#unsolved fic

Maya sits at the head of the table, spine straight, pen still. Face completely still and stony like she was judging whether to let you out on bail.

“Alright,” she says. “Go.”

You clasp your hands on the table. “We’ve sustained viewership through strong mid-season assets. Engagement peaked with episode seventeen. To close, we need a pivot. Something high-risk, high-resonance, with narrative permanence.”

Bucky sits beside you, arms crossed, jaw locked, eyebrow twitching. 

Maya flicks her eyes toward him. “Consent forms signed?”

“Fully,” you say. “He understands the liabilities.”

Bucky grunts, “Sitting right here,” but no one acknowledges it. His thumb picks at the seam of his jeans, an old nervous habit.

You take his irritability as a sign to spew on, “Novelty is old. They want catharsis. But we can provide both. Controlled environment, one take. No reshoots.”

Maya narrows her eyes. “Walk me through the risk profile.”

“High,” you say evenly. “Personal exposure, unpredictable optics, and the possibility of emotional contagion. But containment is possible with careful framing.”

Bucky rests his forehead on his fingers, digging into his skin to smoothen out a migraine, “Don’ like bein’ described as a containment issue.”

He’d helped throw ideas around last week, had even agreed when you framed it as the way forward, but now that it’s written in your voice, in front of Maya, his shoulders are iron bars.

You ignore him. “The deliverable is clean, consumable, and irreversible. It will work.”

He shifts, arms uncrossing, then crossing again. 

Maya steeples her fingers. “And what are we calling it?”

You slide the folder across the glass. Words stamped bold on the cover:

THE EXORCISM OF JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.

Bucky exhales sharply, “S not an exorcism. I’m not possessed.”

 She closes the folder, pushes it back to you.  

Ignores him, as to keep with tradition. 

“You have yourselves a finale.”

At finale, he looks at you again. Doesn’t even mean to. 

Just a flicker, but long enough that it costs him. His stomach drops all over again. 

Because this was always the plan, wasn’t it? 

The series ends. You leave. 

Curtain down.

You hit the supermarket at 10:43 p.m., a completely normal and recommended time to go there. 

Automatic doors whoosh. You grab a basket. Bucky plucks it from your hand and swaps in a trolley, no explanation,

He steers. You dangle off the side like a pirate ship, half expecting him to complain but instead he silently shifts his weight without breaking stride, letting you hang along for the ride.  

“Callsigns?” you say, purely to irritate.

“No,” he says, purely on instinct.

“Copy that, Negative.”

He exhales through his nose, but his hand tightens slightly on the trolley bar, like he’s hanging on harder than necessary. He has to remind himself not to get used to this. It won’t last past the finale.

Over the PA, a bored voice drones, “Cleanup on aisle seven.” 

You show him your list. He scans it at record speed and sets off.

Salt first, because it is the starting step to any good ritual. 

There are thirty types, all performing the same basic function.

Bucky reaches for a big blue box that says nothing except SALT, like reaching out for the most war-ration looking option is his instinct. You, of course, go for the small jar with an insufferable label reading out mineral content, origin story, childhood loves and the like.

He looks at your hand. You look at his. He puts both in the trolley. 

“Candles,” he says from memory. 

“You’re going to pick some unscented garbage,” you say, mournful.

“Probably,” he says. 

“Strange choice, for someone who buys cinnamon body wash.”

He blinks once, slow. “I don’t buy cinnamon body wash.”

“Sure,” you say.

“I don’t. Steve brings home so many fucking baked things, all my clothes smell like cinnamon.”

You bite back a smile.

“Fine. I’ll look for the unscented ones.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You gave in quick.”

“It’s your farewell ritual,” you dismiss. “You get to pick what you want.”

The word ritual makes him shift a little, like the floor just tilted. 

Still, he watches you try every wick, tilt, examine, estimate, burn, reject, and gives each one a onceover when you hand it to him.

You hold up a heart-shaped one with a wick where the thought should be.

“Absolutely not,” he says, before you finish raising your eyebrows.

“Statement piece?”

“My statement is, ‘no.’” He picks up a pack of plain church candles and checks the burn time like he’s buying a second-hand car. “These.”

You drop it into the cart. 

He doesn’t remove it. You grin only when you turn away.

“What if we get her something she’d like?” you say. “Maybe it’ll be more effective.”

“They got any jellybean flavoured candles?” he mumbles. 

“No, but we can get a bunch of them and melt them together.”

Bucky finally settles on something vaguely berry scented, but with glitter in it. 

Matches. Chalk. You pick the cheap white stuff as a compromise even though you eye the neon ones very strongly. 

You swing into the hardware aisle. 

“Bell?” you ask.

“That wasn’t on the list.”

“It’d be cute. Maybe she’ll like the noise.”

Bucky gives you a look. 

“Small,” you add. “Not obnoxious.”

He finds a plain brass bell the size of a thumb. Rings it once, soft. The air wraps itself around the sound.

“That one,” he says.

“Why did you say yes?” you ask.

“It’s not a big deal, it’s a bell.”

“No, not the bell,” you dismiss. “To this whole thing.” 

He keeps his eyes on the shelf too long, thumb rubbing the ridge of the bell until the skin goes pale. The first time you pitched it, it had sounded purposeful. But standing here under fluorescent lights, holding a bell for Becca, it feels different. Like he’s handing pieces of her over to strangers who’ll eat it and scroll on.

He picks up some thyme and holds it up under the light.

“Because you asked,” he says simply, examining it.

“That can’t be the standard. I ask you for nonsense three times a day.”

He looks at you in the harsh light of the grocery store. His eyes skip past you too quickly, like they’re not allowed to linger. 

“You could’ve said no.

“I tried that for a year,” he says. “Didn’t take.”

You give him a look. “Yeah, but not for this. I’m genuinely surprised you said yes.”

He keeps the trolley rolling another foot, stops, steadies his hands on the bar. He could tell you the truth– that it had sounded safe when it was only theory, that he hadn’t thought about the aftermath until the word finale was stamped in ink.

“She would’ve done it,” he says, “She’d have heard me out, called me an idiot, and then lit a candle herself.”

“She sounds persistent.” 

“Yeah. Turns out I tend to gravitate towards idiots like that in my life,” he glances at you. 

“Hey now,” Your throat has a line in it. “I’m not an idiot. I’m a moron. There’s a difference.”

He hums, putting the thyme back. 

You keep moving another half-step before you look back. 

He’s looking at the shelves, not you, expression doing that closed-lid thing it does when he’s choosing not to say what he’s thinking.

“What?” you say, softer than you meant.

He avoids your gaze when he says, “She’d have liked you.”

“Oh.” You swallow back a stone.

“She liked people who made rooms work.”

“High praise,” you say, and it doesn’t sound like a joke at all. 

Bucky pockets a sprig of rosemary without thinking, then pretends he didn’t. You pretend you didn’t see.

In cleaning products, there’s a bottle called Sunshine Water. 

“Does it do anything?”

“Makes the room think kindly of you.”

You dont know how useful it will be, but it goes in the cart. 

You drag him to the snack aisle. 

“Do we need offerings?” you ask, “She liked strawberries, right?”

“That was Steve,” he says, automatically. Then he hears himself. “But yeah. Becca liked strawberry jam on toast. When we had it.”

You pick up a jar of jam without comment and put it next to the bell.

You reach for chips in a colour best described as radioactive. 

He blocks you with the trolley, staring at your hand. “Not in the perimeter,” he says.

“Say ‘perimeter’ again,” you say, climbing onto the trolley’s lower bar. “Make it sexy.”

“You’re worse when you’re tired.”

“You’re worse when I’m awake,” you reply.

He tilts his head. “There’ll be crumbs.”

“Foresight. You are unreasonably good at this.”

“I am aggressively medium at everything,” he says.

You replace the chips with pretzels. He slides across a bag of roasted nuts. You add obscene marshmallows shaped like snowmen.

“We’re not four,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” you say, dropping a second bag in. “You can have some if you’re good.”

He pushes the trolley on, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth, which is unfair because he wins every argument by simply owning that mouth.

He lets you win more than he should, because he’s already on his way to acknowledging the fact that won’t get to lose to you anymore. 

The trolley rolls. You stick your arms out. 

“Feet down.”

“Why,” you sing, and then the trolley hits a tile seam and you wobble. His hand snaps to your hip, steady and unshowy. You feel it in three separate organs.

You step off like nothing happened. He keeps walking like nothing happened. You both fail to breathe for six paces.

You find the sour gummies. Put one bag in. He watches you do it. You put another bag in. He lifts one out and replaces it with a smaller bag.

You scowl. He doesn’t bother hiding the second smile.

“Something warm for after,” you remember, at the end of the aisle. “Brandy? Whiskey? Tequila, but then we’d have to invite Nat.”

A bottle of whiskey levitates towards you from god knows where.  

He doesn’t budge, “Hot chocolate.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Hot chocolate,” he repeats, and steers you toward the aisle.

“Fine,” you grumble, coming to a stop in front of the shelf. “Hot chocolate it is.”

“You’ll like it better.” 

“You’ll miss the whiskey when we’re stuck with hot chocolate at the end of the night.” 

“I’ll take that risk.” He leans in from your left to take it, one hand braced on the trolley’s bar.

You’re about to make a joke about ‘taking that whisk’ when he leans in and presses his mouth to your temple, brief and unthinking. The sort of kiss you give a person you’ve been brave around for a very long time.

You go quite still.

He doesn’t realise, for the span of a heartbeat, what he’s done. You feel the moment he does: the fractional withdrawal, the impulse to apologise or  throw it away.

He goes perfectly still, too, like the way not to startle a wild thing. He doesn’t even look like he knows which of you is the wild thing.

Bucky pushes the trolley ahead again because his hands remember how to do things when his brain has temporarily left the building. 

The trolley fills with sensible things and not. Somewhere by the end of Household Miscellaneous he peels off and returns with a cheap wooden frame. He doesn’t meet your eye. You don’t ask. He slides it under the salt and the rosemary, and leaves it face down.

Tea. He chooses mango, which you learn is what he likes the most now, and chamomile because it’s the most consistent.

 An older woman stares at Bucky like he’s a memory she can’t place.

“You’re that man,” she says, delighted.

“Unfortunately,” he replies, polite.

“You make the videos,” she tells her trolley, and wanders on, satisfied.

“Famous,” you whisper to him. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

He doesn’t smile. He is smiling.

You cut through the pet aisle for Alpine because you are weak. Bucky grabs heavy litter.  

“Are we forgetting anything?” you ask, doing the ritual pre-till scan. “Chalk, tape, salt, candles, bell, nails, thread, rosemary, jam, tea, cups, cloths, frame, butcher paper, soap, painkillers, pretzels.”

He taps the chain. That’s his answer.

At the tills, a teenager drops your items in front of the scanner.

“Party?” she asks, flat.

“Work,” Bucky says.

“Sorry,” she says.

When she lifts the bell, she rings it.  

You pay because the least you can do is fund his farewell ritual.  

 Bucky pockets the receipt because he will not let you pay for 15 candles alone. He is a gentleman. 

The marshmallows though, you are on your own.

The next night doesn’t begin with thunder or rain or anything out of the million movies you watched in preparation. 

It begins the way you promised it would: tidy, steady, everything in its place.  

Chalk circle down. Salt seam straight as a ruler. Iron nails at the four quarters, heads pointing in like compass points. Bell in the middle. Candles, unscented and assorted, set in a triangle and then left alone because it’s his call. 

You’ve wiped the table with Sunshine Water. Windows are closed, music off, phones away. 

You run your eyes over the list one last time, a habit more than a need. 

He stands just outside the circle, sleeves shoved to the elbow. His hands flex against his thighs, and he’s staring directly at the floor. 

“You good?” you ask, voice low

He nods once.  “Let’s do it.”

You’re about to strike the first match when something stops you. A flicker in your chest, an impulse that’s been nagging for weeks. 

“Hold on.”

Bucky’s brows knit, match still in his hand. He pinches out the flame before it can catch, gaze snapping to you like you’ve just called the whole thing off.

He can’t say he doesn’t feel a bit relieved. 

You dig into your pocket to find a small little bag. You’ve been carrying it around for three weeks. It’s been the wrong time every time since.

 You fish out it out and leave it out on his outstretched palm. 

“For you,” you say. 

He looks at the pouch and then at you, as if you’ve just placed a live wire on the bar and asked him to keep still. 

He opens it. A thin chain. A simple charm, ugly in a way that suggests it’s here to work, not to be photographed.

His breath leaves on a sound that’s closer to a laugh but not. “What is this?”

“From the charm lady at Paracon,” you explain softly. “She was a little intense, but she knew her stuff. Before you complain, yeah, I know there are stronger ways to do protection. But this one fits over your big head, so.”

He exhales. 

“May I?” you ask. 

He nods, dipping his head without theatre. You step in close, your fingers skim the side of his throat, warm skin over steady pulse, as you work the clasp. For a heartbeat too long you leave it there, knuckles brushing his collarbone, before the chain falls into place.

The clasp clicks; the charm settles against his sternum like punctuation finally arriving at the end of a sentence.

He breathes once, and the chain lifts with it. Neither of you step back. The silence is suddenly thick, reverent, fragile in a way you don’t want to break.

“Alright,” he says, very quietly.

He straightens. You step back. 

“Alright,” you echo, forcing yourself to move on

He stands inside the circle, sleeves pushed to the elbow, the thin chain you gave him sitting square against his sternum. 

He’s barefoot. It looks right.

“Alright,” you repeat, softer now. “We start small. We stop if you want to stop.”

He nods, eyes fixed on the bell in the center. He hasn’t looked at you in a full thirty seconds, like if he meets your gaze the whole fragile thing will collapse.

“Last chance to regret this,” you offer, because tradition is tradition.

His mouth tugs at one corner, though it doesn’t quite make it into a smile.  

The silence stretches after that, heavier than before. The house is too quiet. His bare toes flex against the chalk line, a restless tell. 

The matchbox is warm in his hand, but he doesn’t strike it yet.

You watch him, patient.

He finally drags in a breath. The match flares, sudden, spilling gold light over his face. The shadows carve him older.

The air thickens. He shifts his stance, shoulders pulling tight, and the thought comes sharp and unwelcome: God, what is he doing? 

He doesn’t say it out loud, instead watching as you light the candles, one and then the other. The kitchen looks immediately different, more menacing. 

You wet your fingers with the Sunshine Water and flick it over the circle, a soft hiss as drops hit warm wax.

“For those who love us and wish us well,” you read from the paper, steady. “For those who kept watch when we weren’t watching. You’re welcome here. You’re safe here. You can rest when you’re ready.”

The temperature eases down a notch. 

You glance at him. “Say her name?”

He swallows, then says it carefully, “Rebecca Barnes. Peanut. Bec if you’re in a hurry.”

“Bec,” you repeat, respectful. “We’re not sending you away. We’re making you a door and asking you to choose. If you’re here, you’re welcome. If you’re tired, we’ll make it easy. If you want him to stop guessing, say so.”

Bucky’s hand rests on the bell. His knuckles are white against the brass, but he doesn’t ring it yet. His chest rises, falls.

When he finally speaks, it’s unsteady but certain. 

“Hey, Becks. If you’re here… sit where you like. And then-- he glances at you, something wry and unbearably fond flickering across his face “--we’ll talk.”

The room exhales. Pressure shifts. The candles stand straighter, flames drawn tall and thin.

“Becca,” you add, lighter now, almost teasing. “I brought your brother to a sensible circle with sensible candles. I know you’d have opinions.”

The rosemary smokes without flame. A curl of grey, faint as breath. The fine hair at Bucky’s temple lifts, stirred by a current you can’t see.

