled out a notepad, but your posture was relaxed, open. "Fair warning, I'm going to ask you some questions, and some of them might feel silly, but they help, that okay?"

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, maybe someone who'd tiptoe around him, or worse, someone who'd treat this like therapy. You did neither of that. You were just… warm, easy. "Sure."

"Great, let's start simple— what do you do when you actually have downtime? And before you say 'I don't have downtime', everyone has downtime. Including heroes."

"I read. Go to the park sometimes, there's a gym I like."

You were writing. "What kind of books?"

"History, mostly. Some fiction."

"Fiction like…?"

"Le Carré. Vonnegut. I just finished rereading The Hobbit."

Your eyes lit up. "You're a re-reader? Me too, there's something nice about going back to a book you love, right? Like visiting an old friend."

"…yeah." He hadn't expected that answer. "Exactly like that."

"See? We're finding common ground already." You made a note. "Okay, favorite food that isn't whatever protein shake I'm guessing you have for breakfast."

"Plums."

Your pen paused. "That's a fruit, not a meal, but I appreciate the specificity. Favorite meal?"

"My ma' used to make this pot roast…" He trailed off, surprised he'd mentioned it.

But you just smiled, soft and genuine. "Comfort food, the kind that tastes like home. I get it. My mom made this chicken soup that I swear could cure anything—bad days, broken hearts, existential crisis."

"Does she still make it?"

"She does, I visit every couple months and she always has a pot waiting." You tapped your pen against the notepad. "Okay, rapid fire—morning person or night owl?"

"Morning. I like when the city's quiet."

"Oh, see, I'm the opposite. I'm a night person. Everything feels more possible at night, you know? Like the world's asleep and you can just… be," you made a note. "Deal-breakers in a partner?"

He thought about it. "People who are too loud, or rude to waitstaff. Bad hygiene… hm, anyone who claims to be brutally honest in order to be rude."

"Good answer… now tell me about the green flags?"

"What?"

"What would you want in someone? And 'I don't know' isn't an answer."

Bucky sat back. No one had asked him that before. "Someone who doesn't… make a big deal out of things. Sense of humor, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I'd like someone who can make me laugh."

You made a note. "This is workable."

"That easy?"

"I didn't say easy, I said workable." You set down your pen and looked at him directly. "Here's the thing, Bucky. I think there's someone out there for everyone. And I don't mean that in a cheesy, fortune cookie kind of way. I just mean… people are surprising. And connection is surprising. You just have to be open to it."

"You actually believe that?"

"I do. Occupational hazard, maybe, but I've seen it work too many times not to believe it." You stood up, stretching. "Ready to actually try, or are you just here to prove your friends wrong?"

"Both."

"Fair enough. Honesty will get you far in this process." You walked him to the door. "I'll set up some options and email you. And Bucky? For what it's worth, I don't think you're that grumpy."

"You just met me."

"True, but your face lit up when your mentioned your ma's pot roast. That's not a grumpy person thing." You shrugged. "Just an observation."

He left not quite sure what to make of you.

Date one: Michelle.

Michelle was a lawyer. She was smart, attractive, professional. Exactly the kind of person who should be perfect on paper.

"So," she said, stirring her latte, "what's it like working with the New Avengers?"

"It's work."

"Must be interesting, though. All that action."

"Sometimes."

She smiled, but it looked a little strained. "You're not much of a talker, are you?"

"Not really."

"Do you prefer urban operations or undercover missions?"

Bucky blinked. "I… what?"

"I did some research. I thought it… might help us connect."

It didn't.

When he showed up at your office two days later, you were watering your plants. You looked up with a knowing expression. "That bad?"

"She was nice."

"But?" You set down the watering can.

"Felt like a job interview. She asked if I prefer 'urban operations or undercover missions.'"

You winced. "Okay, that's… yeah. She mentioned she did some research. I thought she meant like, looking up your favorite restaurant, not studying your… tactical preferences."

"She was trying."

"I know, but trying too hard is still trying wrong." You gestured to the chair. "Coffee? I just made a fresh pot."

"Sure."

You disappeared into a small kitchenette and came back with two mugs. "Okay, real talk—was it just the research thing, or there was just no spark?"

"Both."

"Well, yeah… chemistry's the hard part," you admitted, settling into the chair. "I can match interests and values all day, but at the end of the day… that thing were you just click with someone? That's lightning in a bottle."

"You think it exists?"

"I know it does, I've seen it." You took a sip of coffee. "When was the last time you felt it? That click?"

He really thought about it. "Honestly? Right now. Talking to you is easy."

You stilled, mug halfway to your lips. Then you smiled, a little softer. "Well, that's my job… to be easy to talk to."

"Is it just a job?"

"No," you admitted. "I actually like people. I like hearing their stories, figuring out what makes them tick. It's…" You searched for the word. "It's hopeful work, you know? In a world that can be pretty cynical."

"You're an optimist."

"Guilty. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No." He surprised himself the moment the world left his mouth. "It's kind of nice, actually."

Date two: Jade.

Drinks with an artist named Jade. She was fun, energetic, laughed easily. She also talked… a lot.

"—and that's when I realized that abstract expressionism is really about the negative space, you know? Like what you don't paint is just as important as what you do paint, and I think that applies to life too, don't you? Like the things we don't say—"

Bucky nodded at appropriate intervals, wondering if you were free tomorrow.

"You seemed distracted," Jade say as they left.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Sorry."

She smiled. "It's okay. I don't think we're a match anyway."

Let me guess. Too much talking? Is that bad? Not bad. Just not right for you.

Bucky showed up at your office an hour later with two coffees. He told himself it was because he was in the neighborhood.

"You didn't have to bring me coffee," you said, but you took it anyway.

"You brought me some last time."

"That's different, you looked tragic."

"And I don't now?"

You studied him over the rim of your cup. "No. Now you just look like someone who's figuring things out." You gestured to the other chair. "You have time? Or do you have to save the world."

"I have time."

"Good." You curled up in your chair, coffee in both hands. "So tell me something."

"About what?"

"Anything. Something you don't usually tell people." When he hesitated, you added, "I'll go first… I'm scared of birds."

"Birds?"

"Specifically pigeons… They're unpredictable and they have those creepy little feet." You shuddered. "Everyone thinks it's hilarious, but I'm serious. One flew at my face when I was seven and I've never recovered."

Bucky felt himself smile. "That's actually pretty funny."

"See? This is why I don't tell people!" But you were grinning. "Your turn."

"I'm terrible at technology… I mean, I do understand how to fly jets but I'm terribly bad at remembering to check my email."

"You're a ninety-year-old man, Bucky… a man out of time, that tracks."

"I'm a hundred and nine, actually."

"Even more reason. Okay, next question—what's something that makes you happy? And don't say 'nothing' because I won't believe you."

He was thoughtful for a minute. "Those historical plaques around the city… the ones that tell what used to be there. I like seeing how things have changed."

Your expression softened. "That's really lovely, actually. You're a sentimentalist."

"Don't spread that around."

"Your secret is safe with me." You took another sip of coffee. "Okay, harder question: what are you afraid of?"

"Being stuck," he said after a moment. "Just… existing without living. I disappeared for five years during the blip and ever since that's been my fear."

"I didn't know that." You were quiet for a moment. "But yeah, I get that."

"And you? What are you afraid of?"

"You mean… beside pigeons?" You smile. but it was more thoughtful now. "That I'll wake up one day and realize I've spent so much time helping other people find happiness that I forgot to look for my own."

"That's deep."

"You asked."

"Do you…" he trailed off. "Do you think you forget to look for your own?"

"Sometimes," you admitted. "But then I meet someone like you and remember why I do this. You remind me that connection is worth it."

"We barely know each other."

"Maybe, but I like getting to know you." You meet his eyes. "Is it weird? Given the professional situation."

"If it is, I don't care."

Date three: Rachel.

She was a software engineer… and she was quiet. Probably too quiet.

"So…" Bucky said after a long silence. "You work in tech?"

"Yeah."

"Do you like it?"

"It's fine."

Another long silence.

"Do you… want to be here?" he finally asked.

Rachel looked relieved. "Honestly? I think my sister set up my profile without telling me the full details. And you're so handsome that it's a bit intimidating."

Bucky's ears turned pink and nodded. "That's fair."

They split an appetizer and called it a night.

"Okay," you said when he came in the next day—unscheduled, you noted but didn't mention. You'd started to expect these visits. Looked forward to them, actually. "So we've ruled out: too professional, too talkative and too quiet. This is actually helpful data."

"Is it?"

"Yes! We're narrowing down what works." You made a pause. "Do you want some tea? I finally upgraded and got some fancy stuff."

"Sure." While you made tea on the kitchenette, Bucky looked at the postcards on your desk. "Where are these from?"

"Oh, those?" You came back with two mugs. "I collect them, they're from everywhere. Every time I travel I send myself a postcard. Sounds silly, but I like having the physical reminder."

"What's your favorite?"

You picked up one with a faded image of a lighthouse. "This one, it was on Maine. I traveled alone after my last breakup… it was a rough one, so I just breathed for a week, read books on the beach, ate lobster rolls and didn't talk to anyone unless I wanted to." You handled it to him. "Sometimes you need to be alone to remember who you are."