The planchette twitches. A little scratch of wood against wood. It scoots sideways, stops, and then does a slow, deliberate circle that’s more flourish than necessary. Show-off.

You inhale. “I think she’s here.”

He doesn’t look surprised, just stricken. 

“Hi, kid,” he says, voice thinned to almost nothing.

The bell answers for him. One clear tap against the rim, like a polite child at a service counter. Bucky’s mouth shifts, a recognition more than a smile.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Come on then.”

At first it’s almost imperceptible.  The rosemary sprig slides an inch, then two, as if pulled by a string. 

The box of matches tilts, rights itself, then edges toward him with a stubborn little scrape. A cool draft skims your forearms.

You hold your breath and wait. 

Bucky’s eyes flick toward the far corner without turning his head. 

His voice changes, lighter, scolding out of habit. “Don’t even think about the kettle.”

The kettle, obedient for years, clicks on.

“Becca,” he warns, the tone all older brother.

It clicks off again.

Something weightless taps his shoulder. Nothing visible, but you catch the subtle shift as he angles his body, unconsciously making space for someone smaller.

Then it’s no longer subtle. A marshmallow arcs across the room with balletic spite, smacking his collarbone and leaving a sugar bloom on his shirt.

He blinks at the offending puff, then at the bag it came from, hand half-lifted in a useless “that’s enough” gesture that convinces precisely no one.

Two more marshmallows follow in quick succession.

A tea light scrapes sideways. The bell chimes once, sharp and impatient. Your pen rolls off the table, clattering to the floor and skittering to your foot like it’s joining in.

You bend, pick it up, and set it carefully back inside the circle. 

“Hi,” you say, as gently as you know how. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m your brother’s friend.”

The room’s cold edge softens a fraction.

Bucky’s fringe lifts, tugged by invisible fingers. He huffs, automatic. “We’ve talked about this. Do not pull my hair. Don’t wanna bald faster than I already am.”

The air tugs again, sharper, downright cheeky. He twitches, fighting a smile.

“Becca,” he whines, already this close to laughing. The sound makes him younger by years.

Something rattles near the sink.

“No crockery,” Bucky deadpans, without even looking.

A coaster slides across the island with neat precision and taps the back of his hand. He blinks, then taps it back with two fingers– a rhythm so simple it means nothing to you, but from the look on his face, you know it means a lot more to him.

“Alright, Peanut,” he says, voice caught between authority and affection. “Ground rules apply.”

You can’t help it: a smile breaks across your face at how different the whole evening was shaping up to be. After all, in the end, it was just a little sister doing what little sisters do best– annoying the hell out of her brother, even from the other side.

“Okay,” you say, biting your grin back because his mouth, traitor that it is, keeps trying to go soft. “This is going well.”

“Don’t encourage her,” he warns, deadpan, but his eyes betray him. They’re bright in a way you’ve never seen before.

A small gust swirls the salt line, playful as a finger through sand. The bell tips to one side, rights itself again, smug about it.

You unfold the makeshift board, the same one from the first night he swore she’d come through. You set it between the candles and the bell, balancing the shot glass over the center. Light as breath.

Bucky slides his fingers onto the wood. For a second, his hand hovers. You can see it in his shoulders: the pull to step back, to shut the door before it opens too wide.

But he doesn’t. He anchors the planchette with two fingers. 

The planchette drifts. It bumps his knuckle. You watch his mouth find something like the shape of a laugh and then give up, because laughing is less accurate than what’s happening.

“Throw your best shot if you’ve got it,” he says.

A pretzel flicks him in the ear from a ridiculous angle. The bell chimes once, sharp and pleased, like a kid clapping for herself.

His hoodie string tugs on its own and flicks him in the chin.

He scoffs, long-suffering but helplessly fond. “That’s very mature.”

The letters drag him toward J. He stills, the planchette trembling under his fingers. Then, with quiet certainty, it slides to A.

You keep your eyes on the board, not on him. You make yourself into furniture, because this isn’t yours.

M.

His breath leaves him. The tiny, private world you’ve been trying to build around him all year, suddenly older than both of you, suddenly full, not empty.

“Hey,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice. “I need to say some things. Sit still, would ya?”

The planchette stills. The flame nearest his wrist lifts tall and straight, like it’s listening.

He reaches under the island. You’d seen him tuck the envelope there earlier. Now he draws it out with hands that aren’t quite steady and sets it by the nearest candle, right on the seam of the circle.

“For you,” he says, to the table, to the air, to the three inches of space he hopes are occupied. “Read it when you’re bored of throwing things.”

The envelope lifts an inch, two. 

The air holds itself taut, like the whole room is holding its breath with you.

His throat bobs. His eyes stay fixed on the paper. 

“I’ve been… living the wrong way round.” The words are slow, deliberate. “Kept thinking if I ignored it long enough, it’d go away. But it didn’t. That’s not how it works.”

His jaw tightens, but the words keep coming. “I’m sorry I left you with all the difficult bits. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to tell you I thought you were the best of us.” His voice dips rough, steadying itself against the edges. “I couldn’t have had your back, even though I really fuckin’ wish I did. I know that too. I still wish I had.”

The envelope tilts in the air like someone weighing it. The candle gutters once, recovers.

The planchette shivers, then pulls steady, letter by letter.

M. I. S. S. U.

It lingers there, like it’s catching its breath, deciding whether to say more. 

Then, with sudden certainty, it slides quick across the board: J. A. M.

Bucky goes still. His jaw locks; his fingers slide off the planchette and fall heavy to his thigh. For once he doesn’t bother to hide the wreckage on his face.

“Yeah,” he says, raw and unadorned. “Me too, Peanut.”

Something invisible flicks his hair again, softer this time.  

The bell chimes once, quiet as a nod.

The planchette drifts toward the edge of the board. Pauses, toeing the grain like a foot hovering at a doorway. Then it settles on the word you’d written months ago in uneven pen: goodbye.

Bucky’s chest rises once, long and deliberate. 

“Alright,” he says, steadying himself on the word. “We’re good.”

You clear your throat, practical because someone has to be. “Rules still stand. You can swing back if you want to tell him to knock it off, but you don’t have to keep carrying him. He’s heavier than he looks.”

 The candle nearest the envelope gutters, then steadies again.

Bucky leans back, but his eyes stay locked on the envelope. It’s as if he’s trying to read through the paper, through the wax seal, through time itself to all the words he put inside and the thousand he didn’t.

His knuckles tap gently against the table, the same rhythm he’d used on the coaster. 

A habit she’d recognise from breakfast tables eons ago. 

“Go on,” he says to the air, to the weight of it. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

And just like that, the atmosphere shifts. The cold edge leaves, replaced by a warmth, the sort of warm that belongs to mugs and chairs. 

The planchette sits where you left it.  

You ring the bell once, and the sound feels final, like a line drawn under a paragraph.

“Close?” you ask.

“Close,” he agrees.

You sweep the salt inward, not out.  

“Do we have to… say anything to finish it?” he asks. His voice is worn but clean, stripped of everything except what’s necessary.

You glance at the planchette. It sits still, waiting. “We could say thank you,” you offer.

He nods once, eyes lowered to the circle at his feet. “Thanks for everything, Bec. I got it from here on.”

The words land with a quiet thud. 

You step forward, brush the chain at his throat with two fingers and then step out of the circle.

He rises after a long beat. There’s a brightness to him that isn’t relief so much as rightness, the kind that makes your chest ache. 

He lifts the envelope carefully, reverently, and tucks it into his hoodie pocket the same way he’d tucked the chain under his shirt earlier, like something belongs to him after all.

“Hot chocolate?” you remind him, though you both know you don’t need to.

“Thought you’d forgotten,” he says, though you both know you didn’t.

You hold out a hand. 

He takes it, and for a second his hand trembles. 

You keep your own steady, and say nothing about it.

“Thank you,” he says finally,  

“Don’t thank me. I just read the instructions,” you reply gently. “You were good. You didn’t make a speech at the air.”

A breath escapes him that’s almost a laugh. “She’d have laughed at me.”

You’re wiping a streak of salt from your sleeve when he opens his mouth again. Hesitates. Closes it. Then tries once more, quieter this time, stripped bare.

“You think she read it?” he asks finally, without the usual armour.

You look at him, at the tired brightness in his eyes. 

“I think she knew most of it already,” you say softly. “But yes.”

He nods, jaw working once, and lets it rest there.

You head toward the hall together. His fingers brush yours, then take hold properly. You let him.

Behind you, the planchette gives one last lazy nudge. Just leaving a fingerprint on clean glass. Proof she passed by, and that for a moment, she stayed.

Maya doesn’t bother with hello. She drops two paper cups on the glass table and taps the lid of one.

“Decaf for you,” she tells you. “Because you shake when you’re excited.”

Then she sits, opens her notebook to a page already half-destroyed by post-its, and exhales through her nose in the long-suffering way she usually does. 

Eventually, she does that flat-palmed tap on the glass table that means you’re already behind.

“Walk me through outcomes,” she says. 

You slide the laptop round so she can see the frame you opened on. Bucky can feel the meeting air con move past his wrist as he fiddles with his fingers.

“Closed loop on the season’s narrative debt,” you say, steady. “We promised an answer; we delivered one.”

Maya’s eyebrow does a half-centimetre. “Brand-safe, then. Good. Where did you land on disclaimers?”

“We open with context card,” you reply. “No ‘don’t try this at home,’ just ‘this is personal; viewer discretion is adviced.’ Legal won’t have hives.”

Bucky watches her, feeling that familiar prickle that means he’d like to be anywhere else, preferably on fire.

Personal, he thinks. That’s one word for it.  

But he keeps it quiet. He’d agreed. He’d sat in those early meetings, nodded along, even thrown in his own ideas. But sitting here now, watching his sister’s memory shrink down into bullet points and timelines, he feels it clawing wrong in his chest.

“Lift?” Maya asks.

“the subreddit’s already building the timeline. PR can seed three exclusives,” you say. 

Maya taps two knuckles twice. “Cadence.”

“T-3 trailer, T-1 micro, 8 p.m. Sunday drop, no live chat, stills Tuesday, then radio silence.”

“Good.” She clicks her pen. “Risks.”

“Derail into grief tourism if we let the wrong pull-quote out,” you say. “Counter is to let the work speak. Keep Bucky off live streams for seventy-two hours so he doesn’t ‘I’m fine’ himself into a hole.”

“I am literally here,” Bucky says, because someone has to.

“Which is why I plan,” Maya says, not unkindly. “Okay. What’s your trailer moment?”

You scrub forward: the pencilled letters, the planchette nudging. A line of text appears across the board: MISS U JAM.  

Maya watches it through once, eyes not once leaving the screen. 

“That,” she says, soft once and then brisk again, “is your finale.”

He hates the word. He’s been hating it for weeks.

She stands. No hugging. Just the nod you get when a skyscraper goes up on time.

“We’ll carry the press,” she adds, already ticking off the exit steps. “You keep your phones off. We’ll send the line for ‘what happens after this’ and you will stick to it. I don’t need either of you improvising on live television.”

You both nod. She tucks the pen into her notebook, closes it without looking, then looks at you because you still haven’t moved.

“I would say it was a pleasure working with the both of you…” she trails off.

You give her a big grin and she shakes her head. 

“Fine,” she says, making her way out the door. “Mastering by Friday. Credit lock by noon. If either of you changes a comma after that, I will come to your homes and strangle you.”

At the last split second, a smile upturns the corner of her mouth as she pauses by the door.

“For the record,” she says, quieter, “you did right by her. It’s… good work.” 

Bucky and you glance at each other. 

“I like you both more when you’re not talking,” she adds, before leaving

The door clicks behind her. . 

You’re still standing there, that wry smile in place, professional and terrible. 

Bucky stares at you, at the edges of your mouth that don’t quite match your eyes, at the way you hold your shoulders like you’re already halfway turned to leave. 

And it hits him – that’s the look you wear when you’re bracing to slip out of a room without anyone stopping you.

It makes his chest feel scraped raw.

Then you hold out your hand.

Bucky stares at it too long. His pulse thuds in his ears. It looks obscene and beautiful at once: a handshake at the end of a job, a curtain call, an exit. 

Something in his chest pulls tight, because he knows what it means.

He takes it anyway, 

“Well, partner, we made the numbers, you got your closure,” you drawl. “It appears our work here is done.”

The smile on your face doesn’t change, but he swears your eyes shutter. Just a flicker, like you’ve already filed this away as finished.

Bucky’s stomach gives that slow, awful roll, “Now what.”

“I don’t know,” you say, light, professional. “I’ll see you soon, I guess.”

What the fuck.

It doesn’t make a sound in the room. It’s just the way his fingers don’t close around anything. They just hover, useless.

“Catch you later?” he tries to ask. It does not come out steadily at all.

“Maybe,” you hum. “Don’t mope if you can’t find me.”

He searches your face for any crack, for hesitation, for anything that says that he’ll find you here the next morning. But all he finds is that same wry professionalism, practiced enough to be convincing.

It lands cleanly in his chest and then wrong, like a picture frame he can’t get level. He keeps moving anyway.

Silence drops in.

Alright, he tells himself, eyes on the varnished seam of the floor. If this is where it’s ending, he’ll let go. That’s the deal, isn’t it?  

He tries to make his mouth remember a joke. It doesn’t.

“You wish,” he says. 

That’s what you do when they look like they’re halfway out the door already. 

You grin, before cleanly escaping the room. 

Bucky’s left staring. 

Steve throws a party.

Bucky doesn’t clock the reason until the third time someone tells him. Everyone’s wrapped their seasons. A wrap party.

Sam’s on music and abusing the privilege. Clint’s wearing a hat that might actually be radioactive. Wanda asks where his “other half” is, and Bucky mutters “Busy,” like a placeholder.

You’re not here.

He excuses himself to the kitchen, pretending to eat something that may or may not be food. 

Really, he’s just trying to get his hands to stop twitching. He checks his phone. Again. No messages.

 Your thread glows back at him. His thumb hovers over the call button. He presses.

One ring. Two. Five. Voicemail.

By the time he looks up, Steve’s closing in, grinning, a tin under one arm.

“Congratulations,” Steve says. “I brought nonsense.”

“Always wanted nonsense,” Bucky answers, voice steadier than he feels. “What is it this time?”

“War cake,” Steve says proudly, lifting the towel. “Eggless, milkless, butterless. I had to boil the raisins.”

Bucky eyes the tin. “So it’s… cake with the cake left out.”

“Exactly,” Steve says, uncovering it with a flourish. The room fills with cinnamon and cloves. “Go on.”

Bucky breaks off a piece. 

He chews. He swallows. 

Then he gives a small, traitorous nod.

“Not terrible,” he admits.

Steve’s grin could power a block. He carves himself a wedge.

The cake is dense, sweet, oddly good.

“So,” Steve says around a mouthful, “end of the season. You did it.”

“Mm.”

Steve studies him. “You alright?”

“Fine.” Too fast.

Bucky picks at the edge of the tea towel. He’s thinking about the way your hand felt in his palm in that glass room. 

The words you used, and the way you said it.

I’ll see you soon.

Anodyne. Disposable. The kind of phrase that doesn’t mean anything when you’re already half-turned to leave.

He hasn’t checked if you’re gone yet. He can’t. He just knows he hasn’t seen you since you walked out that door.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks.

So Bucky relents, because he’s become strangely sentimental over the last few months. 

Steve leans a hip against the counter. “Soon as in…?”

“That’s the question,” Bucky says. “I don’t know.”

“Ask,” Steve says, like it’s easy. .