"Yeah." He looked at the postcard. "I get that."

There was a comfortable silence, but you blinked away. "Okay, back to business. You need someone comfortable, someone who doesn't need you to perform or be anything than yourself."

"Well, good luck finding that."

"Hey, I'm an optimist, remember? I don't give up that easy."

Date Four: Amanda.

Amanda was a bookstore owner. By this time, Bucky lost track of what he was supposed to do. Amanda was great—funny, sharp, had an opinion on everything from classic literature to the best pizza in Brooklyn.

"I like you," she said at the end of the night. "But I don't think you like me the same way."

Oh no. Did he say something wrong?

"Uh— what makes you say that?"

"Well… you kept checking into your phone, and I noticed the one time you only smiled today was when you looked at it, maybe you received a text from someone?"

Bucky looked down at his phone. He received a text from you in the middle of the date.

How is it going? She seems promising! Also, I just saw a pigeon steal someone's sandwich and I thought of our conversation, they scary.

"It's not like that."

Amanda gave him a look like she knew better. "If you say so. But Bucky? Life's too short. If you already know you like someone, you should tell her… or him. It's the twenty first century, we don't judge anymore."

"Maybe fifth time will be the charm," you said as soon as he crossed your door. "I have another candidate that will be perfect for you, she's—"

"I think I'm done trying."

"What— why? You can't give up this easily, there are…"

"Before you say anything else, I would like to ask you… do you ever go out?"

"You mean dating?" You laughed, but it was a little self-deprecating. "Occupational hazard. I'm too busy setting everyone up that I don't have time for my own life. Besides, I'm picky."

"About what?"

"I don't know. I need someone who gets me, I guess. Someone who I can just be myself around without feeling like I'm working." You shrugged. "Someone who doesn't think it's weird that I'm scared of pigeons and I can tall about my interests like my postcard collection and all of that."

The words hung in the air between you.

"Someone like that exists," Bucky said quietly.

"Maybe," you set down the files. "Why do you ask?"

Bucky braced himself, this was harder than any mission briefing. "Because I keep coming here—"

"Well, yeah, that's kind of how this works."

"No, I mean—" He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. "I show up even when I don't have an appointments. I texted you three times this week about nothing important, and last Tuesday I walked twenty blocks out of my way just to grab coffee near your office."

You were very still. "Bucky…"

"And during that date with Amanda? I was checking my phone because you sent me a text about a pigeon stealing somebody's sandwich and I smiled because of that, not because of the date." He met your eyes. "She told me I should probably tell 'her' how I feel."

"Tell who—" You stopped for a second and your eyes widened slightly. "Oh."

"Yeah." You seemed wordless for a minute, so he continued. "Look, you don't have to— I know this is your job, and I'm probably breaking some sort of professional code or something but—"

"You're not breaking anything," your voice was softer now. "It's just that I didn't think…"

"That someone like me—"

"No!" You stood up, moving around your desk. "That someone I was helping setting up would—I'm supposed to be a professional. I'm not supposed to look forward to our meetings, or text you random stuff that make me think of you, or…" You trailed off.

"Or?"

"Or hope that this dates were failing for a reason."

The relief he felt was immediate. "So I'm not completely crazy."

"Oh, you're definitely crazy." But you were smiling. "Coming to a matchmaker to find a date, and then asking out the matchmaker? That makes you complete insane."

"To be fair, I came in here because my teammates thought it would be funny to make me go through all of this… so it's that a no?"

"You're lucky I find your insanity charming, but I would have to refund your friends."

"Why?"

"Professional ethics, I can't charge for matchmaking services If I'm the match."

Bucky felt himself smiling. "Pretty sure finding me someone would count as a success. So… dinner? This Friday."

"Wouldn't miss it for anything."

You met him at an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. Nothing fancy, just good food and dim lighting and tables far enough that conversation felt private.

"Hi," you said, suddenly nervous.

"Hi." He was nervous too, you realized. It was oddly comforting.

"So," you said as you sat down when he pulled the chair for you. "Do we have a rule about not talking about your failed dates?"

"Let's not talk about work at all."

"Deal, so… what do we talk about?"

"Tell me something nobody knows about you."

You thought about it for a while while the waiter poured water. "Well… I wanted to be a teacher, specifically a kindergarten teacher."

"Why didn't you?"

"I did, for two years. I loved the kids, loved the work but suddenly I realized I was spending all my time trying to help the parents more than the kids. One day one of my kid's father came for a parent-teacher night and spent the whole night talking about his divorce and how he didn't know how to date anymore…"

"He probably was trying to hit on you."

You laughed at that. "Well, I don't know about that, but I gave him advice for twenty minutes, then set him up with one of my friends."

"And then you became a matchmaker?"

"Yup."

The food came—pasta for you, chicken for him. You talked about books and movies and the best pizza in Brooklyn; you had strong opinions, he was amused by them. You talked to him about the pigeon accident when you were a child, and he talked to you about his short time trying to figure out how online dating worked.

Somewhere between dinner and dessert, his hand found yours across the table.

"This is nice," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I don't feel like I have to be anyone other than myself."

"Bucky, that's the whole point of dating someone." You squeezed his hand. "You should never have to be anyone else."

"Even when I'm grumpy?"

"Even then, although I have to say, you've been less grumpy than advertised."

"That's because I'm here with you."

"Smooth, Barnes."

Later, walking you back to your apartment, he said. "So, what's your verdict on this?"

"On what?"

"The date. Do we forget it happened or…"

"Are you kidding?" You stopped walking and turned to face him. "Bucky, this was the best date I've had in years."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You stepped closer. "So, here's the thing. Professionally, I should probably refer you to another matchmaker because I'm completely biased now."

"And unprofessionally?"

"Unprofessionally, I'm hoping you'll want to do this again."

"Tomorrow?"

You laughed. "Wow, eager much?"

"I've wasted enough time," he said simply. "I don't want to waste more."

"Tomorrow works." You reached up and kissed his cheek.

Two weeks into dating, you showed up at the New Avengers tower with a bag of plums and a soft smile you only reserved for Bucky.

"You can't just bring me fruit every time you visit," Bucky said, but he was smiling as he let you into the quarters.

"Watch me." You set the bag on the kitchen counter. "Besides, you texted me that you had a rough morning briefing, and since I still don't have your mom's pot roast recipe… plums should make it for now. They make everything better."

"That's not scientifically proven."

"It is now, I'm declaring it." You hopped up to sit on the counter. "So, rough briefing?"

"Walker wanted to charge into a situation without waiting for backup… again."

"And you told him that was a terrible idea?"

"I may have used a strong language."

"But did you yell?"

He took a pause. "No, actually. I just told him why it wouldn't work and suggested an alternative."

You reached out and tugged him closer by his shirt. "Look at you, personal growth."

"Don't make it a thing."

"Too late, it's a thing." You wrapped your arms around his neck. "I'm proud of you."

"For not yelling at Walker?"

"For being you, not the grumpy armor you wear around everyone else."

He settled between your knees, hands on your waist. "I'm still grumpy."

"You're smiling right now."

"That's your fault."

"I'll take the credit." You kissed him softly. "So, what's the plan? Movie? Food? I'm thinking we could order from that Thai place you liked—"

"I have a better idea." He kissed you again, deeper this time, and you made a happy sound against his mouth.

"Oh, I like this plan."

You were laughing—actually giggling, as he kissed along your jaw. "Bucky Barnes, are you trying to seduce me in your kitchen?"

"Is it working?"

"Absolutely." You were leaning in to kiss him again when you heard it.

"—telling you, he's been different. Less— HOLY SHIT."

You and Bucky froze. Then slowly, very slowly turned toward the door… where the entire team stood in the door. Walker's jaw could've been on the floor, Ava looked delighted, Bob seemed mortified at interrupting. Yelena was smiling like Christmas had come early.

"Hi," you said weakly, still perched on the counter with Bucky between your knees.

"Barnes is… smiling," Walker said, like he was announcing a natural disaster. "He's actually smiling, his face is doing the thing!"

"And giggling!" Ava added. "She was giggling and he looked—"

"Happy," Bob finished quietly. "He looked happy."

Bucky's entire demeanor shifted, not back to grumpy, but protective. He didn't move away from you, but his posture straightened. "This is— this is my girlfriend. And you're gonna be respectful about it."

"It's nice to meet you," you said. Then because you could feel Bucky's tension you added. "All of you. Sorry you had to find out like… this." You gestured vaguely at your position on the counter."

"Are you kidding?" Ava said. "This is the best thing that's happened all week. Barnes was practically glowing."

"I don't glow," Bucky groaned.

"You were!" Walker insisted. "You were all smiley and you were giggling."

"No."

"You did!" Yelena looked thrilled. "I heard it! Barnes giggled!"

"I'm going to kick all of you out," Bucky said, but there was no real heat in it.

"You can't kick us out," Walker said. "This is the common area."

You slid off the counter, squeezing Bucky's hand. "It's okay. They were going to meet me eventually, right?"