“That’s not–” He stops, huffs. “Ain’t this what you're supposed to do? Let someone go, if they want to.”

Steve turns the tin lid over in his hands, considers the shine. “Sometimes. Or you say what you mean and let them decide with all the information. Advice from the world’s leading authority on waiting too late to say things you want to.”

Bucky’s mouth pulls. “There’s nothin’ to say.””

“Keep tellin’ yourself that,” Steve says. “Maybe you’ll talk yourself into believing it like with everything else.”

That gets him, unexpected. 

A short, unwilling laugh leaves Bucky’s chest before he can lock it down. He shakes his head.

“I’m trying to be—” he gropes for a word, settles on the smallest one. “Good.”

“You are,” Steve says, no hesitation.  “Now stop hiding behind it.”

Bucky shifts, uncomfortable.

“You don’t want to risk hearing no,” Steve goes on, calm as ever. “You spent a century doin’ what you were told, and now that you can choose, you keep pretending you can’t. You’re being a little bitch.”

Bucky exhales hard through his nose.

Steve softens a hair, but only a hair. “You’re not some accident, Buck. You don’t just ‘happen’ to people. You get to say what you want.”

Bucky mutters, “What do you want me to say? ‘Stay?’ I’ve made it pretty fuckin’ obvious.”

Steve levels him with a look. “‘I want you to stay. If you don’t, I’ll survive. But I want you to stay.’ Not complicated. Try English instead of martyr.”

 .Bucky huffs a broken laugh. “You rehearse this?”

“I’ve known you since you were two feet tall,” Steve says. “I got a whole notebook.”

Bucky stares at the door. The door stares back.

“It’ll be fine,” Steve says.

Bucky nods, sharp. Turns. Hesitates. Turns back.

“Go.”

He goes.

He goes.

The corridor is the same length it’s always been, but it feels colder tonight. 

The corridor stretches the same length it always has, but tonight it feels endless. 

Cooler too, like the air itself is keeping him out.  

Every radiator that bangs, every scuff on the skirting– he knows them all by heart, but they feel like they’re counting him down. His boots make no sound at all, and that makes it worse.

He stops outside your door.

For a long second, he does what he’s always done: listens. 

Waits for the shuffle of feet, the hitch of breath, any sign you’re still on the other side. 

Nothing. 

Just stillness so complete it makes his pulse roar in his ears.

His stomach knots.

He breathes once. Knocks.

Nothing.

He knocks again, softer, as though gentleness will change the answer.

Still nothing.

Alright. That’s it. 

You’re gone. You slipped away clean, like you promised you would. 

He’s too late. He’s fucked it.

His chest feels like it’s folding in on itself. 

He waits anyway, stupidly, one more beat, just in case the universe feels generous.

The universe stays silent.

He turns, already rehearsing the fight he’ll pick with Steve for shoving him into this, already bracing himself for the hollow that’s about to open under his ribs.

But his feet don’t move.

He stands there frozen, the quiet pressing down on him, and then curses sharp and loud. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, his hand is on the handle. 

He shoves it down and pushes the door open.

The room is bare.

Bare in the same way it’s always been. No photos. No decoration. No fingerprints left behind. It looks less like a bedroom than a stage set.

His stomach hollows out. His throat tastes of metal. 

For one awful second, he thinks he’s staring at a crime scene: already emptied, already abandoned.

Then he sees it.

The lamp catches on the small wooden house sitting on the dresser.

His heart kicks hard against his ribs before his brain catches up. The house. The one he made you.

For a flicker of a moment, hope scrapes through him, but it sours fast. 

If you were gone, you’d have taken it. Wouldn’t you? Or maybe you left it behind because it didn’t matter.

He crosses the room anyway. His hand finds it before he can stop himself. Thumb along the roofline, forefinger against the porch rail he’d sanded too thin. He can smell cedar if he tries hard enough. He remembers the stupid satisfaction of pressing it into your hand.

The silence in the room is too final. Too still.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging both hands over his face. 

He paces once, twice. The window glares back at him, blank and black.

A book hits the floor behind him.

He turns.

Alpine is perched on the middle shelf, tail coiled neat around her paws. Her yellow eyes pin him in place, unblinking.

Before he can open his mouth, she lifts one paw and bats a book off the shelf. It lands spine-first with a crack.

“What,” Bucky snaps, frayed nerves showing.

She blinks once, then sets her paw on the next book. A deliberate pause. Then she shoves.

The thud echoes louder in the quiet room.

“Cut it out,” he barks. His chest is still tight from the silence in the hall. “Not in the mood.”

Alpine ignores him completely. Her paw slides to a third book. Push. Crash.

Bucky steps forward, half a mind to catch the next one, but her paw is already on the fourth.

“Alpine.” His voice cracks on it. “Enough.”

The fourth book hits the floor. She shifts her paw to the fifth.

And then finally, horribly it strikes him. 

His stomach flips.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. 

Her paw presses meaningfully against the sixth book.

“Jesus Christ, stop, I know what you’re saying,” he bites, louder now, panic bleeding through. “And you can literally talk.”

She does not move the paw.

The book drops anyway.

Alpine hops down, tail high, regal as ever. She passes him without a glance, smug in every step.

“I’m communicating in a medium you understand,” she radiates, “violence.”

Bucky exhales hard, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

She flicks her tail toward the door, already done with him.

And then it sinks in fully.  

His pulse spikes all over again. 

His legs are already moving before the thought finishes forming.

Bucky, god bless him, arrives like a Category 5 weather event.

He slams the door with his shoulder, breath gone, hair a mess, eyes wild enough that the security camera would phone a friend. You blink at him over the spine.

You blink up from the carpeted corner, with an open book and a packet of high-res scans by your feet. 

“You good?” you ask, cautious, as if he might start speaking in tongues.

“You’re still here,” he gets out,

“I only just got here.” You glance at the clock. “Like, it’s been twenty minutes, man.”

He presses off the door and crosses to you on long, purposeful strides that are at odds with the way his chest is still working. He drops into his usual place beside you, shoulder to shoulder, boots in the same scuffed rectangle of carpet he’s worn in all year.

“Are you leaving?” he demands, low.

“I was going to get a snack later, but that’s the extent of my grand plan.” You close the book over a finger. “What do you look like that for?”

“Like what?” He drags a sleeve over his mouth, trying to corral his breath. 

“Well… unhinged.” You tip your head, taking him in. 

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Thought I missed you.”

“Missed me? Missed me wh– hold on.” You tip your head. “Did you think I was skipping town?”

He gestures vaguely at the ceiling, the floor, the entire concept of objects. “Yeah?”

“Oh.” You blink. “Well, I’m not.”

It’s physical, the way the tightness leaves him. 

He closes his eyes for a second. “Fine. Okay. Good.”

You snort. “And what, this was you bursting in to give me fifteen reasons to stay?”

“Fifteen is stretching it.”

“And then what? You kiss me?” you say, airy, testing.

He looks at you, steady now. “And what if I did? Would that be such a big problem?”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than is safe. “Well… no. I suppose not.”

He rolls his eyes at the ceiling.

“Never beating the ‘you have feelings for me’ allegations, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” he says, slow, like you’re being dense on purpose. “Because I do. You know this.”

“God, there goes my leverage.” You sigh, theatrical. “How am I supposed to annoy you with that if you just admit it?”

“You’ll find a way.”

He says it like a fact and sits back. And ridiculously, stupidly, it feels like someone’s taken a weight off his chest and put it on the table where the light can see it. The room changes shape around it.

A quiet beat stretches.

“Me too, you know,” you say, almost casual.

“Figured.”

“I mean I have feelings for me, too.”

He has to bite the inside of his cheek. “Who else would you be talking about.”

You fiddle with the receipt you’ve used as a bookmark.

The air between you thins. His shoulder is warm against yours.

“Anything else you want to confess while you’re here?” you ask, half-light, half-daring.

He doesn’t answer right away. His throat works. His fingers flex against his knee, like he’s trying to bleed the nerves out of them.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lower than before. “Actually… I don’t want to publish the video.”

Your head tips.

He keeps going, quick now, like if he stops he won’t start again. 

“I know I said I was fine, but I’m not. I don’t want it out there. I don’t want–” his breath snags, sharp, “--I just don’t want it.”

Silence, except for the sound of the printers breathing in the corner.

You nod once, like you were waiting for this exact moment. “I know.”

His eyes snap to yours.

“I already pulled it,” you say, calm. “Turned my phone off before Maya could reach through it and stab me after everything we spent on promo.”

He blinks, startled. It takes him a beat too long to process.

“It’s between you and Becca.” You give him a small, steady smile. “No one else needs to see it.”

He finds it in himself to give a small nod. 

“Anything else?” you ask, tone joking.   

“You can’t leave.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Compelling argument.”

He grimaces at himself. “That was a terrible sentence. Forget that. Look– in the clock tower, you asked how I knew. I knew you weren’t paying attention to the details. I know that because even then, months ago, you’d been here long enough for me to notice. That you’d probably missed something, because you always said details were a waste of time.”

Something flickers in your face.

He turns until you’re angled knee-to-knee, thighs almost brushing. His hand braces on the carpet close enough that your knuckles nearly touch. The proximity is ridiculous for a guy who, a year ago, spoke to you exclusively in grunts and prolonged glares. 

“You’ve already laid down roots,” he says, shoulders loosening in defeat. “So go wherever you want. Do whatever you want. But all I’m sayin’ is I’d like it if you came home at the end of the day.”

He looks away on purpose, like he can fake not caring for ten seconds. You watch him not succeed.

“What,” he barks, without heat, when he feels you smiling.

“You know,” you say quietly, “I wasn’t actually planning to move out.”

That rocks him. He looks up fast. “No?”

“No.” Your mouth tugs. “Sorry I stole your big moment.”

“I’ll find a way to forgive you.” He clears his throat. 

“You could still give me twenty-five reasons you want me to stay.”

“No.”

“Twenty, and we’ll call it eve—”

He leans in and kisses you. 

It knocks the air straight out of your ribs. His mouth catches yours in a soft, sure press, and you tilt into it without thinking, a sound caught low in your throat. He’s careful for exactly one heartbeat. And then you’re moving, answering, tugging him in by the front of his hoodie, knees knocking clumsily on the carpet.

The corner of his mouth catches your smile. You laugh once against his mouth, stupid, breathless, and he chases it like he’s been starved for it. You taste like mint, the electric edge of adrenaline. The warmth of him presses in until there’s no room left for air.  

“Didn’t miss this time,” you murmur, an echo from a different doorway, a different nearly.

“Thank god,” he huffs, helpless. 

He kisses you again, quick but just as sure. The whole world reduced to four square feet of carpet.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say into his mouth, “this is terrible for my eloping-with-a-ghost-bride agenda.”

He kisses you for that, too, because one, it’s so incredibly stupid, and two, now that he’s started he doesn’t seem to see the point of stopping. his one is slower, longer, his lips sliding against yours, your palm pressed to the back of his neck, holding him there.

One of your knees bumps the leg of the table; the printers choose that moment to cough a sheet into the tray. Neither of you looks. 

Time turns elastic until you finally peel apart, shaky with adrenaline, the kind of silence that only feels possible after a storm.

“Okay,” he says eventually, voice wrecked, eyes too bright.  “So what are you doing here, then? You’re missing Steve’s raisin vinegar cake.”

You tip your head, lips still parted, and tug a white sheet from the stack beside you. It glides across the carpet until it rests at his boot.

“I was researching,” you say. “You kinda need to do that if you want to pitch another season.”

His brow furrows, until he sees the title.

Renewal Agreement: The Graveyard Shift Season Two

The grin that blooms across his face isn’t careful at all. Hoodie tugged crooked from your fists, hair mussed from your hands, he looks nothing like careful anyway.

“But that’s secondary.” You push the paper aside for the moment. “I believe we were discussing twenty five reasons you want me to stay.”

He gives you a look that could undo a saint. “No.”

“No? Twenty and we’ll call it even–”

He kisses you again, deeper, slower. 

It seems to do the trick.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. IT'S STILL INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT YOU LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO PAY ME REAL MONEY FOR IT.

The road is two lanes, sky washed colder.

You turn off where the stone wall dips, tyres crunching over gravel. 

The cemetery is small enough to miss if you weren’t looking. It isn’t grand, just sloped grass, old maples that creak in the wind, and a scatter of names.

You climb out first. Bucky follows, hands jammed deep into his jacket. The gate complains once and then lets you through.

He doesn’t need a map. He finds her on the second row like he always does, by the crooked birch, left of the angel with a wing the groundskeeper keeps meaning to mend.  You suspect he could walk here blind and still find the right patch of ground.

The letters are clean. Someone’s been here before you or maybe the weather’s been kind. Still, he brushes his thumb along the top edge of the stone, the old soldier’s ritual of removing what isn’t needed.

You take the box from under your arm and set it on the granite. The berries inside are dark and cold, still beaded from the chill of the car. He loosens the lid and slides it halfway off, like he’s making space for company.

“Hey, Peanut,” he says.

His voice roughens at the edges. He clears his throat, lowers himself into a crouch. His metal hand presses into the grass; the other steadies the box.

“Thought we’d stop by,” he adds, thumb worrying a cardboard seam. “Been a while.”

The wind lifts, flicks the string handle, lets it drop.

“We got you strawberries,” you tell her, because you’ve learned he likes it when you speak, too. “And we brought extra so you don’t have to share.”

That cracks a smile out of him. The kind that fades almost before it’s there.

The box lid taps once against the stone like an answer. Or the breeze. Neither of you are keeping score.

From his pocket, Bucky pulls a paper napkin, folded neat. He slides it under the box so the chill won’t bite into the granite. Little courtesies, carried from one life to another.

He lingers there a second longer, palm flat to the stone, before straightening and stepping back, making room for you.

You pat the lid once. “We’ll bring more next time.”

For a while, the two of you just stand there side by side, the grass bending at your boots, the trees shifting overhead. 

When you head back to the gate, he stops halfway and looks over his shoulder. The box sits neat against the grey. The napkin has decided to stay.

On the walk back, the wind picks up enough to make you tuck into his side. He opens the passenger door for you without show, 

“You good?” you ask, because it’s a question that never hurts to ask twice.

“Yeah.” He nods. Not the lie. You can tell the difference now.

On the road again, the heater finally starts warming his hands. The silence is soft, not heavy.

“Think she’ll mind if we’re late?” you ask.

“I think she knows by now we’re always going to be late,” he says, signalling.

“Last time she said she’d stop giving us the lemon glaze ones.”

“Just make your eyes at her. She’s got a soft spot for you.”

“You saying I make eyes? They work on you?”

He side-eyes you. “Not once.”

You grin at the windscreen. “Liar.”

He reaches across the console without looking, squeezes your knee once. The kind of touch that settles everything.

The miles start stitching again. Trees. A petrol station. A field with exactly one horse.

You rest your head against the glass and catch your reflection, soft-edged in the dark.

“We’re stealing two boxes this time,” you say. “No arguing.”

“It’s not stealing if she’s keeping them for you.”

“I just said no arguing.”

He huffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Ahead, the road leans toward a town that smells like butter and old sugar, and a woman who will pretend she didn’t keep your favourite aside.

He doesn’t come to this realization in any poetic, life-altering moment. He’s standing barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, eyes bleary. Alpine is making herself tall by clawing at his calf.

“Cut it out,” he mutters, nudging her gently with his foot. 

She swipes at him. It barely registers.

It takes him another full minute to realize what's wrong. The chair across the kitchen table is empty.

He stares at it, hand wrapped around a mug that still hasn’t been poured. A week ago, that chair had a permanent resident every morning.  Usually with a bagel, sometimes with a half-open laptop. Always like there’s too much on your plate and not enough hands. And somehow, despite that, you still make yourself at home with a single glance acknowledging his presence before you steal whatever is in his hands. 