He looked down at you, and you watched his expression soften again. "Yeah, I just wanted it to be on our terms."

"Well, now it's on chaotic terms, but that seems to be how things work around here." You turned to the team with a smile. "Hi, I'm the matchmaker… the one you all hired to prank Bucky."

"Best prank we ever pulled." Yelena said. "Although, we expected him to get mad, and storm out so we could all laugh."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Bucky murmured.

Bob cleared his throat softly. "I think it's really nice, you both seem very happy."

"We are," you said warmly. "Thank you."

"Okay, so now that we've all crashed your date," Ava said, "are we leaving, or…?"

"Yes," Bucky said immediately.

"But—"

"Yes, you're leaving. Now."

"But I have so many questions!" Yelena protested.

"Ask them later."

"When?"

"When I decide to answer them." Bucky was already steering you back toward the kitchen, away from the door. "Which might be never."

You were trying to not laugh as the team reluctantly filed back toward the door. Bob was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway.

"Bucky… Is good to see you happy. Really good."

Then he was gone, pulling the door closed behind him. You and Bucky stood in the kitchen for a moment, listening to the team's voices fade down the hallway.

"Well," you said finally. "That happened."

"Yeah," he pulled you closer. "Sorry they're—"

"They're wonderful," you interrupted. "Chaotic and nosy and a little overwhelming, but wonderful. They love you."

"They're a pain in my ass."

"That too." You wrapped your arms around him. "But you love them back, I can tell."

He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, I do. But don't tell them that."

"Your secret's safe with me." You kissed his jaw. "So, where were we."

"I think I was trying to seduce you in my kitchen."

"Right, was it working?"

"You tell me." He lifted you back onto the counter, settling between your knees again.

"Definitely," you said, then laughed as he kissed you back.

He stopped to look at you and smiled while brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. "How did I get this lucky?"

"Well, your team paid eight hundred dollars to prank you into meeting me, so technically you have them to thank."

"I'm never thanking them for this."

"No?"

"No, because then they will never let me hear the end of it."

He did it like he was admitting to a terrible flaw instead of looking at you with those beautiful blue eyes and telling you he wanted you all the fucking time.

“I’m not exactly normal about… sex,” he’d said, thumb dragging over your wrist. “The serum changed things. Stamina. Appetite. Um… drive.”

Your mouth had twitched into a smile. “Appetite?”

His ears had gone pink, but he held your stare. “Yeah.”

You had looked him up and down, shameless enough to make his teeth clench.

“Hm,” you’d said. “We’ll see about that.”

Bucky had been so sure. He really thought the serum meant that he’d have to tone it down. 

Then, after months of being friends with benefits, he learned what you were like when you were in a relationship. 

You might have an even higher sex drive.

You’re not exactly louder about it. Sometimes you were sweet. Domestic and barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, humming into your coffee like you hadn’t dragged him in bed three times yesterday.

But then you’d look at him over the rim of your mug.

That look.

Bucky would recognise the mischief in your eyes low in his stomach before you even opened your mouth.

“Buck,” you’d say, soft and sweet.

And he’d groan like a man already defeated.

“Again?” he asked once, voice rough, half laughing into the crook of your neck while you climbed into his lap like the answer was obvious.

You blinked at him, looking at him with innocent eyes and bare thighs bracketing his hips. “Is that a no?”

His hands tightened on your waist so fast it gave him away.

“No,” he said immediately. “No, of course it’s not a no.”

You smiled, smug and pretty, and rocked down against him until his head tipped back against the couch.

Bucky had been tortured, frozen, shot at, thrown through walls.

Nothing humbled him like you wanting him.

You got him messy. Everyone thought Bucky Barnes was disciplined, but you got him undone.

You got his mouth open. You got his hair ruined. You got his metal hand gripping the couch hard enough to make the frame creak while his flesh hand slid between your legs and found you already soaked for him.

“Jesus,” he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hummed, pleased, rolling your hips against him. “I thought you had enhanced stamina.”

His laugh came out broken. “I do.”

“Then keep up.”

His eyes went dark.

“Yeah?” he murmured, and the next second he had you under him, your back pressed into the cushions, his body heavy between your thighs. “That what you want?”

You reached down, wrapped your hand around him and watched his eyes nearly roll back. 

Every time, that was your favourite part.

That ruined, hungry look when he pushed inside you and had to pause like he was praying for control he didn’t have. Not that you even wanted it.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You smiled against his mouth, moving around him just to feel the shudder move through his whole body.

“Still think the serum makes you special?”

Bucky groaned, dropping his forehead to yours.

Then he started moving.

Slow at first, because he was still your Bucky, because your pleasure was a mission he intended to complete with military precision. But then you hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and the sound he made was almost inhuman.

“You’re greedy,” he said, kissing your jaw, your throat, and the corner of your mouth.

“You love it.”

His hips snapped forward harder, and you gasped.

His mouth brushed your ear.

“Fuck,” he admitted, voice low. “I do.”

Boy did he love being wrong about your sex drive. 

He loved that you wanted him past the point of reason. He loved that you could make a super soldier sweat, make his thighs shake, make him press his face into your neck and laugh breathlessly.

He loved dragging you into bed after dinner because he had looked at you too long. Loved waking up to your mouth on his throat and your hand sliding beneath the waistband of his sweats. Loved the mornings where he ended up late because you had tugged him back by the chain of his dog tags and whispered, “One more.”

One more was never one more. Bucky learned that quickly. Not that he would have it any other way.

And every single time, he pretended to complain. He’d groan your name, call you trouble, tell you that you were going to get him fired from the new avengers, as if they could ever afford to fire him.

Still, his hands would already be on your waist, his mouth already open against your skin.

He would already be hard again, heavy and flushed between your thighs, because the truth was embarrassingly simple:

Bucky thought he had a high sex drive. Then he met yours. 

He realised, very quickly, that he had been outmatched.

—

“So it could literally be anyone. There were hundreds of people at the party last night,” you sigh, folding the letter back into the envelope, carefully placing the lavender back in. 

“Well I mean not anyone if it was left under your door this morning.” Nat looks around the room, eyeing out the potential prospects. 

“What’re you looking at Barnes?” She spits out, chin jutting in his direction.

Bucky had been glancing over at the two of you, trying and failing to be discreet — barely listening to Steve sitting across from him. He squints at Nat, staring her down with the kind of intensity that would make anyone else wish the ground would swallow them. You give him a small smile and his face softens.

He’d always been softer with you than anyone else. When Steve had first brought him to the tower, you’d been first to greet him with a smile on your face — gentle, inviting. Where others had been wary, you’d been curious. Where they had been avoidant, you’d been caring — buying him his favorite tea, checking in on him, dropping off books you had read that you thought he might like. You had slowly become his confidant, his safe space and he yours. 

“Nothing,” he grumbles, walking out of the room without another word, his heart pounding out of his chest, face hot and throat tight like he hadn’t drank water for days. 

Fuck fuck fuck why did I leave the letter? 

Bucky paces back and forth in his room, chewing his lip and raking his hands through his already messy hair. 

But she looked so happy. 

Bucky smiles to himself as he remembers your little jump, your bare feet hitting the floor, hair messy like you had just woken up. He remembers the way you hadn’t stopped smiling all morning, your voice high and excited as you showed Natasha the letter.

She doesn’t even know it’s from you, idiot.

He lets out a loud groan as he falls back onto his bed, landing with a soft thump, hands running down his face in frustration. He contemplates his desk — the envelopes laid out next to the scrunched pieces of paper (the letters he’d started and thrown to the side, exasperated), the sprigs of lavender that had fallen on the floor, his pens sprawled out, and sits down to write out another letter. 

He ponders what to write, determined to sign his name this time. He decides to keep it simple, adding a poem he had read that reminded him of you. 

Just write it. Just write your name. Just sign it. Bucky Barnes. Or just Bucky. Write it. 

He doesn’t. 

He folds the letter up, puts it into an envelope, adds another piece of lavender (you had seemed to like that — he had noticed you taking it back out of the envelope, pressing it to your nose with a smile). He waits until he knows you’ve gone to sleep, and slides it under your door. 

“What’s that smile you’ve got on?” Nat eyes you out as you walk into the kitchen — the way you’re rocking back and forth on your heels, cheesy grin on your face, hands clasped behind your back. 

“I got another letter,” you giggle, pulling it out from behind you. 

You’d always wanted a secret admirer. A valentine. Always were a hopeless romantic in a way you hardly let show. Previous partners had never really indulged that side of you — always treating it like a burden that you wanted flowers and spontaneous gestures and planned out dates — so you had slowly let it go, convincing yourself it was too much. 

“Ooh show me.” Nat reaches for the envelope. 

“It’s just soooo,” you let out a squeal, before quickly covering your mouth, regaining your composure.

“It’s so sweet, the little poem he added. I love it. I wonder who it could be from.” 

“Who even writes letters anymore?” Nat lets out a small scoff, before muttering a ‘sorry’ and handing the letter back when she notices your face fall.

Bucky’s sitting at the counter, eating breakfast when he chokes on his cereal and the two of you look over at him, questioning. Sam gets up and slaps him on the back — much harder than necessary, laughing as Bucky glares at him.

He’d been quietly eavesdropping, smiling into his bowl at your little squeal, his heart picking up when you’d said you love it. 

You go about the next week as usual — attending meetings, training in the gym, working on your latest project and coming back from a successful mission — trying hard to not think about your secret admirer. You had received a new letter each day. 

They were all simple messages. Sometimes they included a small gift — a small chocolate, a bookmark, more flowers. You had been giddy all week, however the excitement had started to die down once you realized they may never sign their name. 

It’s Friday and you’re exhausted from the long week, showering the day off and settling into a soft pink t-shirt and matching shorts, tying your hair loosely behind you before making your way into the living room. Bucky and Steve are sitting on the couch next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching a movie, a bowl of popcorn settled between them. Bucky’s sprawled out in his black sweatpants and grey henley, smiling up at you when you enter the room. He shifts without realizing, making space for you — the way he always does. 

Bucky can’t help the way his heart stutters when you curl up next to him, legs tucked under you, fuzzy socks resting against your bare thighs. Your knee presses against his — your body naturally gravitating towards his. The smell of your shampoo wraps around Bucky like a warm blanket — coconut and mango and something so you — he wants to drown in it. Wrap his arms around you and pull you into him. But he doesn’t. His fingers twitch at his sides instead.

He reaches for the popcorn, hand brushing yours when you reach at the same time. He’s focusing harder on trying to not look over at you than what’s playing on the screen. You lean your head on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world — because it is. Bucky feels something melt inside him when your hair brushes his neck and it takes everything in him to not reach over and brush aside the piece that had fallen into your eyes. 

You sigh softly, eyes drooping as the tiredness of your day washes over you. You settle into Bucky’s side further, trying to not make it too obvious that you’re melting into him like that’s where you belong. The smell of his soap mixed with that warm smell that was so Bucky makes your head spin and your eyes flutter shut. 

You don’t remember going to your bed before falling asleep. Don’t remember the way Bucky had carried you while you grumbled nonsense against his neck. The way he had placed you down gently, hovering over you like he wanted to kiss your forehead, but had decided against it in case you woke. Bucky looked at the letters placed out on your desk — open like you had been reading them over and over — and makes his mind up to tell you they’re from him. 

Tomorrow. When you wake up. 

Bucky gets dressed the next morning — a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt he uses for the gym — brushing his teeth and fussing with his hair like it might change. He trims his beard slightly, never shaving it after he’d overheard you one day saying you like a man with a beard. Gives himself a pep talk in the mirror, taking a deep breath before shaking his head at himself. He paces back and forth a few times before mustering up the courage to walk down the hallway to your room. 

Before he reaches your door, he notices it slightly open, your voice travelling under the door. He’s about to take another step when he hears Nat.

“So who do we think the secret admirer is?” 

“I don’t knowww.” You pause, thinking to yourself before continuing, “maybe it’s Nate from research? He’s kinda cute and he seems like the romantic type, he asked me on a date last week.”

Bucky feels jealousy rise hot and fast in his chest, hands clenching at his sides. Fucking Nate. 

“Did you say yes?” 

“I said I’d let him know.” 

“He didn’t mention the letters?” 

“No… but maybe he wanted to wait until I said yes?” 

You hear a crash from outside your door — Bucky having stumbled when Steve had turned the corner and bumped into him full force. 

You hear a muttering of ‘Sorry man, didn’t see you there’ and ‘S’fine’. 

“You lost, Barnes?” Nat questions with a smirk on her face, arms crossed over her chest as she pushes the door open to look at them. 

“No I was just—” Bucky trails off, walking away before he embarrases himself further. 

“Imagine it was Bucky.” Nat gasps, laughing. 

Bucky stops in his tracks, heart speeding up as he tunes in to your conversation. 

“What? No way.” You scoff, laughing louder at the suggestion. 

Bucky’s heart drops. He feels the hope die in his chest, his dreams crushed in a split second. He drags himself away from your door, trying to swallow the raw feeling in his throat, heartbeat ringing in his ears. 

He had mistaken your tone for indifference — your nervous laugh for humor.

Little did he know how hopeful you were — how your heart had skipped a beat at his name, flaring with hope at the thought of him sitting there carefully writing out letters, writing out your name. There was something so intimate about the thought of his hands carving your name out in ink, marking it like it was something important to him. 

You had silently hoped it was him, your heart fluttering at the possibility that he liked you back. It was stupid. If he did — he would’ve said something. Would’ve hinted at it, shown some sort of sign. But he hadn’t. At least, in your mind. 

So stupid Bucky, why would she want the letters to be from you? She probably thinks they’re from some great guy who’s right for her, someone who’s good. Not him. 

His head drops to his hands, heart aching with a loss he didn’t quite understand. You weren’t his. Never had been. He thinks back to all the times you’d made him breakfast, all the times you’d offered him books like they were small pieces of yourself. The way your body rested into his like he was safe. Like he was yours. You were probably just being nice to him. Probably took pity on the guy no-one else bothered much with. 

Yeah it had to be that. 

So Bucky stops. He stops sending letters. He stops trying to impress you, hoping you’d turn around and notice him. He stops following you around like a lost puppy. He stops leaning on you when he’s tired. Stops coming to you when he needs to vent. The loneliness of it hits him harder than he expected. It hits you too, but you’d never been one to push Bucky — always letting him come to you, never wanting to scare him off or make him uncomfortable. 

So you sit back quietly and watch as the man you care for so deeply pulls himself away. 

With no explanation. 

You had become accustomed to receiving the letters, disappointed when there isn’t one at your door. You treasure them — have a small stack of them carefully placed on your desk, your heart giving a giddy jump every time you see them. You admire the handwriting — something familiar about it in that way where you remember the tune to a song but not the lyrics — driving you crazy trying to figure it out. 

The scent of lavender and something warm and comforting you can’t quite place your finger on. The soft smudges of ink, like he had been worrying over what to write next. The careful way the seal was pressed down, the way there was always a little pressed flower with each. 

It had been weeks since the last letter. Weeks since your last movie night with Bucky. And the loneliness hits you hard. You scroll on your phone until there’s nothing left to look at, text friends that take hours to respond. Swipe through dating apps, answering messages like ‘wyd?’ and ‘u up?’ 

You miss the letters. 

But you miss Bucky more. 

“What’s going on with you Buck?” Steve sits across from Bucky in his room, watching as his best friend shrugs with a blank look on his face. 

Steve probes further; asks about you, why Bucky hasn’t been talking to you much, why he’s been avoiding you like no tomorrow. 

Bucky sighs, dragging his hand down his face. He’s tired. He feels it deep in his bones, the questions dragging through him like sandpaper. He winces at the sound of your name. 

He misses you.

More than he cares to admit. 

So he tells Steve about the letters, about how he’d overhead you with Nat, laughing at the thought of it being Bucky that had sent them. 

Steve shakes his head in disbelief. 

“God, you can be stupid sometimes Buck.” 

Bucky looks up so fast, frowning at Steve in a way that could only mean he had no idea what Steve was talking about. 

“She likes you. Anyone can see it. You know you’re the first person she asks about when we get back from a mission. The first person she runs to when she’s been hurt. She curls up to you like you’re the only thing that keeps her safe. I’ve seen it, Buck.” Steve places his hand on Bucky’s knee, punctuating his words.

Bucky feels like he could cry as he takes it all in. He’s looking at the floor, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Keeps her safe. 

He couldn’t imagine anyone thinking of him as their safe space. Not after everything he’s done. Everything he is. Was. 

He remembers the way you’ve come to him late at night when you’d had a nightmare, trusting him to be the one to bring you back to reality. The way you’d call him when you felt unsafe on a night out. The way you’d tuck your face into his chest when watching a scary movie. 

Bucky furrows his brow, head dipping to rest in his hands as he lets out a loud groan. 

“Buck, listen, her laughing and saying ‘no way’ was probably at herself because she wants it to have been you, but she doesn’t want to get her hopes up.” 

“You think?” 

“Yeah I do.” And who couldn’t believe Steve when he nods at you all solemn and smiles like he’s got all the answers. 

They talk for hours; Bucky finally starting to believe that maybe — just maybe — you feel the way he does. That you’d wanted the letters to be from him. That you wanted him to be yours. That the only reason you hadn’t said anything is because you wanted him to be ready. 

You’re dragging your feet down the hallway to your room. You were supposed to be on a mission — a quick in and out — when Tony had insisted you take the day off. You had protested loudly but he wasn’t having it, sending you to your room to rest after your eyes had slipped shut for the fourth time during the briefing. 

“Bucky?” 

He’s standing at your door, back turned when he whips around at the sound of your voice. 

“Doll— you’re— I um—” He scratches the back of his neck, eyes avoiding you like he might catch on fire if he looks at you. 

Your eyes land on his metal hand. 

Your heart stops. 

A letter. 

You feel as though you could fall over — a million emotions running through you at once. 

Bucky’s frozen. Feet stuck in place like they’ve been cemented to the floor. 