Bucky pours cereal into his mouth directly from the box because someone finished the milk and didn’t replace it. Again.

Alpine hops up onto the counter and gives him a look. Then she swipes the box out of his hand.

“Do you mind,” he mumbles. 

She swipes again, this time catching his wrist.

“Stop,” He shrugs her off. “You don’t even eat cereal.”

“I don’t,” Alpine replies evenly, knocking the box over. 

Bucky glares at her. Alpine licks her paw and pointedly turns away.

“You seen--” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Pretends it’s not because he doesn’t want to say your name out loud like some kind of heart-eyed loser. “You seen anyone else this morning?”

Alpine flicks an ear. “Already out of the house.”

He blinks. 

“Skipped breakfast. Left with that bag full of stuff.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face.

He’s trying to be chill. He is. He’s a grown man with a job and hobbies and everything.

It’s just-- well.

You’re usually around. You press your forehead to the fridge while deciding what you want. You wear his sweater sometimes like it’s no big deal.

Whatever. It’s not weird. You’ve got things to do. You’re a whole person. That’s good.

Still, he finds himself standing in the kitchen longer than he means to, bowl of dry cereal in hand, like maybe you’ll come walking back in with that same bag and tell him you forgot your keys or your lunch or your Bucky. 

You don’t.

Alpine’s tail flicks. “You’re being weird.”

Bucky scoffs but doesn’t respond.

He flips her off without looking. She licks her shoulder like she’s unbothered.

“You’re brooding,” Alpine says, hopping up onto the counter like she owns it.  

“Not brooding,” Bucky says.

“Uh-huh,” Alpine replies, licking a paw. “You gonna sigh while looking out the window again? You waiting for a telegram, Barnes?”

He glares at her.

 “It’s been three days of moping.”

“I don’t mope.”

“Either fight it out or move on.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You two should go on a date”

“No.”

“Die alone, then.”

It’s probably nothing. He tells himself that for the third  morning in a row.

She stares at him, then slowly and deliberately knocks the spoon off the counter.

He doesn’t move. Just sighs.

The spoon clatters on the tile floor and Alpine, appearing quite pleased, hops down to follow it, her claws clicking on the steel.

“You done?” he mutters.

“Not even a little bit,” she stares. “You’re gonna spiral.”

"I’m not spiraling."

"You’ve got your miserable eyes on again." She glances sideways. “You’re in love.”

Bucky closes his eyes. “Alpine.”

“Like, embarrassingly.”

“Alpine.”

“This is sad. It could have been cute if you did something about it, but you won’t so it’s mostly sad.”

He says nothing.

Bucky stalks out of the kitchen, leaving behind a cat very pleased at inventing mental distress for her reluctant owner. 

By Thursday, he’s taken to searching you out.  

Not in a weird way. Just… happening to pass your floor. Just checking if the studio lights are on. Or the espresso machine is still warm. Or if that playlist you always blast when you're in bed is drifting out from under the door.

Nothing.

The void becomes noticeable.

It’s disorienting.

It makes him feel like he’s missing something. Like music that cut out mid-song.

He just leans on the opposite wall like he’s starring in fucking Grease. Perhaps if he waits long enough, you’ll open the door and say something ridiculous and act like you didn’t miss a full week of doing absolutely nothing together.

Instead, it’s the stupid cat who strolls out, halting when she sees him. 

Bucky leaves before the comments start. 

The first time you're technically still there, but not really, it’s a Friday morning.

You're in the kitchen, nursing something hot from a chipped mug. His mouth immediately turns up into a smile, which he immediately gets rid of. 

On paper, everything looks normal. But something’s off.

You don’t say anything when he walks in.

Not even a throwaway line about how long he took to get out of bed. No snide remark about his slippers. Just a vague, distant nod in his direction, your gaze locked somewhere on the floor tiles like you’re trying to solve a problem he can’t see.

Bucky stands by the fridge for a second longer than he needs to. Watching.

He pours himself coffee, leans against the counter. Clears his throat.

"You sleep?"

A beat passes.

"Did I sleep?" You blink like you’re coming back into the room. "Sort of. You?”

"Why, what’s going on?"

"Hm?" Your brow furrows. Then you smile late, like a cue you forgot to hit on time. "Oh, nothing. Been watching a lot of Smallville. These teenagers are driving me nuts.”

“Do you want to–”

Your phone alarm rining cuts him off, and you glance at it before cursing softly.

“Sorry.” You give him an apologetic smile. “Raincheck?”

He nods, and you hop off the stool, clamouring off. 

Something nags at him. It's not that you're rushing. You've always rushed. It's the fact that you didn't try to rope him into whatever you're rushing for.

He stands there holding his coffee, stomach turning over with something he can’t name.

It happens again two days later.

You always do. You're a menace like that.

"Maybe you’re going to be assassinated soon," Alpine suggests, from atop the arm of the couch.

Bucky glances over.

"People are just busy sometimes," he mutters.

"Uh-huh." Alpine licks a paw, unimpressed. "People are just in denial sometimes."

He ignores that.

By Sunday, you do show up to movie night, late, disheveled, an apology tumbling from your mouth before you’re even through the door.

Bucky watches as you curl up into the corner of the couch, next to him like usual. A small thing. Maybe nothing.

You steal his popcorn only twice. Don’t quote the movie out loud, even though you’ve forced him to watch this with you thrice already. You just sit there, distracted, eyes glazed a little like you’re somewhere else entirely.

Halfway through the movie, your phone buzzes. You glance at it. Type something. Smile faintly.

Then you remember you’re in a room with someone else and look over.

“Sorry,” you murmur, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “Do you need me to rewind?”

He shakes his head. “You haven’t looked at the screen in forty minutes.”

You open your mouth, then close it. “Shit. Sorry. I’ve just– my brain’s kinda…” You do a circling gesture near your temple.

He doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything more either.

Eventually, the credits roll. You’re on your feet before the cast names fade.

“I gotta run,” you say. “I left something exporting.”

"You’re leaving now?" Usually you force him into a discussion of the themes and the narratives and how some character is literally him, half because you think they’re pretty.  

"Yeah. Just need to check on a few things."

He watches you go.

There’s an imprint in the cushion beside him, still warm.

Alpine jumps up into the empty spot seconds later. “Is this the part where you start crying quietly?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

The next morning, he finds a paper coffee cup on his doorstep.

No note. But the lid’s labeled with his name, written in your usual scribble. He stands there holding it for too long, thumb pressed against the warm cardboard.

For a moment, he forgets what he’d been brooding about.

Then he remembers.

Finally, when he does corner you, because that’s what it feels like at this point, you’re in the hallway outside the production suite with a file tucked under your arm and a cup of coffee he’s 85% sure is yours.

A smile brightens up your face when you see him and you open your mouth to say something but he speaks before he can stop himself.

“Are you avoiding me?”

You freeze, smile fading. “…What?”

“Just a question.”

There’s a pause. “I thought you’d be glad I was leaving you alone.”

“So you are,” he says.

“No. I’m not.”

“Then what the hell’s going on?” Bucky crosses his arms. “You’ve been MIA since–”

Since the conversation in the car where he told you he was being haunted. 

His eyebrows lift, just slightly. “You think I’m insane.”

“No,” comes the reply, steadier this time. “I do not.”

There’s a pause.

“I promise you, I do not think you’re insane,” you say again. “I’ll be back to normal soon. I’ve just been busy.”

He nods curtly, eyes avoiding looking at you. 

“So,” you add, “you are mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

He just doesn’t like disruptions to a working pattern. That’s all.

You eye him, one eyebrow raised. 

“It’s just weird.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m used to you talking my ear off with whatever bullshit is running through your head, and now you’ve disappeared.”

“I get it.” You shift the file in your hand from one arm to the other. “I didn’t want to say anything until I had something concrete.”

“About what?”

You look at him. “I’ve been trying to figure something out. I don’t want to talk about it in case it’s nothing. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a second, studying your face. 

Finally, he exhales through his nose and nods.

You reach past him and flick his nose gently. “Thought you were waiting for me to leave you alone all this while. Just say you’re in love with me and go.”

He huffs. “Go where? You’d track me down to tell me about season 7 of Love Island.”

“And I have so much to tell you on that front.” You grin, before your phone rings. 

You glance at the caller ID before flashing him a small smile. 

“Go,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Catch you soon,” you say, pressing a kiss to your fingertips before tapping his cheek. 

You bump your shoulder into his as you walk away, and the part of him that’s been aching lately, that raw sore space where you usually live, quiets down a little.

The next morning, he wakes up later than usual and immediately glances at his phone.

Nothing.

He walks into the kitchen. Still no you. Still just Alpine, licking the top of a yogurt someone left out.

He mutters something about bacteria.

She flicks her tail at him.

That afternoon, he does see you in passing, arms full of books, phone held between ear and shoulder, talking rapidly about something he can’t hear.

You don’t notice him.

Either way, he leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“Wow,” Alpine drawls. “Snubbed.”

“We already talked.”

“You’re being avoided.”

“People have lives.”

“You used to be part of it.”

He watches you disappear around the corner and mutters, “Jesus, you’re an asshole.”

Alpine licks her paw. “Takes one to know one.”

It’s late enough that most of the lights in the tower have dimmed on their own. 

It’s past midnight, maybe closer to one. The TV is playing some rerun of a wildlife documentary, the sound down low. Alpine's tail flicks with irritation as Bucky scrolls aimlessly through an ancient recipe blog on his phone, looking for something he doesn’t plan to cook.

The door creaks open before he can even answer.

You step in, arms full with a laptop under one, a beat-up manila folder under the other, and something precariously balanced on top of both.

He’s on his bed, leaning against the headboard, reading something old and dog-eared. Alpine lifts her head from the windowsill, ears twitching.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hi,” he blinks, getting off the bed to meet you midway. “You’re supposed to knock.”

“You’re supposed to lock your door,” you reply, already halfway inside.  “Can I come in?”

“You’re already in.”

“Yeah, but like-- can I come in come in?”

You’ve got a paper bag in one hand, a closed laptop under the other arm, and something tucked awkwardly under your chin that might be… a folder? It slips, and you catch it just before it hits the floor.

“Jesus,” Bucky says flatly. “You’re going to trip on your own feet.”

You kick the door shut with your heel.

“Won’t,” you say, confidently. Immediately stumble two steps in.

He catches you by the elbow, just a flicker of a touch, steadying.

“You’re fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You flash him a big smile, before dropping everything onto his bed, ungracefully claiming your space on it. He pretends not to notice the way his shoulders relax. 

Alpine lifts her head slightly, annoyed at first before climbing onto your lap.

“Okay,” you announce. “First things first. Cake.”

“Cake?”

You pull out a slice in a sad little plastic container. “I am nothing if not a master of apology.”

“You’re apologizing?”

“I am apologizing that you missed my face for seven straight days.”

He raises a brow.

“Sorry for making you cry.”

“No one cried.”

“Took to your bed. Covered the mirrors.”

“Do you even hear yourself when you talk?”

You fork into the cake, take a bite, and offer him the container without looking. 

“A peace offering,” you say. “Because I ghosted you like a little rat.”

He stares at it.

You stare at him. “This is where you accept my emotional olive branch.”

“That cake’s not emotional enough,” he mutters.

“I stole it from Steve’s fridge.”

“You know Steve’ fridge is my fridge, right?” But he takes it anyway.

You smile at him like you’ve won.

A few bites pass. You lean your head against the headrest, watching the TV like you were always here.

Bucky watches you as you settle in. You bump your knee into his lightly. 

He notices the details he’s trying not to. There’s a tiny streak of pen on your cheekbone. You look like you haven’t sat down in days.

You look fidgety. That big chaotic energy you always carry is muted, focused. There’s a nervous twitch in your fingers, a hesitance in the way you look at him.

“Sorry I’ve been gone.”

“You weren’t gone.”

You shift slightly, knee knocking into his. Neither of you moves away.

“I didn’t mean to avoid you,” you continue. “I just--” You gesture vaguely.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Still,” you say.

He watches you for a second. There’s something in his eyes that softens barely. Just a flicker at the corner.

He nudges the cake toward you. “Eat first. Explain after.”

For a few seconds, there’s only the quiet sound of forks against plastic. 

Then, without looking up, you speak, “I missed hanging out.”

His mouth twitches again with that near-smile, the one that always seems half-surprised by its own arrival.

You bump your knee against his. “Say it back or I’ll key your motorcycle.”

He mumbles something under his breath, all garbled.

“Louder.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

You smile, just slightly, before passing him the rest of the cake. “Here. Eat your feelings.”

He takes it. “You ate most of it.”

“That’s because I have more feelings.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You reach over, brush a crumb off his hoodie, and linger there a little longer than you need to.

Alpine has fully annexed your thigh, and Bucky, loser that he is, scratches her between the ears like he didn’t threaten to launch her into the sun last week.

You both watch the TV flicker for a second. Something explodes onscreen. Neither of you reacts.

Bucky watches the way you pick at the edge of the container. Your eyes are glazed over, the same way it has been this whole week. You’re not here with him, not really. 

“You’re thinking again,” he says, voice soft.

“No I’m not.” You huff. 

“You’ve been thinking since you walked in,” his gaze flicks between the TV, to your fork. Mostly, they seem to linger on your eyes.

You chew on your lip like you’re deciding on whether or not you want to let him in on a secret.

“Fine,” you say, “Can I say something, and you promise not to flip out?”

“No,” he says, knowing fully well that he was lying. 

You smile. “Fair.”

You pull the folder into your lap, the edge of it a little bent, a couple of post-it notes barely hanging on. He thinks it looks the way your brain probably does.

He holds up a hand to go on.

You fidget with the folder a second longer, then sigh and open it, rifling through a handful of pages before finding what you’re looking for.

“Like I said, I didn’t want to say anything until I had something real. So even this is just-- I don’t know.”

Bucky doesn’t look away. “What’s in the file?”

“Research.”

“Something for the show?”

“Something for us,” you say, and it slips out too fast. You blink, looking down. “I mean– like not us. Just you. Something for you.”

“Okay,” he says. “What is it?”

“Right,” you hesitate. “I thought about everything you said. About Becca. And I thought– I don’t know, that one day, if you’d ever want to know more, that you should be able to.”

It’s quiet again, but not the same quiet as before. This one is loaded with quiet anticipation. 

“I’m not pushing anything,” you say, turning your torso slightly toward him. “This is not a thing you have to deal with right now. Or ever. But you’ve been walking around like you’ve got a lead weight strapped to your ribs, and I didn’t know how to help.”

You gesture to the sheets basically spelling out of the binding.

“There’s a bunch of stuff in there, whatever I could find. Timelines, pictures, conversations with people who’ve met ghosts, mediums, tarot readers. My Instagram is basically only crystal ads now.”

You nudge the folder a little closer to him.

“You don’t have to look. You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do a single thing.” You smile softly. “But if you ever want to, it’s there.”

Bucky hasn’t moved, but his jaw’s tight, and you can see the thoughts behind his eyes, too fast to track. 

He doesn’t open the folder. Just nods once, sets it aside on the nightstand like it's a phone charger or a pair of keys. 

Something to deal with later. 

Maybe.

Eventually, the cake’s half gone. The air in the room is warm, soft, like a blanket that hasn’t slipped off your shoulders yet.

You're already halfway through a yawn when you ask, “What day is it?”

He checks his watch like it’ll give a better answer than his brain. “Tuesday. No. Wednesday.”

“Right.” You rub at your eyes with the back of your hand. “We’ve still got one episode left. We’re short one climax, Barnes.”

He exhales through his nose. “We got nothing?”

“I didn’t say nothing,” you reply, thumbing open your notes app. “I said we don’t have a plan.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You scroll. “Okay. Here’s the shortlist. Stuff we never shot, leads that went nowhere that I still think have potential.”

Bucky leans back against the headboard, arms folded. “Which ones do you like?”

“I don’t know yet. I want to see them. We’ll pick the dumbest ones.”

You hand him the phone.

“We’ll need B-roll,” you add, already planning. “If we hit three in five days, we’ll have raw footage by Sunday. I can cut a teaser next week.”

“You’re assuming they’re all worth shooting.”

“I’m assuming one is. The other two can be weird little day trips.”

He nods once, crisp. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Let’s go on your weird little field trips.”

You grin. “God, you’re soft. I wore you down in one season.”

He grumbles something that sounds like denial. You poke him in the side.

“Tomorrow,” you announce, “we start with the one that smells like cat piss.”

He groans.

You stretch out on the bed, arms flung overhead. “Okay, pick something else to watch. I can’t watch another bear kill a fish. It’s depressing me.”

“Remote’s somewhere.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Sucks to be you.”

His eyes flick toward the unopened folder on the nightstand, doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either, except when he looks back at you, you’ve got a stupid, lazy smile on your face.

It takes him a second to notice the both of you are levitating few inches off the bed.

“Found it,” you say, as the remote floats up between you.

He rolls his eyes.

You grin at him.

The first artifact is a heavy, leather-bound journal sealed behind glass.

A brass plaque reads: DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU’RE READY TO KNOW EVERYTHING.

So you open it in five seconds. No self-preservation whatsoever.

The pages are blank until Bucky reaches over, brushes the corner, and a line of red ink unfurls across the paper.

He reads aloud, flatly, “Once faked an injury to skip running laps and cried when a crabapple hit your knee.”

You don’t move.

He glances at you. “So it’s personal.”

The page turns itself.

Another line appears.

“Had a dream last week where you kissed in an elevator. It fell. You were mostly annoyed the kissing got cut short.”

You take the journal from his hands, silent. Snap it shut.

“I don’t have dreams,” he says, amused. “That one’s not about me.”

You place the book on the far end of the table. Like it might try again.

It does.

More ink creeps across the fucking cover. Bucky lunges for it, reading it before you can stop him.

“You like his face. Especially when he’s--"

You’re already standing. Already crossing the room with the damn thing in your hand.

You open a window that doesn’t need opening.

And then, smiling brightly, you fling the book out.

When you turn back, he’s still in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching you with the same expression he always wears during briefings; a little curious, vaguely entertained.

“Anything else?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t know who it was writing about. Wasn’t me.”

“Right,” he says, half-snort. “You just trashed our one viable video idea.”

“It was nonsense.”

That night, while brushing, you glance down to find the blasted thing near your toothbrush like Satan himself returned it to you. 

A green bookmark is wedged halfway through.

There’s a note on it in someone’s handwriting: For your reading pleasure. From, Not Bucky

You stare at it for a while.

Then you open to page one.

It’s not a haunted object, according to the label. It’s “psycho-reactive porcelain, late 19th century” which means nothing to either of you.

You hold it up to the light. It’s chipped. There’s a faint blue pattern around the rim.  

“It’s meant to do something if you drink from it,” you say.

Bucky stares at you over his jasmine citrus tea. “Define ‘something.’”

“Memory recall. Light clairvoyance.”

“Right.”

You tilt it toward him. “Want to go first?”

“No.”

You shrug. Fill the teacup from the sink. Take a careful sip.

Nothing.

You wait.

Still nothing.

Bucky glances at you. “How do you feel?”

“Like I drank tap water out of a very pretentious bowl.”

You hand it to him. He hesitates for a second, then downs the rest in one go like antibiotics.

Again, nothing.

You wait five minutes in silence.

When Bucky opens his mouth, you wait for the next snarky remark.

Instead, he asks with full sincerity, “Why is the light doing that.”

You frown. “What light.”

He gestures at the overheads. “They’re pulsing.”

You look up. They’re not.

You glance at him. He’s frowning slightly. His coffee mug is now three inches to the left of where it was.

Neither of you moved it.

You sit down. Slowly.

“It’s a delayed reaction,” you say.

“That or I’m having a stroke,” he murmurs. 

Alpine hops onto the counter. She looks taller than usual.

Not bigger. Just more vertical. As if someone stretched her slightly in post.

You both stare at her. She tilts her head. Her pupils are too wide.

Bucky leans toward you. “Is it possible to hallucinate in widescreen?”

You don’t answer. You’re watching the fridge breathe.

It’s subtle, in and out, like a sleeping animal.

“Okay,” you say calmly. “Might be time to lie down.”

He doesn’t argue. Just gets up and walks very carefully down the hall like gravity’s got new rules no one told him about.

You follow, passing Alpine, who now has three ears. You choose not to engage.

__________

You’ve both made it to bed, but you’re not sure whose bed it is. Or whether it is a bed. You’re lying very still.

There’s a low hum in the air, like a charger left plugged into a wall that hasn’t existed for years.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Eventually Bucky says, “If I die…”

And then he doesn’t continue. It takes a good while to even register that he spoke. 

You’re staring at the ceiling. The ceiling is fine. The ceiling is a forest now. A very polite forest.

“Too late,” you mutter.

He turns his head slightly. “What?”

You turn yours. “Nothing.”

He closes his eyes. “I can hear colours.”

You stare at him.

“I’m hearing green.”

“What does green sound like?”

He’s silent for a long time.

“Wet,” he says.

You nod like that makes sense.

There’s a moment of peace. Then you start laughing. Not loudly. Just the kind of slow, broken laugh that happens when your brain lets go of structure.

 He lets out a low breath, almost a laugh. “Are we going to talk about the part where you’re lying on my arm.”

You look down.

You are, in fact, using his arm as a pillow.

You consider moving.

The light seems dimmer now. Or maybe the shadows are heavier. Either way, you can feel your pulse in your mouth.

“Should I move?” you ask, finally.

"Don’t." His voice is quiet. "Feels nice.”

You don’t move for another twenty minutes.

When you do finally sit up, the hallucinations are gone.

Alpine is asleep on the windowsill, back to her standard issue two ears.

The fridge has stopped breathing.

Bucky’s still on the bed, one hand covering his eyes.

You look at him.

He says nothing.

You leave the room with the teacup in your hand.

You drop it in the bin.

You miss.

Someone is supposed to drop off a haunted chair.

That’s what you thought, when you opened the door to Vincent. Vincent is wearing a waistcoat and fingerless gloves.

“You’ve got the look,” he says, stepping inside.

You blink. “The look? Am I gonna be a model?”

He brings his own clipboard.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this,” he says.

You stay standing. Bucky leans against the fridge, arms crossed.

Vincent glances between you. “You both died. Probably three, four days ago.”

You blink. “Right.”

Bucky says flatly, “Okay.”

“We’re breathing.”

“Depends on the cause of death. Sudden impact ghosts usually don’t. You two read as slow-burners.”

“What’s a slow-burner?” Bucky dares to ask.

“Emotional bleed-out. Takes years. You don’t even notice until you stop casting shadows.” He frowns. “There’s something very cold about this room.”

“That’s the air conditioner.”

“Ever feel like your body’s not yours anymore?”

“Capitalism.”

Vincent points his clipboard at you. “Denial is step one.”

You glance at Bucky. “He’s trying to gaslight us into being ghosts.”

“I clocked that.”

“You passed over quietly. Very dignified.”

You consider. “Okay. But if we’re dead, why are we still here?”

“Ah,” he says, tapping his nose. “Unfinished business. Usually regret. Or unspoken feelings. Or--”

“Sexual tension,” you offer.

He blinks.

You nudge Bucky’s boot. “Hey. Think we died in the middle of something?”

He doesn’t look up. “Probably.”

Vincent clears his throat. “You’re joking because you’re resisting transcendence.”

You nod, serious. “That’s right. I died before I got to see Bucky shirtless in daylight.”

“Exactly,” Vincent says, with a touch too much sincerity.

You turn to Bucky. “Do I look dead to you?”

He shrugs. “Define dead.”

Vincent closes his notebook. “Okay. You’re clearly not ready.”

You press on. “Hypothetically, are we separate ghosts, or do we haunt as a pair?”

His eyes light up. “Oh, tandem hauntings are extremely rare–”

“I’m going to stop you there,” Bucky says, already walking to the sink. “This is a waste of time.”

You trail after. “Let him finish. This might be the closest I get to a legally binding commitment from you.”

Vincent’s still going: “It would explain the EMF levels. The flickering lights. Your cat refusing eye contact–”

“She doesn’t respect anyone,” Bucky adds. “She hissed at the mirror this morning. I think it was at herself.”

Vincent reaches into his bag, pulls out two laminated cards.

“These are temporary death certificates. Just until you make peace with the transition. If anyone official asks, show them this.”

Vincent clasps his clipboard. “So. Are we ready to move on?”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not. Tell him to make out with me and I’ll transcend in three seconds.”

Vincent sighs. Pulls out a pen. “I’ll be back in a week. If you're still resisting, we escalate.”

“To what?” you ask.

“Spirit mediation,” he says grimly. Then brightens: “You’re probably not going to heaven, by the way. But you might have great lighting down there!”

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

You say, “If we’re dead, we’re doing it badly.”

He hums. “Speak for yourself. I was a professional ghost for 50 years.”

The bedroom was quiet. 

You’d left a while ago, citing the fifteen hours you’d stayed up to catch the haunted chair say something to you. 

Bucky stayed awke to make good on his promise to check whether any footage was actually usable.

He’s spent a good three hours going through tapes, watching every single interaction and joke between the both of you. Rewinded quite a few times to catch the way you said something particularly. It makes the whole process a lot longer than it had to be.

At nearly 12, he comes to the disheartening conclusion that none of what was filmed is worth a final video. 

He's not sure why. It just felt like it wasn’t worthy enough, not if that was the last video you were going to film together. 

He stares at the shared Google doc. It still said “no climax” in capital letters, underlined. 

Bucky lets out a breath through his nose, sits back in the chair, and opens the laptop.

There’s nothing urgent in his inbox. One polite reminder from the Maya, phrased like a threat. He clicked it open, skimmed, and clicked away again.

He tabs over to the edit queue and opens a Reddit tab while it loads. A habit he’d formed after relying on it as his main search engine for the last few years.  

If the internet was good for anything, it was telling him what his own face looked like under harsh lighting.

The subreddit was louder than usual, more posts, more upvotes, more speculation than he remembered. 

It’s mostly fluff: timestamps with vague noises, blurry screenshots of orbs that were probably dust, someone insisting that a static hiss in episode 23 was Morse code for “JACK WAS HERE.”

He scrolss, mildly bored, while the next set of videos transfer to the cloud.

Until he pauses on a specific title.

He clicks on it.

It was the clip in the woods where you’d gone searching for the Mothman, the one where the wind had knocked over the directional mic.

Bucky dismisses most of the footage. It was too thin, too chaotic. Too much wind, not enough ghosts.

Until he clicks on the link to the screenshot.

There, just at the edge of the frame, nearly obscured by shadow: a figure.

He frowns, returning to the video to play the clip.

Nothing obvious. Just wind and breath and him muttering something snide about the stupid forest.

He scrubs back to the frame, pauses it, zooming in.

The figure was there.

He leans closer.

He stares at it. At the shape. At the faint outline of something like a dress, like the one–

He opens another tab. Types fast.

His throat went dry.

There were screen grabs now. Threads inside threads. Cross-referencing. Timestamps. One video from episode seventeen, filmed in the abandoned greenhouse. A shape in the background, just behind the condensation. The same hair. The same profile.

He clicks faster. Traced it.

Episode 3: 12:47, near the tree Episode 4: 1:22, corner of the house Episode 6: 4:35, doorframe, briefly, mid-argument Episode 7: 9:10, window Episode 9: 11:12, blurred, reflected in the china 

He sits back, chest screwed tight.

The username of the original poster was something mundane: spectraldramaqueen23. But their eye for detail was nauseatingly good. They’d overlaid screenshots. Zoomed in. Used filters. 

His palms felt cold.

The room felt heavier than it had a moment ago, as if it, too, had read something it shouldn’t have.

He reaches out, slowly, and opens the laptop again.

Back to the footage.

There she was, in every clip from the last 25 videos you’d released, at exactly the timestamps the internet had told him. 

He sits back again, heart ticking slightly louder than he liked.

Another post blinked in on the sidebar. A new one.

"Ghost Girl identity: here are my theories"

Bucky slams the laptop shut, standing up too fast.

The chair rolls back to hit the wall.

The file wasn’t where he thought it would be.

Which made sense. He hadn’t exactly placed it down. More like hurled it into the back of the closet three weeks ago. Now he was on his knees in the dark, shoulder wedged behind a space heater, muttering curses at a collapsed tripod and an unopened pack of candles.

He finds it by accident.

The edge of the manila folder was bent in, crushed beneath an ancient hoodie and something that might’ve once been a gimbal. 

He stares at it before clawing it open it with both hands,

He doesn’t even sit, just starts flipping fast, skimming and not reading so much as consuming, eyes grazing past dates, screenshots, scans, your handwriting scrawled in the margins, circling things he’d looked at a dozen times and never seen.

He slammed the file shut before scrambling out his door.  

You open your door to find Bucky, panting slightly, face flushed like he’d run the entire flight of stairs.

You opened the door mid-knock, because he hadn’t really knocked. More just landed against it.

He looked– well. Not great.

He holds the file out you’d given him nearly two weeks ago and never spoke about since, like it was on fire. “She’s been in every single fucking episode.”

You exhale, like you knew this was coming, before stepping aside. “Come in.”

He’s breathing like he’d run from something. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, eyes wide and almost glassy.

“She’s been in every episode,” he says.

His voice cracked halfway through it. Like his chest hadn’t caught up to the rest of him.

“She’s been here the whole time. The whole goddamn time.”

You close the door gently. “Sit with me.”

He looks at you like he’d just remembered you were real.

“What have you found,” he said, “about her.”

You gesture, calmly. “I’m gonna make you some tea, and you can tell me what happened.”

He paces a tight, messy loop of your room. Hands on his hips, then arms folded, then rubbing his jaw like he’s trying to erase it.

You watch him with some alarm. This is not a man well-acquainted with emotions. Watching him come undone is a bit like watching a sink catch fire.

“I didn’t see it,” he says. “I didn’t notice. But she’s in the footage. And everyone else has been seeing it but me.”

You nod, slow, walking past him toward the kettle. It buys you time. He’s vibrating with something between panic and fury, and you need the anchor of making tea just to stay upright.

You call out as you fill the kettle. “You checked Reddit?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s in my shots. She’s following me.”

The kettle clicks on. You return. He’s standing where you left him, blinking like you hit him with a brick.

“Right,” you say.”

“Because she hates me.”

You blink. “That’s your takeaway?”

“She’s haunting me,” he snaps. “Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she? I left her alone to go turn into something she’d fucking hate.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” you say, calm again. “That’s not what this is.”

He’s already shaking his head. “I missed her entire life. I missed her funeral.”

“You didn’t choose to do that,” you tell him, eyebrows knit together. “Sit with me. Please.”

Finally, he agrees. You give him a warm cup with a teabag floating in it. It’s more recreational than anything else. 

He doesn’t drink the tea, just holds it, only because you gave it to him. 

You sit across from him, watching the way he stares into the middle distance. Like the footage is still playing somewhere behind his eyes.