Say something. Anything. 

“I was just—” 

“Bucky, I swear to god if this is some kind of joke—” Your eyes tear up, blood rushing to your face fast. 

Bucky’s head whips up at that, moving over to you so quickly, it knocks the wind out of you. You inhale sharply as his eyes meet yours. So blue and beautiful. He’s so close.  

“It’s not a joke doll, I swear.” 

“So…so they were from you? And you weren’t joking?” Your breathing picks up, eyes boring into his, heart slamming against your ribs as his scent washes over you, his warmth. 

“I’m sorry. It was so stupid. I only meant to leave you one. But then I saw you grinning and showing off to Nat and you looked so happy…I just—” He trails off, flesh hand coming to meet yours, letting his finger hook into the bracelet on your wrist, as if to ground himself.

“I just— I just wanted to see you smile like that again. I wanted to be the reason you laughed. The reason you were so happy. I— I always…” his voice trails off, his head hanging like he’s ashamed. 

“Bucky…” Your voice is warm, torn around the edges, limbs heavy and chest burning bright. Your right hand comes to rest on the side of his face and Bucky melts into it, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Do you— do you want to read it?” He’s holding out the letter. You pull your hand away from him, stepping back slightly and Bucky involuntarily leans towards you. He wants to pull you back in by your waist — wants you to crowd his personal space like his and yours are one and the same. 

You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you nod slowly, already reaching for the letter. 

“Bucky I— I—” You let out a soft sniffle, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, hands shaking slightly as you grip the letter, creasing the edges. 

Bucky’s eyes search your face frantically. 

“Fuck sweetheart you’re crying. I knew I shouldn’t have—” 

He’s cut off by your hands on either side of his face, the letter scratching his skin slightly. 

“Bucky. I love it. I’ve loved every single letter.” 

You fold the letter into your pocket, hands coming to rest on his face again, thumb stroking his jaw lovingly as you gaze into his eyes. His flesh hand comes to rest over yours, breath catching in his throat at how close you are. You’re so beautiful like this. All soft and teary and looking at him like he’s the most precious thing in the world. 

Your arms wrap around his neck, hugging him close to you, hands tangling in the hair on the base of his neck as your lips come to rest at his ear. Bucky pulls you in closer, metal hand resting on the small of your back as his face molds to the shape of your neck. 

“I forgive you Bucky. Thank you, I mean it. For the letters, for the flowers, the poem, the bookmark; for apologizing, for telling me how you feel. All of it. It was…perfect.” 

You pull back to look at him, fingers still gently tracing the skin on the nape of his neck. 

“And— and I’m kind of crazy about you too. You’re my safe space. The only person I want. I was…” Your head drops shyly. 

“I was secretly hoping they were from you.” 

Steve was right. 

Bucky lets out a soft laugh, letting his forehead rest gently against yours. His fingers trace your waist softly, palms pressing into your sides.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You can’t help the stupid smile on your face, grinning through tears as Bucky’s nose nudges yours in the softest, gentlest moment. 

“Can I— can I kiss you?” He says it so softly, he’s worried you don’t hear him. 

You nod.  

Bucky’s lips meet yours — soft and sweet and full of every single feeling he’s been holding back — pouring everything he has into the way his lips move with yours. You taste like strawberry gum and cherry chapstick. 

It’s intoxicating. 

Bucky wants more, more, more. He kisses you harder, hand gripping your jaw, guiding your mouth along his. Your knees almost give out when his tongue softly traces yours, pressing yourself into him until there’s not a single part of you that isn’t consumed by him. 

You pull back, lips swollen and breathless, forehead resting against his. You let out a soft laugh as Bucky’s lips chase yours, leaving soft pecks before he pulls back, grinning. 

Your eyes meet his — soft like he can't quite believe this is happening.

“Yes, I’ll go on a date with you Bucky.”

a/n: i might post a version where the letters are just text because they're a bit hard to read as pics.

taglist: @quantumbarnes @daydreamgoddess14 (if you'd like to be added, please leave a comment on this post)

He was piloting the team's jet to mission site, big hands gripping the controls steadily. You were in the copilot seat, feet relaxing on the dashboard, enjoying a little too much the way he looked controlling the aircraft.

His eyes were locked on the sky ahead, with a tense jaw and those furrowed brows of his... lord, concentration looked good on him.

Almost too good.

So, naturally, you had to stop it before you jumped on top of your man and gave a free show to everyone on the jet.

John just blinked twice. What on earth was that question?

He didn’t glance your way, or even bother to give it a second thought before he replied.

"No."

You opened your mouth offended, and straightened up in your seat.

"John! You didn't even think about it" You whined, a soft laugh followed.

"Please tell me I didn’t hear you right, did you say a worm?" He asked, not even trying to hide the most bewildered expression you'd ever seen on him.

"You heard me, John" You squint your eyes at him, and insist, “would you still love me if I turned into a little worm?"

He sighed this time, taking his hand off the dashboard to rub his face like he just lost multiple brain cells.

"Honey, why would you ever be a worm?" He said, softer now, like he needed to understand the root cause before proceeding.

You roll your eyes, here we go again. Of course he needed it to make sense, his brain didn’t function right if there wasn’t a logical reason behind everything.

"I really don't now, babe. Some sort of mutation?… maybe witchcraft? … a gone wrong experiment Val does on me?”

“I would never let Val experiment on you” He denied, shrugging like why would you ever consider that as a possibility.

You pause for a second and tilt your head to the side, feeling a sudden warmth in your chest from his comment.

No, no, focus. You can kiss him breathless later, after he answers the worm question.

“Alright Walker that’s fair, love that, nice move” You nodded, squinting playfully at him.

He just smirked and shrugged, smug bastard.

“Not the point, though. Do you really think it would be so crazy that I could be a worm when we have at least two superheroes named after bugs?”

He looked back to the sky, considering it for a second, but quickly turned to you again with his eyebrows raised.

“Well, actually, spiderman is technically an arachnid so ... not a bug honey" He corrected, not even trying to hide his maddening little mansplaining smirk.

"Oh shut up, John" You rolled your eyes, slapping his arm, he chuckled. "Uh huh, whatever smartass, you still have to answer. What if I was a worm, then?"

He groaned, placing his thumb and index fingers in the dent of his closed eyes, shaking his head in defeat.

He could at least try to make some sense of it.

“Okay, we’re doing this” He muttered, and you nodded enthusiastically. “Is it still you, but worm shaped? As in … do you still have consciousness? Can you communicate with me? Would you have powers, or is it just …”

He just went rambling on.

You leaned back in your seat, chuckling as you watched the gears turning behind those handsome, stressed out eyes. He was running through scenarios, possibilities, variables.

At least he looked cute while losing his mind over it.

But then, he stopped rambling, like an idea just popped in his head.

"Wait … what kind of worm?" He tilts his head to the side.

I’ll be dammed, you thought, this man didn’t know how to go halfway about anything in his life, ever.

He was fully invested by now.

"What? what do you mean?”

Now it was your turn to furrow your brows.

"What kind of worm, honey? an earthworm? marine? are you symbiotic? regenerative?… This is crucial information to know" He said, listing types like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

How did he even care this much about worm lore?

“You are the most intense person I know” You groaned, staring at him in disbelief.

“And you are the most unserious one I know, honey, don’t get me started”

You just huffed. How did your stupid question get this far?

"God I don't know John, just like a basic worm… in the dirt"

He thinks for moment, like he wasn’t exactly pleased with the answer.

"So then, biologically, you’d lose everything. You would have no brain, no higher reasoning or communication. Technically, you wouldn't even know I exist anymore"

You glared at him.

"But you would know it’s me" You quickly justified, but it didn’t seem to convince him much. "Oh my god John ... just answer the question babe. Would you still love me?"

He tapped his chin a few times, eyes darting around the jet’s cabin, still trying to find a somewhat logical answer in his head. Making you wait for it.

You knew that little asshole was just having fun mocking you.

"Uhm, I guess I could keep you safe … yeah” He nodded. “Build you a little enclosure with some nice quality dirt. It would have to be temperature controlled, for sure. Maybe even ask Val to build you a reinforced travel case? something I can clip to my gear.”

You blinked a few times, before nodding. A win is a win.

"...Thanks?"

But he was quick to shake his head.

"Although honestly, sounds like a lot of emotional labor. Don’t you think our relationship is complicated enough already?" He protested, like it'd be too much fuss.

"Hey!" You laughed, smacking his shoulder.

You both fall into a chuckle. He shakes his head again, but there's a grin in his face now.

From the back of the jet, you heard the unmistakable sound of suppressed laughter.

"Even if she was a brainless worm, she’d still be more emotionally mature than Walker" Bucky whispered to the group.

Muffled laughter followed, like a group of schoolgirls gossiping.

"They are the weirdest, I swear to god" Ava muttered, watching the way you giggled at something John said like he was the most charming idiot on earth.

"Ah captain romance … don’t you see it? he’s worm nerd and she’s worm he takes care of" Alexei chimed in.