“I don’t think she hates you,” you break the silence. “Once you told me, I started compiling everything. Not just the clips she shows up in, but the places. It wasn’t random. You remember the ones you told me you saw her?”

He doesn’t look at you.

You go on anyway.

“The mansion that Jason said was haunted by his uncle. That piece of paper that hit you in the neck that had ‘PBJ’ scribbled on it.”

His thumb twitches against the mug.

“The cornfield,” you continue. “Where you said you heard her laugh and chased it down.”

“I know,” he mutters.

He nods. Doesn’t speak.

“The haunted ship, in the mirror fogged up and you heard her say ‘Leave.’.”

“You’re not making a great case for her not hating me,” he mutters.

“No,” you say softly. “But I think it makes her consistent.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, consistent in making sure I know I fucked up.”

You lean forward. “Bucky–”

“She’s told me to leave.” His voice rises, sharp and bitter. “She’s spelled out my name on a board.”

“Buck–”

He cuts you off, fast and loud. “I even talked to a fucking tarot reader about those cards in that potions episode. I explained the positions. And she told me I was screwed.”

You stare at him for a beat. “Bucky, what’d you tell her about the cards?”

“What.”

“Did you even look at the footage before you talked to her?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Of course you didn’t,” you mumble.

“I remembered which ones came out.” He shrugs, defensive. “Besides, I don’t like watching myself.”

“Liar,” you say, not unkindly, but some way to relieve the tension in him. “You love watching our videos. I’ve seen you watch them several times.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “I’m not looking at me in them.”

You ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“Anyway,” you say, clearing your throat. “I figured you didn’t look at the footage before talking to her. But they were upright. All of them.”

You flip to the relevant page. Three photos: the cards exactly as they appeared on the table. You’ve annotated them, of course.  

“And if I’m not wrong,” you say, drawing the folder toward you, “she told you the meanings in reverse.”

You open the file. Pull out a thin, crumpled email printout, and slide it across the table to him.

He doesn’t touch it.

“I found Lillia. Took me two weeks, but I sent her the card photos. I asked her to read them again. She wrote me back. It’s all in there.”

Bucky lets out a shaky breath. He’s still holding the email in both hands,  the paper crumpling under the force.

You speak, finally, voice quiet, “Let’s walk through it.”

He doesn’t look up.

“The house,” you say. “Paper hitting you, with a nickname for both of you as kids. Furniture was moving without any of us having to do anything with it, bottles too.”

“Yeah.”

“She gave you a heads-up. Something small. Something harmless. Something that’d let you know she was there.”

He doesn’t respond.

You go on. “Then the cornfield. You were lost for like, half an hour. You said you heard a laugh, so you followed it.”

He nods, just barely.

“And it led you straight back to me,” you say. “To someone, so that you weren’t alone anymore.”

His throat works like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“The haunted ship,” you say. “The mirror where you saw her. Where she told you to leave.”

His voice is flat. “Yeah. That one wasn’t subtle.”

You look at him. “No. But the ship levitated that night. You were on the verge of passing out from the sway.”

“She knew I got sea sick,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Exactly.”

You pause.

“It doesn’t sound like she was trying to scare you, Buck,” you say, gently. “It sounds like she was trying to let you know she was there.”

He’s staring at the wall.

“She left you notes so you knew it was her,” you say. “Led you when you needed a way out. Told you to leave when it was dangerous. She showed up when no one else could see what was coming.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t sound like she’s haunting you. It sounds like she’s looking out for you.”

His jaw tightens. You can see him trying not to let it in.

“So,” you say. “When you say you feel like you’ve failed her… I have a feeling that maybe you're not the only one who thinks that.”

He turns his head, slow, like doing anything physically hurts. 

You look at him, steady. “Maybe she feels like she should’ve protected you.”

His eyes sting, glassy now. He looks down at his hands like they’re foreign, like they’ve done things he can’t bear to remember.

His voice comes rough, sanded down to the nerve: “Yeah.”

He doesn’t lower the email, clutching it like it’s burning through his fingers.

The room is so quiet you can hear the tea cooling in its cup. His shoulders fall, just slightly. Like something’s finally been set down.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, he looks like he doesn’t know how to carry it anymore. Not the guilt, not the love, not the sudden awful realisation that maybe she just wanted to make sure he got home. 

You stay where you are, knees folded on the couch, tea cold beside you. 

You watch him, gently, without speaking. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the printed email still loose in his fingers.

He turns it over, once. Just for something to do.

“Wanna pull a card?”

His eyes lift to yours.

You don’t smile, but your face is kind. 

He looks at the bed where you’ve placed an old tarot deck sits. He looks back at you.

“Yeah,” he says. Quietly. “Okay.”

You set the deck down in front of him and nod at it. “You shuffle.”

He hesitates, then picks it up. His hands are steady now. Not relaxed, but sure.

It’s clumsy but deliberate. When he’s done, you tap the top of the deck with one finger.

“Pull.”

He does.

One card.

He flips it over.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The card rests between you like a breath finally released.

Then, almost inaudibly, he says, “Huh.”

You lean forward, elbows on the table, and tilt your head at it.

“You know what it means?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“From what I’ve learnt in the last few weeks,” you begin, “It’s a beginning. An offering.”

He frowns slightly. “Doesn’t feel like a beginning.”

“It’s not that kind of beginning,” you say. “I've seen people compare it to the first breath after crying. What lets you know the worst is over.”

He watches you. 

“It means healing. Gently. Slowly, what you don’t notice until one day it doesn’t hurt to say her name out loud.”

You watch the muscle in his jaw flex.  

He looks at the card. Doesn’t touch it.  

You soften your voice.

“I think she’s here because she loved you too much to leave,” you say. “Even if you said you didn’t deserve it.”

He presses a hand to his face. Exhales through his palm.

“She’s not stuck,” you say. “You’re not, either.”

He nods, just once.

You watch him for a second longer. “How about we let her know that you’re taken care of, yeah?”

His head lifts. He meets your eyes.

You smile, small. Steady.

“And I think you should realise,” you add, “that she was taken care of too.”

He doesn't speak, eyes shining. 

But he nods.

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

Next part

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. IT'S STILL INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT YOU LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO PAY ME REAL MONEY FOR IT.

fun fact: the lil montage in there are all ideas i had that i never ended up including in chapters. haunted chairs, manuscripts, psychedelics, someone who convinces them that they're dead.

Alpine narrows her eyes.

His phone buzzes. Another missed call. 

Fifteen minutes late.

Bucky does not have time for this.

She knows he does not have time for this.

She takes a daring step forward. He steps back, blocking the doorway.

"Do not rip my pillows again," he warns. "I made you a scratch post. Use that. Or else I'm gonna drop you twenty fuckin' miles away."

She blinks at him, slow and deliberate. He swears she scoffs, but at this point he’s not convinced whether it’s the confirmation bias of you insisting over and over that she can speak, or that he was losing his mind. 

His fingers twitch at his sides.

The second he takes a step over her, she immediately brushes past him, slipping into his room like she was just waiting for an opening.

Bucky turns around just in time to see her jump onto his bed. Like she owns the place. 

Like she won.

The door slams behind him, cutting off his irritated growl.

The hotel is overrun.

The lobby is jampacked. The hallways are even worse as people slip in and out of rooms.

Every inch of this place is crawling with ghost enthusiasts, cryptid fanatics, and people who look too comfortable walking around in full Victorian mourning attire.

A few months ago, Bucky would say that he hates it here. Now he’s grown a sort of indifference to it all. Begrudging acceptance, even. None of this even fazes him, which in turn, hurts his feelings because what the fuck.

But it doesn’t help that he and you are stuck there for two days, thanks to Maya “Budget Cuts” Reyes, who apparently decided that ParaCon didn’t warrant accommodation separate from the fucking event. 

Bucky’s grateful that at least you had different rooms, because he can’t imagine what you were going to be like after hanging around a convention full of people who were furthering your agenda. 

He wonders if you know there are two rooms booked, considering that you’ve plowed your way into his instead of going to yours, which was literally across the hall from him. 

“This is so exciting,” you say, flopping dramatically onto his bed.

He supposes this is where Alpine gets it from. 

Bucky, standing in the doorway, stares at the strange hotel decor and the suspicious stain on the carpet.

“This is hell,” he corrects. “And you’re in my room.” 

You wave a dismissive hand. “You’ve survived worse.”

He drops his bag onto the nearest chair, then holds up the massive brochure he had thrust into his hand in the lobby the second he entered. 

PARANORMALCON 2024: EXHIBITS, PANELS, AND SPECIAL GUESTS!

“Give me a rundown,” he says, flipping through the pages, scanning the many pictures and standard haunted font. 

You stretch out on his bed but he’s already gotten over it, phone out as you scroll through the con schedule. “Alright, so there’s three main areas. The exhibit hall where we’ve got cursed artifacts and overpriced ghost-hunting gear. The panel rooms where people talk about their haunted houses, near-death experiences, or whatever. And the main stage, which is where they do the big interviews, and stuff.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, processing the information. “And is there any particular reason they decided to hold it in the dead of the night instead of the day like normal fucking people?”

“Witching hours, Barnes,” you tsk. “It’s a paranormal convention. You gotta commit to the bit.”

Decidedly terrible. 

“We’re also live streaming for both days, so we gotta hit all the big stuff. Maya said if we don’t get enough footage, she’s making us do another investigation next week, and I am not getting locked in another basement with you.”

Bucky’s lip curls up inadvertently at the four hours you spent blindly stumbling around together after your flashlight ran out of juice. “You think I wanted that?”

“I think you pray every night to get locked in basements with me.” You sit up and grin. “Also, you’re fine with suffering in silence. I, however, am not. We’re making content.”

Bucky does not suffer in silence. His favourite thing to do in the world is whine and bitch. 

“Do I have to be on camera?” 

You squint at him. “One of us has to hold it because I don’t want to freak out a bunch of trigger happy ghost hunters with a floating recording rig, so I guess-”

“I got it,” he interrupts. “I’ll hold it. Love holding cameras. Love it.” 

You raise an eyebrow, but there’s a smile on your face. “I have a feeling you’re gonna have a great two days.”

Bucky doesn’t feel the same, but he doesn’t not feel the same. 

You instead grab his remote and flip through his channels on his bed, even though there is a perfectly usable room across the hall booked specficially for you.

There is a strange tug in his stomach at the sight.

He immediately makes a face.

"What?" you ask him. "I didn't even pick a show yet."

"Move."

"No."

Bucky settles on the bed after shoving you ungracefully out of the way.

You cling to the bed for dear life, holding on out of spite.

He's kind of glad you refuse to get out of his personal space.

He’s right. Well, half right.  

Bucky knew this was going to be bad.

He did not, however, realize just how bad it could be, considering he’d always skipped out on large conventions and gatherings. Those were more Clint and Sam’s speed.

If he thought the hotel was packed, the convention center is even worse. Crowded hallways, groups of people huddled together, debating ghost sightings and cryptid encounters.

There are panels happening in three different rooms, vendor booths stretching as far as the eye can see, and a worrying amount of sage in the air. 

Some guy in a trench coat brushes past, carrying a full-sized Ouija board under his arm like a briefcase.

Bucky holds steadily onto the camera gimbal.

“Welcome to Day One of ParanormalCon!” The announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeakers, followed by a loud screech from the microphone feedback. 

Bucky visibly recoils.

The guy continues regardless, “We have amongst us today enthusiasts of the supernatural, the supernatural themselves. Be sure to check out all the exhibits, the panels, the mystery, and of course, our special guest speakers!”

A wave of polite applause across the convention from whoever was still listening. He’s sure the guy made the same announcement every hour. 

Bucky checks to make sure he has fully charged the camera, and checks his pockets for extra SD cards and batteries. 

“Don’t miss our exclusive panel with the author of best-selling ghost erotic novella Ghost Lusters--”

He exhales sharply through his nose, especially considering a copy of the book lay on unread on his nightstand. A very unwanted gift from you, signed and with a note addressed to him on the front page so everyone knew it was his.

“--and, of course, tomorrow’s highly anticipated panel with the stars of The Graveyard Shift, the latest paranormal sensation!”

There’s another round of applause.

Then there’s Bucky.

“What?”

It’s loud. It’s too loud. Several people turn to look.

You make a noise in the back of your throat and step slightly to the left, creating some distance like you don’t know him, still peering into your phone. 

“What do you mean ‘special guests The Graveyard Shift?’” he demands. 

“Hmm, yeah we’re scheduled for a panel discussion,” you correct, not looking up at him.

Bucky turns fully toward you now. “What the hell does that mean?”

You squint at the screen, scrolling through messages. “Apparently that’s why Maya sent us here.”

His stomach drops.

“And when,” he says, voice carefully level, dangerously calm, “was anyone gonna tell me that?”

“Mmm.” You tilt your head. “They weren’t. To me either, apparently, because they didn’t trust me to not tell you. Because then you’d make a run for it.”

Bucky stares.

“Yeah,” you add, scrolling further. “They literally said, ‘Don’t tell Bucky, or he’ll make a run for it.’”

Bucky hisses like a feral cat. “I am not going on that stage.”

Your face pulls into exaggerated shock. “You’re really gonna send me up there alone? In front of a bunch of people who clearly know more than us?”

“Without a doubt.” 

“Wow.” You shake your head, letting the disappointment sink in for all of two seconds before your face resets like nothing happened. “Yeah, no, I figured. I already texted Maya and told her I’d do it by myself.”

Bucky blinks.

“Oh,” he says.

“She wasn’t happy about it.”

“Rarely is, when it comes to me,” he mutters.

“I’m heading down that path too, it seems.” You pocket your phone. “Anyway. Vlog time. This camera should last us the whole day, but you got your phone in case?”

“It’s on 20%.”

“That’s fine, no one’s calling you anyway.” You clap him on the back.

Bucky exhales slowly.

It was going to be a long 2 days. 

The con floor is something out of his nightmares.

People are everywhere, packed shoulder to shoulder, moving in clusters, stopping without warning in the middle of walkways like NPCs with broken pathfinding.

Someone in a full Slenderman suit glides past, which is just. Fantastic.

Bucky follows behind you, camera held up, watching you navigate the space like you were born for this.

You’ve got a big smile on your face as you point out artefacts and people with an explanation for each.

He may not be the most comfortable, but hearing you prattle on about lycanthropy makes it oddly better. 

You move through the crowd easily, glancing between the camera feed and the con map on your phone, while he keeps an eye on the people in the room.

He doesn’t even mind them. He’s not made one comment so far, which is a personal record.

It’s just that most of them stare at him the second he walks past like he’s got a neon sign hanging above his head pointing out that something is strange about his presence.

Which could be because he was generally off-putting and weird, but the way they were staring at him makes him believe it was something else entirely. 

"You know, this is kinda fun," you say, stepping around a guy holding up a ‘Bigfoot is My Dad’ sign.

Bucky does not respond.

You laugh, undeterred. “Already got you to one, it’s only a matter of time.”

He hates that you’re right. 

A speaker crackles overhead, making both of you glance up as another announcement rings through the venue.

“Attention attendees! The séance demonstration will begin shortly in Hall C. Please remember- do not antagonize the spirits.”

Bucky stares at the speaker. . “What the hell does that mean?”

You grin. “How does it feel, knowing you could absolutely get possessed in the next twenty-four hours?”

“I’m not joking,” he warns. “If anyone even touches me, I’m leaving.” 

“Good, keep that energy. Makes for a great thumbnail.”

In a split second, you snap a picture.

He blinks. 

“I’m keeping this one. You look especially handsome when you’re mad,” you note, observing the picture. “No wonder everyone’s all over you in our comments. I got competition.”

He watches you very calmly stuff your phone back into your pocket and start walking ahead like nothing happened.

For the first time that day, Bucky already knows this is going to piss him off. 

He just doesn’t know how much yet.

“What are we walking toward?” 

“There’s a guy that says he can astral project himself.”

“What?”

“His consciousness leaves his physical body and travels to the astral plane, but in his case, we can actually see his conscience separate from his body.”

“So there’s gonna be two of him?”

“Well, apparently this is just his astrally projected self.”

His eye twitches. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t think his physical body is here,” you say, scanning the crowd ahead.

"His physical body isn't here," he repeats, deadpan.

“Yep.”

“Then how the fuck is he here?”

You grin, already relishing how much this is going to ruin his day.

The crowd is way too excited about this.

You and Bucky push toward the front of the roped-off area, where a dramatic announcer in a cape stands next to a spotlight-covered chair.

Bucky doesn’t like any of this.

“Welcome,” the announcer calls, hands clasped together, “to the extraordinary phenomenon of astral projection!”

People oooh and ahhh. 

“Before we reveal one of nature’s most unexplainable wonders,” the announcer continues, “we ask that you refrain from crossing the barrier. Touching the astral projection is strictly prohibited.”

The spotlight clicks on.

“Behold.” She sweeps an arm toward the display. “Mr. Astro himself.”

A man sits in a chair. Motionless.

Eyes closed. Hands on his thighs. Pale, glowing blue. His skin shimmers faintly under the stage lights, like a goddamn glowstick.

He is shirtless but wearing pants, rocking a thick mustache, looking very, very peaceful.

The audience gasps.

Bucky looks around, watching them stare in awe.

He leans closer to you. “What are they all looking at?”

“That,” you whisper.

“What?”

“That he’s astrally projecting.”

Bucky squints hard. “Where?”

“Right there,” you say, motioning toward the man. “Can’t you see it?”

Bucky turns, eyes narrowing at the guy. “It’s just a guy sitting in a chair.”

“Exactly.”

Bucky blinks, processing. “What?”

“You see him,” you say, nodding like this is the most profound thing in the world. “Which means you can see his astral projection.”

Bucky’s brain actually stalls.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I see him because he’s right there.”

The guy next to you shushes Bucky loudly.

“This is the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen,” he whispers aggressively.

“Behold,” the announcer repeats. “His physical body is at home, resting.”

Bucky fucking hates it here.

"Just touch him," he says, voice low and dangerous.

"Sir," an attendant immediately warns, stepping closer, "you are not allowed to touch the astral projection."

Bucky’s head snaps toward him.

"The what?”

“The astral projection,” the attendant repeats. “It is strictly prohibited to make physical contact.”

Bucky looks at the guy. Then at the attendant. Then back at the guy in the chair.

“Just touch him,” Bucky repeats, growing increasingly frustrated. “He’s right there.”

“Sir, you need to move along--”

"Fucking Christ.” Bucky runs a hand down his face, physically forcing himself to walk away before he loses whatever is left of his patience.

As he moves past, the guy cracks one eye open, looking directly at him.

Bucky glares.

The guy closes his eye again.

Bucky exhales violently, one second away from walking into the woods and never returning.

“Good job, Buck,” you say, clapping him on the back. “You totally ruined his astral projection with your bitching.”

“He was sitting there in blue paint like a fucking Avatar, that’s not astral projecti--”

Bucky is still muttering under his breath about Mr. Astro and his bullshit astro body glitter when you drag him toward the vendor booths.

There are stalls selling everything. There’s even a guy doing aura readings in the corner, staring at people way too intensely.

He’s barely recovered from the last stunt when you veer off-course, pausing in front of a booth displaying protection sigils and tattoo designs.

“Oh,” you say, voice casual, flipping through a binder. “Would you ever get a tattoo?”

“No.”

“You answered that real fast.”

“Because it’s a hard no.”

You hum, still flipping through the pages. “What if I designed it?”

“Even more of a no.”

“How rude.”

“Why did you think that would work?” 

“Because,” you say smoothly, “people in love often get tattoos together.”

“Usually a terrible decision,” he asserts. 

“Speak for yourself.” You scoff. “I’d get this one right now if you agreed.”

He rolls his eyes at the random design you hold up. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You’d get a tattoo with me?”

Your eyes barely flick up. “Why is that your question? Why didn’t you question the ‘in love’ part?”

“I’ve got this thing where I automatically filter out most of the shit you say.”

“Oh, have you? That’s romantic, you know.”

“Give it a rest,” he says, picking up a tattoo design and pretending to be interested in it just to avoid looking at you. “Besides, everyone knows you’re in love with me. No point acknowledging it.”

Your entire face lights up.

“Bzzt, wrong,” you say loudly. “Not everyone knows. Only most people.”

“Better get right on that.”

“I’m trying to get on that but you’re not letting me,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows.

Bucky looks to the heavens for patience.

“What tattoo do you want to get together?” you push, grinning.

“I don’t.”

“Stick to one answer, you flip-flopping son of a bitch.”

“Fine.” He pauses, then settles on a firm, “No.”

“You hurt me so much every day.” You clutch your chest. “All I do is be nice to you--”

“You’ve almost broken my window several times.”

“From feral longing. All I do is show you kindness--”

“You tie-dyed my shirt.”

“You have seventy-five black shirts, pick another one and cry about it.”

“Wow,” Bucky deadpans. “Kindness.”

“Just say you don’t want me and put me out of my misery.”

His eyes narrow, instinctively snapping back, “Never said that.”

You stare at him, waiting.

Bucky just stares back, expression unreadable the second it leaves his mouth. 

“Oh my god.” Your mouth drops open when he doesn’t add anything else. “Are you saying I have a chance?”

Bucky turns on his heel and walks away.

“Excuse me?” you yell after him, immediately discarding what you were holding. “Come back here and explain yourself. I love you.”

Bucky walks fast.

You walk faster.

“You know, there’s a playground behind the hotel. Be a big boy and play with the sand instead of my feelings.”

Bucky does not respond.

He picks up his pace, determined to lose you in the crowd, but it’s no use.

You’re tenacious. Like a bloodhound. A very annoying, very persistent bloodhound.

“Come here, loverboy,” you yell, finally catching up. “I demand clarity.”

“No.”

“I think you love me.”

Bucky exhales so hard it should’ve put out a small fire.

Before you can continue your line of attack, a voice interrupts.

“Oh, what a tormented aura,” someone says.

Both of you turn toward the source.

A woman sits behind a booth stacked high with charms, protective amulets, and little glass vials of salt. She wears dark clothes, and so much jewelry.

She locks eyes directly with him.

“You,” she says, leaning forward. “You are not alone.”

“Excuse me?”

Her expression darkens. “Something follows you. Always in step.”

“Yeah, can’t you see this fuckin' pest?” he asks, jutting a thumb towards you.

“You just said you’re in love with me.”

“I did not,” he bites. 

“No. Something not in this realm,” she says, voice low. 

You slowly turn to Bucky. “Oh, this is fun.”

He glares at you. “Shut up.”

The vendor ignores this. She tilts her head, scanning him with an intensity that is deeply uncomfortable.

“They have strong emotions,” she murmurs. “It is almost like torment.”

Bucky’s entire face locks up. “What?”

“You are not the only one carrying your burdens,” she continues. “You have a presence that lingers with you.”

“Holy shit.” You turn to him immediately. “You’re being haunted?”

“I am not.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes wide with delight. “This is the best day of my life.”

“I am not being haunted,” Bucky repeats, teeth clenched.

The vendor nods gravely. “He is.”

Bucky gives her a look.

She does not falter.

You clap your hands together. “I cannot believe you were gonna hide this from me.”

Bucky looks like he wants to walk into traffic.

“Oh, what’s the ghost like?” you ask, practically vibrating. “Is it vengeful? Does it like to follow you around? Does it ever like, I don’t know, whisper ominously in your ear at night?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Do you ever see it?”

Bucky rubs his temples. “I am not talking about this.”

“Oh, you’re absolutely talking about this. I think I deserve to know if my boyfriend is being haunted.”

“Not your boyfriend.”

“You literally just said you wanted me, you-”

“This will protect you,” she says, reaching nto a box and pulls out a small charm. “Twenty dollars.”

Bucky stares at her.

Then at the charm.

Then back at her.

“You should buy it,” you say immediately.

Bucky glares. “I should punch you in the throat.”

“You should absolutely buy it.”

He does not. He turns on his heel and walks away, towards Mr Astro and his not-physically-here body, because he prefers that over feeling very attacked from every direction.

The guy is still sitting in his chair.

Some of the blue near his hairline is smudged off, beads of sweat glistening under the bright stage lights.

He looks mildly uncomfortable.

Bucky, standing a few feet away, free arm crossed over his chest, deeply suspicious, narrows his eyes at him.

The guy cracks one eye open.

Bucky asks wearily, “Do you even want to be here, man?”

The guy shuts his eye again.

_______

Bucky is starting to get tired of people trying to sell him things for his tormented aura. 

It’s also nearly midnight, and you’ve been here for hours already.

He thinks he has seen everything the con has to offer and more. Perhaps he could even skip the next day. 

Which is exactly why you drag him further into the con chaos.

"C’mon, Buck, you’re missing out,” you say, weaving through the crowd like this is your natural habitat.

“I am not missing out,” he mutters. “’m actively avoiding. There’s a difference.”

You ignore him, because of course you do.

Bucky trudges behind you as he always does.

To the left, there’s a booth with ‘Genuine Werewolf Hair’ in tiny glass jars. Suspicious.

To the right, some dude is holding a full exorcism consultation like it’s a casual business transaction. Deeply concerning.

Ahead, a vendor is selling extremely cursed-looking mirrors, each one labeled with ominous tags like “Do Not Look Into This At Night” and “Object May Contain Attached Entity.”

A guy in a Mothman costume poses for pictures near an exhibit about unsolved disappearances.

And then, of course, there’s the die-hard conspiracy theorists.

"Oh shit, Bucky, look." You point toward a makeshift stage area, where a man in a wrinkled suit is gesturing dramatically at a whiteboard with a detailed diagram of the moon.

"The moon landing was faked,” he declares, voice booming through a barely functional microphone. “And NASA has been covering it up for decades.”

Bucky’s face twitches.

You immediately pull out your phone. “We’re watching this.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes, we are.”

You both end up standing there for ten full minutes.

It is a mistake.

By minute two, the guy is ranting about shadows and camera angles. By minute five, he’s talking about secret government bases on the dark side of the moon.

By minute eight, he’s making direct eye contact with Bucky.

"You there, sir!" he calls, pointing. “You look like a man who’s seen the truth!”

Bucky stiffens.

“Would you like to share your opinion on NASA’s involvement in the biggest lie in American history?”

Bucky slowly opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Reopens it.

Then at last--

Bucky turns and walks away.

The guy blinks.

You hold back laughter “Stop, you’re ruining your chance at being on Fox News.”

"You’re the worst person I’ve ever met,” Bucky mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“No, I’m your best friend,” you correct. “And that’s so much worse for you.”

After two hours of wandering the convention floor, being forced to look at ghost-hunting equipment, and listening to the guy in the Mothman suit explain his spiritual connection to the cryptid, Bucky grows sort of interested. Which is worse than actually being done. 

You're thriving.

"Alright," you say, scrolling through the event schedule. "We’ve still got some time before we have to stream at the main stage, so where do you wanna go next?”

Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You think I wanna go anywhere?”

"You haven’t left yet, have you?” you challenge, still looking at your phone. “Alright, well, there’s a panel on spirit photography, a paranormal VR experience-”

“Absolutely not.”

“--or we could go to the past-life regression hypnosis booth.”

Bucky pauses. “What?” 

You grin, flashing him your phone screen. "Says here they’re doing a free group session.”

"Not a chance in hell."

"Oh, come on," you say. "It could be fun. What if we find out you were, like, a 16th-century poet or some shit?"

Bucky stares at you.

"I’ve died before. If I go, it’ll tell me I was me,” he deadpans. 

You scoff. “Okay, but what if it says you were like, a farmer before that?”

"No."

"You are so boring," you groan.

“You just tried to drag me into a fake hypnosis session.”

"The poster says it’s legit scientific!”

“Oh, then by all means, they must be right.”

"You literally came back from the dead and you’re still doubting past lives? You just don't wanna go because you're scared it's gonna say you were a cockroach or some shit."

Bucky opens his eyes, deadpan, ready to retaliate when a voice interrupts.

“Wait, so you guys really are just like that in real life?”

Both of you turn.

A group of con-goers stands nearby, staring with mild fascination.

You blink. “Us?”

“Oh my,” one of them breathes. “You both are so much worse in real life. We only get the edited version.”

And just like that, it happens.

The first person notices you. Then another. Then another.

It starts as a trickle, just a few curious looks, but then the recognition spreads.

The group grows. People start turning, whispering.

And then, like a goddamn avalanche you’re swarmed.

“Holy shit, are you guys filming right now?”

“Do you guys actually believe in ghosts or is it just for the show?”

“Are you guys dating?”

“Who wins in fights more?”

Bucky clenches his jaw.

You, on the other hand, light up like a fucking Christmas tree.

And then you do the absolute worst thing you could do in this situation.

You start feeding into it.

“Oh, boy do I have answers for you,” you say, grinning. “You wanna know who wins in fights? Me, obviously.”

“That is a fucking lie,” Bucky responds immediately. 

“He’s haunted, by the way,” you tell them.

Bucky’s head snaps toward you. "I am not."

And then your phone buzzes.

And then it keeps buzzing, frequency only increasing until you’re concerned that someone has actually died.

It goes absolutely wild. 

You finally whip it out, holding a hand up to the crowd for a quick pause, turning away for a second to check what the fuck was going on.  

Bucky barely registers it at first, still caught up in his escalating war with the growing crowd who wanted to know whether he actually saw a cryptid or was it just a prank.

But then you freeze. Your entire expression shifts.

Bucky’s brain takes a second to catch up. He sees the way your shoulders stiffen, how your posture goes rigid as you look at your screen.

And then he sees it.

The onslaught of notifications you ignore as your phone screen floods.

Bucky only catches a glimpse of it, but it’s enough.

There’s a headline, all caps, stretched across your phone screen. 

His eyes snap to yours, but you’ve turned on your heel, shoving your way through the crowd.

Bucky reacts immediately. “Wait-”

You don’t answer. You’re already moving fast.

Bucky moves to follow, but the crowd’s already lost one part of the crew, and they certainly were not going to lose the second.  

More people push in, asking questions, talking over each other, swarming.

Bucky grits his teeth.

You disappear into the crowd.

Bucky stares after you, and then at the livestream camera, still rolling.

How the fuck does he turn this shit off. 

It takes ten full minutes for Bucky to dig himself out of this mess.

By the time he manages to break away, there’s already a thread of frustration curling tight in his chest.

The livestream is still running.

Bucky stares at the interface, clicking through random buttons, trying to find the off switch.

The camera flips.

Shit.

Now it's just his face, tired and unimpressed, staring directly into the lens.

He exhales slowly. “Fucking-- whatever.”

He clicks something.

The screen goes black.

After Maya’s third ignored call and just letting his phone die so it would stop buzzing, and after shoving his way past the last group of people still trying to ask him questions, he heads straight for the hotel floor.

First he checks his room, but no dice. So he turns his attention to the room across the hall. 

His knuckles rap against the door, firm and quick.

No answer.

He knocks again, harder this time, ears straining to hear any signs of life. 

Then finally, he hears footsteps. The faint shuffle of movement before the door unlocks and swings open.

You stand there, leaning against the frame, already out of the clothes you wore to the con. 