“Shh!” Yelena hushed him, snorting. “Honestly, it tracks guys. He gives off strong ‘I talk to my houseplants’ vibes”

“Yeah, watch him hang a ‘Worm Boyfriend of the Year’ plaque next to his service medals” Bucky sneered.

More giggles. At this point they weren’t even trying to be quiet.

John turned halfway in his seat. “You guys know I can hear you, right?”

“That’s the point” Ava said, flipping him off.

“Oh no” Yelena deadpanned. “What are you gonna do, worm boy?”

“Shh! He’s gonna clip us to his belt too.”

That set them off again.

John just rolled his eyes, turning back to the controls. But you noticed the faint hint of a smile on his face.

And then almost under his breath, only for you to hear.

“I’d still love you” He muttered.

You looked over at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. Eyes on the sky.”

You smirked.

This time you did jump on his lap to kiss him breathlessly, while your teammates threw disgusted grunts and gagged sounds at you.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, one hand braced against the marble counter, the other wrapped around a mug gone cold long ago. The city shone beyond the glass in a thousand blurred smears of gold and white. Rain needled softly against the windows. Somewhere down the hall, the sound system played low jazz that no one had bothered to turn off after dinner.

You had not slept.

You had not eaten.

You had spent the last two hours telling yourself that you were dramatic, paranoid, cruel even, for letting the suspicion rot inside you like this. You had spent the last week doing much the same. Maybe longer. Maybe ever since you first noticed the silence where there should have been honesty, the way Bucky had looked past you when certain names came up, the way he touched your shoulder absentmindedly as if affection were now a habit and not a choice.

And still, maddeningly, you loved him.

That was the worst part.

Not the fear. Not even the doubt.

The love.

It made fools of people. It made you swallow things that should have been spat back out. It made you stand in a kitchen at three in the morning defending a man who had taught you exactly what his silences meant.

The elevator chimed.

You did not turn around.

You heard the muted tread of boots first, then the heavier pause that always marked the moment Bucky noticed you before deciding what version of himself to wear. The careful one. The weary one. The soft one built only for you.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

His voice came rough with exhaustion. Familiar. Beautiful. Infuriating.

You stared into the dark surface of your coffee. “No.”

A beat passed.

He moved farther into the kitchen, quiet as a storm held back by clenched teeth. “You should’ve called me.”

The words almost made you laugh.

You set the mug down with delicate care, because if you gripped it any harder, it might have shattered. “Would that have helped?”

He hesitated.

That tiny pause – nothing, really, hardly anything – cut deeper than shouting ever could.

When you finally turned, he stood near the island with rain dampening the shoulders of his jacket, hair pushed back from his face, mouth drawn thin in that guarded expression he wore when he sensed danger but had not yet identified the source. His metal arm caught the kitchen light in cold silver lines. Bruised shadows lay beneath his eyes. He looked tired. Human. Ruined in all the ways that had once made your heart ache with tenderness.

He also looked guilty.

The realization struck not like lightning, sudden and bright, but like something old and ugly rising through mud. Something that had always been there. Something you had smelled long before you allowed yourself to name it.

You folded your arms over your chest. “Where were you?”

“Mission debrief ran late.”

You nodded once.

The lie came so smoothly it made your stomach turn.

Not because it was convincing. Because it was practiced.

You looked at him for a very long moment, and he held your gaze just long enough to pretend he could bear it. Then his eyes shifted – only slightly, only for a second – but enough.

Enough.

“You’re sick of all the rules,” you said quietly. “Is that it?”

A line appeared between his brows. “What?”

“All the explanations. All the consequences. All the basic expectations that come with being with someone.” Your voice remained calm, and somehow that calm frightened him more than anger would have. You saw it in the way his shoulders squared. “You’re tired of those?”

“Doll–”

“Don’t.”

He fell silent.

You had never hated the endearment before. Tonight it landed like an insult.

Rain slid in restless trails down the glass. The jazz in the hallway cut off mid-note. Somewhere in the Tower, a pipe knocked softly in the wall.

Bucky stepped closer, cautious now. “Talk to me.”

You gave him a thin smile that contained no warmth whatsoever. “That would require you to start first.”

His jaw flexed.

For a second, he looked almost offended, and that – more than anything – made something bitter uncurl fully in your chest.

You had spent months making room for his grief, his nightmares, his anger, his silence, his impossible history. You had never once asked him to be easy. You had never asked him to be pretty, or polished, or healed. God knew you were none of those things yourself. You were not soft enough for fairy tales. Not patient enough for sainthood. Not some delicate little thing made to wait by the window and smile when he finally remembered to come home.

You had done ugly things in your life. You had made mistakes. You had survived by becoming harder than the world wanted from you. You were not one of those bright, effortless women from magazines or movies – the kind who seemed born to be adored without ever having to demand truth.

But you had never lied to him like this.

“You want me to talk?” you asked. “Fine.”

His expression changed. Wariness darkened it.

You moved away from the counter and toward him, not to seek comfort but because the distance suddenly felt unbearable. “I think you’re sleeping with someone else.”

He went still.

Not confused.

Not shocked.

Still.

It lasted less than a breath, but it was enough to hollow out the room around you.

And there it was.

Proof did not always come dressed in photographs or lipstick stains or strangers’ perfume. Sometimes proof was simply the shape a person’s face made when the truth arrived before they had prepared a lie.

You let out a low, unsteady laugh. “Wow.”

His mouth opened. Closed. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“No?” You tilted your head. “Then look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.”

He did not.

The silence that followed was monstrous.

It filled the kitchen. It spilled over the counters and climbed the windows and sank its claws into your ribs. You felt suddenly cold all the way through, as if the rain had gotten inside your skin.

Bucky took another step toward you. “It’s not–”

“No.” Your voice cracked like a whip. “No, you don’t get to start with that.”

His hands flexed at his sides. “Listen to me.”

“I have listened to you.” The words came sharper now, years of restraint peeling back at last. “I have listened to every half-truth, every excuse, every ‘it’s complicated,’ every ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ every time you made me feel insane for noticing you were somewhere else even when you were standing right next to me.”

He looked stricken, but you could not stop.

Maybe you had held back too much for too long. Maybe all that swallowed hurt had finally climbed into your throat, choking and furious, demanding shape.

“I knew something was wrong,” you said. “I knew it. I could feel it every time you touched me like you were apologizing for something I hadn’t found out yet.”

Bucky’s face hardened with pain. “I never meant to hurt you.”

The laugh that tore out of you this time sounded ugly. “That’s convenient.”

He flinched.

Good.

For once, let him be the one cut open by the sound of your voice.

You turned away, pressing your palm to your mouth for a second, gathering yourself. The city gleamed beyond the windows like a wound that refused to close. In the reflection, you could see him behind you – broad-shouldered, silent, miserable. The tragic soldier. The broken hero. The man everyone forgave because sorrow wore his face so well.

When you spoke again, your voice came lower. “Who was she?”

His answer took too long.

That was answer enough.

You shut your eyes.

Not because you were surprised. Because some small, disgusting part of you had still been hoping for magic – for a loophole, a misunderstanding, anything but this. Some last foolish hope that maybe love, however damaged, still meant safety.

When you opened your eyes again, you looked at him through the reflection instead of directly. “Was it someone in the Tower?”

He said nothing.

Your blood ran cold.

“Oh my God.” You turned fully toward him. “It was.”

“Please,” he said, and now his voice was fraying too. “Please don’t do this like that.”

“Like what?” You stepped closer until there was barely a breath between you. “Like I’m the one humiliating you?”

He dragged a hand over his face. The metal fingers of his left hand curled, uncurled. “It didn’t start the way you think.”

There it was: the oldest cowardice in the world. Not denial. Not accountability. Explanation.

Something inside you snapped into a strange, perfect clarity.

“It did start exactly the way I think,” you said. “You were lonely, or angry, or drunk, or self-destructive, or scared, or whatever story helps you sleep. And you chose someone else because for one moment it was easier than choosing me honestly.”

His eyes flashed. “You think this was easy for me?”

The words hung between you.

For a second, you could only stare.

Then you laughed again, and there were tears in it now, bright and furious and close to falling. “There you are.”

Bucky looked as if he wanted to reach for you, but he knew better now.

“You really are unbelievable,” you said. “You stand there after betraying me and ask if I think it was easy for you?”

He swallowed hard. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it is what you said.”

He did not argue.

You wiped roughly at one cheek and found it wet. You had not even felt the tears start. “Do you know what the sickest part is?” you asked. “I kept asking myself why you loved me.”

His face broke a little at that.

You went on anyway.

“Because none of this makes sense if you did.” Your throat tightened painfully. “I kept thinking maybe I was too much. Too angry. Too difficult. Not sweet enough, not pretty enough, not forgiving enough. Maybe if I were easier to love, you wouldn’t have needed…” You gestured helplessly, disgusted with yourself for even saying it aloud. “Someone else.”

His expression changed from pain to horror. “No.”

You looked at him flatly. “Don’t.”

“No,” he repeated, stepping toward you despite the danger. “You don’t get to put this on yourself.”

A terrible smile touched your mouth. “Now you care about fairness?”

“This wasn’t because of you.”

“Wasn’t it?” You folded your arms tighter, holding yourself together by force. “Because I’m running out of alternative explanations.”

“It was because I’m screwed up,” he said harshly, as if the confession might save something. “Because I ruin things. Because I didn’t know how to – ”

“How to what? Be faithful?” The edge in your voice could have cut glass. “That’s not some advanced emotional skill, Bucky.”

He recoiled as if struck.

Still, he did not deny it.

The rain intensified, ticking harder against the windows. Lightning flashed somewhere far beyond the skyline, turning the city momentarily silver. The kitchen lights felt too white, the room too clean for something this ugly.

You remembered the first time he had kissed you in this very Tower. It had been after midnight too, after a mission gone sideways, when everyone else had been asleep and the both of you had stood here with bruised knuckles and bad coffee and the quiet understanding that two ruined people had found something gentle in one another. He had kissed you like a man asking permission to exist. You had loved him for that tenderness, for the restraint, for the fragile awe of it.

Now, standing in the same place, you wondered how much of memory was fiction dressed up as devotion.

“Was it once?” you asked.

He stared at the floor.

Your heart hammered so violently you thought you might actually be sick.

“Bucky.”

His voice came almost inaudible. “More than once.”

The room lurched.

You grabbed the back of a chair, fingers locking around it until the wood bit into your palm. He moved instinctively, but one look from you stopped him dead.

More than once.

Not a mistake, then.

A choice. Repeated. Reinforced. Returned to.

You had thought the worst thing would be the image of it, the physical betrayal, the details your mind had already begun to invent against your will. But the truly unforgivable part was repetition. It meant time. It meant opportunity. It meant he had woken up after the first time, looked at the life you shared, and decided to cross the line again anyway.

Something in your face must have changed, because Bucky whispered your name like a prayer spoken too late.

You straightened slowly.

“No,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “No, that’s it.”

His head jerked up. “Don’t.”

You almost smiled at the absurdity. “You don’t get to tell me not to leave after cheating on me.”

“I’m not telling you what to do.” Desperation cracked through at last. “I’m asking you to let me explain.”

“You already did.” You let go of the chair. “It happened more than once. That’s the explanation.”

He took another step, then another, like a man approaching a ledge. “I love you.”

The words struck you with such force that for a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.

Then the anger came back twice as strong.

“Why?” you asked.

He froze.

The question landed between you with all the weight of a blade laid flat across skin.

You took one shaking breath. “Why do you love me?”

His mouth parted. No sound came.

You laughed through tears, and it sounded broken. “No, really. Tell me. Because I’d love to hear how those two things fit together in your head.” Your hand pressed against your chest. “Tell me how you loved me while lying to my face. Tell me how you loved me while touching someone else. Tell me how that works, because it’s driving me out of my mind.”

He looked destroyed.

You did not care.

Maybe a part of you would care tomorrow, or in a week, or in the lonely aftermath when grief softened anger into something more dangerous. But not tonight. Tonight you wanted the truth to hurt him the way it had hurt you.

“I wasn’t enough for you,” you said.

“You are everything.”

The answer came too quickly, too fervently.

That was what made it obscene.

Your eyes burned. “Then why did you do it?”

Bucky looked like a man standing before an open grave. He searched your face as though the right words might still exist there, waiting for him to recover them. But there were no right words. Not now.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, and the honesty of it was somehow worse than another lie. “I wish I did. I wish I had something that would make sense, something I could give you that would fix even a fraction of this. But I don’t.” His breathing roughened. “I hated myself every second.”

You stared at him. “That’s supposed to comfort me?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Because it did not. His guilt did not erase the betrayal. His suffering did not cancel yours. You were tired – suddenly, bone-deep tired – of men who mistook self-loathing for atonement.

You moved around him toward the doorway.

He caught your wrist.

Not hard. Never hard. But enough.

You looked down at his hand, then up at his face.

He released you instantly, horror flashing across his features. “Sorry.”

Something about that nearly broke you for good. He could remember to be gentle now. Now.

You stepped back out of reach. “Don’t touch me.”

He lowered both hands like surrender.

For a long second, neither of you spoke.

Then, because cruelty was all you had left to keep from collapsing, you said quietly, “Was she prettier than me?”

His entire face changed, pain and disbelief colliding. “Don’t.”

“There’s that word again.”

“She had nothing to do with–”

“But she did.” Your voice sharpened. “She had everything to do with this. So answer me.”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Because you know there’s no answer that doesn’t kill me.”

“There is no comparison,” he said, anguish rising. “There never was.”

You smiled without humor. “That’s such a lovely lie for a man who’s run out of useful ones.”

He flinched harder this time.

Good, some ugly part of you thought again, and you hated that part even while feeding it.

You turned away from him and walked out of the kitchen.

He followed.

Of course he did.

Your footsteps echoed down the hallway, sharp against the muted luxury of the Tower. Art lined the walls. Stark’s absurd taste in modern sculpture crouched in lit alcoves. Everything looked polished, curated, expensive – utterly detached from the ruin dragging itself through the corridor at four in the morning.

“You need to stop,” Bucky said behind you.

You did not break stride. “No. You need to stop following me.”

“I’m not letting you walk away like this.”

That made you spin on him so fast he nearly collided with you.

“Like this?” you said, voice rising for the first time. “Like this?” Your hands spread, furious and trembling. “How else do people walk away from being cheated on, Bucky? Gracefully? With a thank-you note?”

He looked as if the floor had vanished beneath him. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t care what you meant.”

The words cracked through the empty hall. Somewhere nearby, a sensor light brightened in response.

You laughed once under your breath and dragged a hand through your hair. “God, I am so tired.”

He softened at once, reflexive, instinctive. “Come sit down.”

The tenderness in his tone nearly made you scream.

“Don’t you dare use that voice with me.”

He stopped cold.

“You don’t get to comfort me from the thing you did,” you said. “Do you understand that? You don’t get to be the knife and the bandage.”

His eyes glistened then, and he looked away.

For a second, seeing him on the verge of tears gave you no satisfaction at all. Only exhaustion.

You resumed walking, this time toward your room.

The Tower seemed to notice. Doors slid open automatically as you approached, lights lifting in your path one by one. Bucky stayed behind you, no longer trying to come close, but refusing to disappear.

When you reached your door, you stopped with your hand on the panel.

He halted several feet away.

“Say something,” he said hoarsely.

You kept your back to him. “I have said plenty.”

“Then say the thing that matters.”

Slowly, you turned.

He stood at the far end of the small pool of light outside your room, half in shadow, half illuminated. He had never looked more like a ghost than he did then – something dragged out of war and time and guilt, held together by brute will and failing in real time.

For one wild, self-destructive second, you wanted to cross the distance and let him hold you while your heart broke. That was how deep the habit of loving him ran. Even now, some traitorous part of you wanted refuge in the very person who had set your life on fire.

You hated him for that.

You hated yourself more.

When you spoke, your voice came very quiet.

“I kept getting back up,” you said. “Every time things got hard with you. Every time the nightmares were bad. Every time you pulled away. Every time you made me feel like loving you meant standing in the shadows and waiting for scraps of honesty.” Your mouth trembled; you held it firm by force. “I got back up and did it again because I thought you were worth it.”

He closed his eyes briefly, pain washing over his face.

“But this?” you continued. “This is the part where I stop.”

His eyes opened fast. “Please.”

“No.”

The word was not loud. It did not need to be.

It landed with finality neither of you could mistake.

He swallowed, throat moving hard. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You’re angry.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to decide tonight.”

A sad, disbelieving smile touched your lips. “You really still think this is about timing.”

He stared at you.

You looked at him one last time, and because truth had already ruined everything, you gave him all of it.

“I love you,” you said. “That’s what makes this so pathetic. I love you enough that part of me will probably still want to forgive you tomorrow. Or next week. Or when I hear you moving around the Tower and I remember what it felt like to belong to somebody.” Your eyes burned again. “So I’m not giving myself that chance.”

Something in him visibly shattered.

You opened your door.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered.

You met his gaze across the threshold. “You already did.”

And then you went inside and shut him out.

Morning came cruelly.

No sleep softened the edges of the night. No revelation arrived to rearrange the facts into anything less grotesque. Dawn simply seeped into the Tower in pale winter bands, making everything look cleaner than it deserved.

You packed in silence.

Not much. Just enough.

A duffel bag lay open across your bed. Shirts, jeans, chargers, toiletries, a knife you kept hidden in the nightstand though you never needed it here, a photograph you almost left behind out of spite until you realized Bucky was in it and tore it cleanly in half before dropping only your side into the bag.

Your hands were steady. That frightened you more than tears would have.

Outside your room, the Tower had begun its usual morning rhythm. Voices in the kitchen. Music from the gym. The muted roll of wheels as someone carted equipment down the corridor. Life, indifferent and obscene, carrying on.

There had been a time when the Tower had felt like belonging. A patched-together mess of damaged people who chose, somehow, to become a home. But homes were fragile things. Sometimes all it took was one lie told too many times to reveal the fault line running underneath.

A soft knock came at the door.

You did not answer.

The knock came again, then Sam’s voice, careful and low. “Hey.”

You closed the zipper on your bag. “It’s open.”

Sam stepped in, took one look at the room, and went very still.

He was observant enough not to ask stupid questions.

His gaze flicked from the packed bag to your face, then to the torn half of the photograph lying in the wastebasket. Something sober and sad settled over him.

“You leaving?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded once.

“Want me to punch him?” he asked after a moment.

Despite everything, a small huff of laughter escaped you. “Tempting.”

Sam leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms folding. “Nat already offered to help hide the body, and she doesn’t even know the details yet.”

That got a real laugh out of you – brief, broken, but real.

Then it vanished.

Sam’s expression gentled. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I know.”

“But?”

You stared at the strap of your bag. “But if I start talking, I might stay.”

Understanding crossed his face with quiet devastation.

He pushed off the wall and crossed to you slowly, giving you plenty of room, and held out a keycard. “Safehouse in Brooklyn. Stark uses it for witnesses and people who need quiet. Nobody’ll bother you there unless you want them to.”

You took the card. Your fingers brushed his briefly. “Thank you.”

He nodded.

At the door, he paused. “For what it’s worth, none of this says a damn thing about you.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked away before gratitude could become crying. “I know,” you lied.

Sam did not call you on it.

After he left, you stood alone for another minute, breathing through the ache. Then you picked up your bag and walked out.

The corridor seemed longer in daylight.

You nearly made it to the elevator before Bucky stepped into view at the far end of the hall.

He looked like hell.

He had changed clothes, but not slept. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, his expression stripped bare in a way you had rarely seen. No defenses. No calm. No practiced control.

Just wreckage.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Then he saw the bag.

Every bit of color left his face.

“You’re really leaving.”

You pressed the elevator button. “Yes.”

The doors did not open fast enough.

He came closer, stopping well outside your reach this time. There was fear in him now, raw and human and overdue. “Please don’t go.”

You looked at the elevator display instead of him. “I’m not staying.”

“We can fix this.”

The bitterness that rose in you was almost gentle now. Almost pitying. “No, we can’t.”

“I can do better.”

“You should’ve done better before.”

He inhaled sharply as if the words had landed somewhere vital. “I know.”

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

You turned toward them, but his voice stopped you.

“I do love you.”

Your eyes closed briefly.

When you faced him again, there was nothing dramatic left in you. No fury. No shouting. Just the cold, terrible clarity of a wound exposed to air.

“That’s why this is so sad,” you said.

He stared at you, not understanding.

You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. “Because maybe you do. In your way. In whatever broken, selfish, hungry way you call love.” Your gaze held his. “And it still wasn’t enough to make you faithful.”

He looked as though you had physically struck him.

Good, some part of you thought faintly. Another part simply felt tired.

You stepped into the elevator.

He did not follow.

For once, he knew better.

As the doors began to close, he said your name – not loudly, not desperately, just with the helpless ruin of a man finally realizing consequences were not abstract things but doors shutting in real time.

You met his eyes through the narrowing gap.

There had been a thousand versions of goodbye available to you once.

A kiss to his cheek before a mission. A murmured be safe. A hand squeezed in passing. A smile across the kitchen. A promise to come back.

This goodbye had no tenderness in it.

Only truth.

“Whatever you thought this was,” you said softly, “it isn’t love if it destroys me.”

Then the doors closed.

Brooklyn smelled like wet concrete and old brick.

The safehouse was small, anonymous, and blessedly silent. One bedroom, one bathroom, a narrow galley kitchen, a couch by the window, a fire escape rusting outside. No towering glass walls. No billion-dollar views. No ghosts in every corridor.

You dropped your bag by the couch and stood in the middle of the apartment listening to the silence.

No footsteps.

No machinery humming in the walls.

No Bucky.

The absence of him was immediate and enormous. It lived in the shape of every room, in the instinct that kept expecting a second heartbeat nearby, in the reflex that wanted to reach for your phone despite everything.

You did not call him.

You did not read the messages that began arriving within the hour.

At noon, twenty-three unread texts sat on your screen.

By two, there were thirty-one.

By evening, missed calls.

You silenced the phone and turned it face down.

Then you sat on the floor with your back against the couch and finally let yourself break.

It came in waves – rage first, then humiliation, then grief so fierce it stole all sound from you. You cried until your ribs hurt. Until your head pounded. Until the apartment dimmed around you and the city outside the window blurred into evening.

Somewhere between one sob and the next, a thought came, sharp and unbearable:

He still had the most beautiful face.

And that made it worse.

Because betrayal would have been easier, maybe, if ugliness had announced it first. If cruelty had looked cruel. If liars wore their sins plainly. But Bucky Barnes still looked like every aching thing you had ever wanted to save. He still looked like longing made flesh. And now that beauty simply made you sad.

By midnight, the tears had ebbed into a numb ache.

You rose, washed your face, and stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

Your eyes were swollen. Your hair was a mess. Your skin looked blotchy, exhausted. You did not resemble the kind of heroine who got cinematic heartbreak and emerged luminous from it.

You looked wrecked.

Real.

And for the first time all day, that did not feel like failure.

You rested both hands on the sink and met your own gaze.

You were not a doll.

Not a fantasy.

Not some compliant little creature built to orbit a man’s moods and call it devotion.

You were angry, difficult, proud, wounded, imperfect. You had survived uglier things than this. You had made mistakes and been broken and gotten back up more times than anyone ever praised you for.

You could do it again.

The thought did not heal you.

It did not make the hurt noble or meaningful.

But it stood there quietly, stubborn as a pulse.

You could do it again.

Not love him again.

Not save him again.

Just rise.

Little by little.

Breath by breath.

Day by day.

Outside, sirens wailed somewhere distant and faded. Rain began again, light against the fire escape. The city kept moving, indifferent and immense.

You looked at yourself a moment longer, then switched off the bathroom light and went back into the small dark apartment that was, for tonight at least, yours alone.

In the silence, your phone buzzed once more against the table.

You did not touch it.

And for the first time since the night before, the choice felt like power.

taglist: @metal-armed-muse , @greatenthusiasttidalwave @highhopes1008 @phoenix-in-writing @mollyherondale @sassandscribbles

Yelena suddenly gasped dramatically, flinging her phone to her chest. “Wait—”

She sat up lightning fast, pointing vaguely to nothing, “Do you actually like him or are you just trauma bonded?”

She blinked, eyes wide with mock innocence. Then, “Who said that?!”

Ava cackled, slapping her beanbag as she lifted her head to look at the blonde. “YELENA.”

Being the only two people in the team who's in an established relationship, you knew that statement was meant for you and Bucky.

Yelena narrowed her eyes, gasping again, then whipped around and pointed an accusatory finger across the room.

“WALKER.”

John, who was mid-bite of his protein bar, choked. Literally. He coughed, flailed his arms into the air like a malfunctioning action figure. “What?! I didn’t even—”

Bob looked away from the screen to Yelena, “That was… intense.”

You tried to stifle your laugh behind your hand. Bucky turned his head slowly toward Yelena like he was plotting revenge.

Ava rolled over lazily. “Maybe he only likes you because you’re the only one who talks to him like a person.”

The room went dead quiet.

Ava sat up with wide, innocent eyes.

“Who said that?!” she gasped. Then turned her whole body toward John. “Was it you, Walker?”

John stood up, he looked somewhat scared as his eyes kept darting between the two giggling women and the pair of deadly assassins but it wasn't even him. “WHAT IS GOING ON? Why am I being indicted?!”

Yelena was howling. “Oh my god, you’re blushing! WALKER?!”

John looked into the distance, mouth agaped as he contemplated his life choices that lead up to this moment.

Alexei popped his head in from the hallway, holding a popsicle. “Is this about trauma again?”

Ava waved him off. “No, now it’s about love. And beards.”

Yelena snapped her fingers. “Yes! Okay, okay. Do you really love him… or is it just the beard?”

“WHO SAID THAT?!”

Everyone, except you, Bucky and a very annoyed John Walker shouted in unison.

You dramatically pointed at John with a smirk. It was amusing to watch him squirm and every now and then to just let the team be. You almost felt bad for John for being the punching bag.

Bucky raised a brow at you to which you shrugged your shoulders in response.

John just froze mid-step, hands still up. “I AM LITERALLY JUST EXISTING.”

Bucky, dry as ever, “I shaved a week ago.”

Eyes glinting, you grabbed his stubbled jaw and murmured, “And I still love you.”

The room exploded. Bucky groaned, his hand squeezed your thigh as his eyes closed to not witness their reactions. You laughed at him.

Yelena dropped back on the couch like she’d fainted. Ava squealed, John straight up threw his protein bar across the room.

Ava shouted excitedly, “SHE SAID IT. SHE DROPPED THE L-BOMB.”

Alexei walked in fully, eating his popsicle. “Did someone die?”

John pointed in all directions. “You’re all insane. I’m filing a complaint.”

Bob whispered, “I thought it was beautiful.”

Yelena leaned in close to Ava, grinning ear to ear. “That’s our parents right there.”