Expression calm. A little tired. But you look fine.

Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. Just scans your face, looking for something, anything.

“You okay?” he asks finally.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

He doesn't know how he knows, and quite frankly, why it’s a bone-feeling when a few months ago, he didn’t even know who you are.

But he can tell the answer is too easy. It’s too quick.

Bucky doesn’t quite believe you. But he doesn’t push.

“Alright.”

You shrug, stepping back inside. “Maya’s freaking out.”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

You shuffle, throwing yourself onto the bed. “Shit happens,” you mutter. “It’s whatever. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

There’s a part of him that wants to call bullshit.

Wants to ask questions, press for details, push until you actually say what’s on your mind.

But he doesn’t.

So instead-  

“Alright,” he says again, turning to leave. “Get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, already pulling the blankets over you. “You too.”

He hesitates at the door, but you’ve turned away from him.  

So he just leaves. 

Bucky doesn’t sleep.

He remembers the trials by court and media, remembers how anything he did made headlines for month. It was easier to slink back and stay away from people than to feel like he had to justify every move he made in public. 

Every new discovery in court of leaked Hydra documents, of testimonies from informants, all eager to know exactly what had happened to him, what he had done as if he wasn’t a fucking person. Like he didn’t have a right to keep some things to himself. Like he was just a stone-cold, barren cadaver ready to be dissected. 

He turns in bed, ratty sheets feeling too hot all of a sudden. 

He didn’t want people to talk to him. He doesn’t know if that’s what you want.  He doesn’t want to assume because plenty of people are assuming things on your behalf right now. 

From Buck: awake?

From Steve: Are you guys safe?

From Buck: yeah. we’re at the hotel.

From Steve: Next steps?

From Buck: do i just pretend like nothing happened

From Steve: Is that what you want to do? 

From Buck: i dont know 

He pauses, letting his fingers hover before he types. 

From Buck: no 

From Buck: i dont want to overstep

From Steve: You’ll know if you are. You know each other.

Bucky swallows back a tightness in his throat.

From Steve: Let me know how it goes. 

And so he hastily shoots you a text, asking if you're up. 

He waits for a response to a text that would in any other circumstance have you asking if he was booty calling you. 

The message doesn’t even say delivered. 

It’s past 1am when Bucky’s knocks to your door get no response. 

He presses his ear to the door like before.

There’s nothing, not late night sounds of television, not sheets rustling, no air conditioner hum. 

You’re not in your hotel room.

And you’re not even in his hotel room, which is more worrying than the last.

And so he starts looking.

At first, he thinks maybe you just needed a walk. Something to clear your head. But when he circles the floor twice, the side entrance, the lobby, and there’s still no sign of you. 

He knew you had to be somewhere away from the noise. 

He doubts you’d have gone back to the convention. There was no library in the hotel, he checked. You couldn't have left because he knows you would have told him. 

Right? 

The more he thinks about it, the more the uneasiness settles in because you never actually told him if you’d ever waited to say bye to the places you’d left. 

He shakes it out of his head and instead zeroes in on raking through his memories of the day. 

Any sort of clue, anything about the center, the hotel-- until something finally clicks. 

Bucky cuts through the lot, past the street, toward the small stretch of open space behind the hotel.

An empty playground, just far enough from everything to be quiet.

The cold air of the night does nothing to help soothe the nerves that are building, and the lack of any people around admittedly makes it worse, but he’s daring to hope for once that maybe he’s right, and that Steve was right and he knows you enough that--

And there you are.

You’re seated on one end of the old metal see-saw. The only movement around is the slow, steady rhythm of the old metal structure shifting up and down. Except there’s no one on the other end.

You’re moving it with your mind. A small push, just enough to tip your weight, then another to pull yourself back up. A slow, mindless repetition. Like you’re not even thinking about it.

Bucky exhales through his nose. Forces himself to unclench his fists and loosen the tightness in his chest. 

Finally, he steps forward.

You don’t look up.

He walks toward the see-saw, before crouching slightly. 

Then, without a word, he presses his palm against the other end and pushes.

The motion is smooth. Subtle.

The second he adds his own force, you slow your own down, letting him take over.

The see-saw goes up and down. And repeats and repeats and repeats. 

It’s quiet for a long time, except for the mechanical whine from the rusted playset. 

“You’re up late,” Bucky says at least.

“I’m always up late,” you reply, voice almost a hum.

“Y’mind?”

You don’t answer right away. Just give a small, half-hearted shrug.

He takes that as permission and keeps his hand pressed to the see-saw, moving it up and down, keeping the motion steady.

A few more beats of silence. He lets it play out the way it wants to.

“I’m fine, you know.” Your voice is carefully even.

Bucky doesn’t respond.

“I mean,” you continue, and then under all the calculated responses, he hears that tiredness he’s been expecting, “I knew this was coming.”

“That what Nat was talking to you about?” he asks. “The other night?”

“Yeah.”

The see-saw creaks softly.

“Yep,” you reply. “She heard from sources that people were looking into it. It was just a matter of when.”

Bucky shifts his weight, keeping the rhythm smooth. “It’ll die down.”

You let out a slow breath.

“After Nat leaked all of SHIELD’s files, it was bad for a while. And look where everyone is now,” he continues.

You glance at him.

Bucky continues to look only at fulcrum, a slight crease between his brows. 

“Did you read it?” you ask, voice quieter now.

“What? The leaked files?”

“The article,” you clarify. “About me.”

Bucky keeps the see-saw moving. Steady.

“No,” he finally admits. 

The seesaw comes to a halt, with you paused in air. 

“You didn’t?”

Bucky avoids your gaze, but answers steadily, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t think you’d want me to.” His fingers press a little harder into the see-saw handle, insistent. “Besides, what’s a fuckin’ article gonna tell me that being stuck with you every day won’t?”

Your lips twitch.

Bucky pulls the see-saw bar back up, watching you lower back down.

When he sneaks a peek at you, there’s a small smile on your face.

When you’re close to the ground, he pushes the handle back down so you’re lifted into the air again.

“Did you read it?” He clears his throat.

“About half.”

“What’d you think?”

You shrug. “It’s all facts. Don’t really have an opinion on it.”

Another long pause. Bucky feels like he should have more to say but he finds his mind blank. 

You push out a slow breath. “Got that panel tomorrow.”

“I remember.”

“Maya texted me. Told me to lay low, stay out of sight till it’s over.” Your lips pull into a straight line.

“What does lay low mean?” Bucky questions, still keeping his focus on the see-saw. 

“No leaving the compound. No interviews, no posting, no official statements, no videos,” you recite, voice dry. “Especially no panel tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, like he already knows where this is going. “But you’re gonna do it anyway.”

There’s a small pause. He wonders if he miscalculated. 

Your voice comes back slightly surprised. “I am.”

“Good.” He nods. “You got no reason to hide.”

“You think so?” you ask, voice lighter now, almost amused.

“Yeah,” Bucky says with no hesitation. “And I hate most of your ideas, so that should tell you something.”

You let out a small laugh.

It’s silent for a while as the see-saw moves up and down, with you seated on one end as Bucky maneuvers it from the other.

“I know what she’s saying is the logical thing to do,” you say eventually. “But I don’t know. I just feel-”

“Trapped,” he says simply.

You swallow the stone in your throat.

Bucky doesn’t look at you when he speaks. Just keeps his hand steady on the bar. 

He knows it’s why you jump from place to place. What happened at the clock tower may have confirmed it, but he’d picked up on every breadcrumb in the last few months whether you’ liked it or not. Why you left when the café lady gave you keys to a home. Why you didn’t like closed doors, routine, time loops. Why you hadn’t picked a new codename even though you’d been here months. Anything that makes you feel like you’re tied down, anything that makes you feel trapped again with no room to breathe.

The see-saw tips slightly.

You let out a long, slow breath.

“I just don’t want to feel the way I used to there,” you admit.

Bucky nods. “I know.”

“Every day was the same. And everything looked the same, and everyone was the same,” you say, voice quieter now. “Staying still leaves you exposed.”

“I know,” Bucky repeats.

“Not everyone does,” you say, staring at the sky. “I don’t leave a place because I don’t like the people there anymore-- but sticking around for too long feels like…”

“Another trap,” he finishes.

You glance at him.

He shrugs. “You got no reason to explain. I get it.”

Except, the reason why he’s stayed at the same place for so long is the same reason you couldn’t. Bucky liked stability. He likes being rooted. 

You exhale a small laugh. “Lived a thousand lives, huh.”

”And then some,” he says, pushing the handle down, slow and deliberate. “Maya’s just another person. Do whatever you want.”

You study him. The way his jaw flexes just slightly, the way his fingers press into the metal bar, like he’s already thinking about what comes next.

“There’s gonna be a lot more eyes on me now.” Your voice is careful, testing. “On you too, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

“Wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to end the show.”

“I’m aware,” he says again. “But ‘m fine. Got all these batteries I need to use somehow.”

He lets a hush fall between you as you contemplate your next words. 

“Do you ever get used to it all?”

His grip tightens, just for a second. Then--

“I didn’t.”

It’s a quiet confession. One that sits between you for a moment, stretching out into the cool night air.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s the same for you,” he continues. “You’ll figure it out.” 

Then finally he looks at you. Really looks.

Something that lingers. Something weighty. It makes your stomach stumble and your breath catch.  

His mouth twitches, just barely. Not a smile, not quite. But close.

“Spotlight looks better on you anyway,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

The morning is quiet.

Not in the world outside, though. The internet is still on fire, messages still flooding in, theories spiraling out of control.

But in the hotel, it’s different.

The air in the room is still. Heavy static waiting to shock someone. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, scrolling through nothing, really. You keep opening and closing the same apps, flipping between blank notes and unsent messages.

Bucky watches from where he stands, leaning against the doorframe.

He knows that look. The anticipation before impact.

“You eat yet?” 

You glance at him. “Not hungry.”

He doesn’t push. Just nods. “You will be later.”

Your lips twitch, but no real smile.

Bucky doesn’t like the flatness behind your expression.

But he doesn’t call it out. Not yet.

Instead, he asks, “You sure about this?”  

You look at him. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“You do,” Bucky says, matter-of-fact. “Always.”

You blink.

Your gaze flickers.

“Yeah,” you say, voice a little softer. “I know. But I feel like I owe it to myself.”

Bucky holds your stare for a second.

He pushes off the doorframe, straightening.

“You got time to kill,” he says. “You should eat something.”

You roll your eyes. “Bucky-

“You should eat something,” he repeats, firmer this time.

A pause.

Then, begrudgingly, you stand.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Whatever. You’re buying.”

“Absolutely not,” he remarks, as if wasn’t fully intending to before you even asked. 

“Dick.”

“You brought me here, you’re paying.”

He lets you lead the way, wait until you’re ahead of him to let out a small sigh of relief. 

_____

The hallways are buzzing.

Everywhere you look people are talking, whispering, staring. Some subtle, some not.

Bucky walks beside you, shoulders squared, pace steady.

The closer you get to the panel, the more the weight in your chest presses down.

It’s not fear, not exactly.

It’s the knowing that all eyes are on you. Knowing the second you step on that stage, this all becomes very real.

“Y’okay?” Bucky asks, voice low.

You exhale slowly. “Yeah.”

“Liar.”

You huff a small laugh.

Even as the crowd thickens, even as you near the panel doors, the noise rising, the air buzzing with anticipation, Bucky keeps a steady pace beside you.

Just in a way that says he’s around.

The second you step into the backstage area, a con staffer immediately moves toward you.

“Hey! Oh, great, you’re here.” They glance behind you, at Bucky, panicked like he wasn’t expecting him. “Is he--”

“Not on the panel,” you say, quick.

Bucky just shrugs. “Not on the panel.”

The staffer nods, relieved. “Okay, cool. Just making sure.”

They move to adjust something on their headset, then glance at you again. “Uh-- how are you feeling?”

“Grand.”

They nod again. “Okay, cool. If you need anything, let us know.”

You give them a smile, and they move away.

Bucky watches you for a long moment.

“What?” you ask, feeling a bit squirmish under the intensity of his stare.

“What?” he asks right back. “Don’t lie 'bout me out there.”

“The truth. Got it. So I should say you’re in love with me.”

“You can get your own ride home.” Still, it makes him feel better that you’re still somewhat okay. 

You throw a smile on, shaking the nerves out of your shoulders and standing more straight. “I should go.”

Bucky nods. “See you in a while.”

You take one last breath, and step onto the stage.

The lights are bright.

Clearly, there are more people than had attended the con yesterday because the front row is entirely stuffed with people with mics and notebooks.

The seats in the crowd stretch farther than they should, a sea of people watching, waiting. 

The air is thick with attention, the hum of voices settling as the moderator clears their throat and leans into the mic.

You drop into your chair way too casually, tossing a leg over your knee, leaning back with the complete ease of someone who has zero fear.

The moderator glances at you, vaguely unsettled by your energy because they clearly had not prepped for the absolute hellfire that is Maya dealing with a PR nightmare.

You had no doubt she had put the fear of God into that man the morning of, vetting and then re-vetting every single syllable that was to come out of his mouth. 

“Well,” he says, clearly trying to find footing. “We, uh-- we’re really excited to have you here, especially after everything that’s been going on.”

You grin. “What’s up?”

The moderator visibly stumbles. “You-- you mean, regarding the article?”

“Oh,” you say. “That. Yeah, wild week.”

He pauses.

“…Yeah?” he tries, attempting to meet you where you are.

You just blink at them. The audience is completely silent.

You shrug. “What about it?”

“Well,” he presses, clearly hoping for something, “given everything it exposed--"

“Sure.”

Another pause.

The moderator glances at his notes, clearly flustered.

“Oh-kay,” the moderator says, regrouping before quickly saying, “You know what, let’s open it up to audience questions.”

A ripple of excitement moves through the crowd as the first person grabs the mic hastily and stands before anyone even gets a chance to fight for it.

“Hey,” they say into the mic, clearly hyped. “Love the show, love your work. Just wanted to ask- does any of this change what you’re doing? Like, do you think your past is gonna affect the future of the show?”

You hum, taking a long break.

“Nah.”

Some people in the audience laugh.

The moderator looks like he’s breaking out into a cold sweat. You don’t even know what he’s so nervous about, unless Maya had held him at gunpoint the night before and threatened him. 

The next question comes.

“So, like, do you- do you regret not saying anything before?”

You tilt your head, squinting at them. “…Saying what?”

“About your past. About everything.”

“Oh.” You pause, nodding thoughtfully. “Nope.”

Maya was going to kill you, you think, unless she didn't die from a hemorrhage. 

Then, someone stands up, clearly a little hesitant. "Okay, so, uh- sorry if this is a weird question, but, like…"

They shift awkwardly.

“Did Bucky know?”

The room stills. Not in a bad way, not tense. Just expectant.

You tilt your head, raising your eyebrows slightly. Like you hadn’t considered that being a question.

“Bucky?” you repeat. 

“Or any of the Avengers really,” he adds quickly.

You reponse comes out slowly as you think, “Well, I don’t want to speak for him-" 

The crowd instead drowns you out immediately. A loud ripple of noise in surprise, excitement, recognition.

You blink, whipping our head to see where their eyes had diverted. 

You snort loudly when the fool steps into view, a scowl on his face and shoulders stiff like he would rather be literally anywhere else. 

“Oh,” you say, leaning back. “Look who decided to show up.”

Bucky doesn’t sit.

Just sweeps the mic off the moderator, turns toward the person who asked the question, and tilts his head slightly.

“Did I know?” he repeats.

They nod.

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah.”

The room buzzes.

He leans into the mic slightly.

“We live together,” he says, flat as anything, “What, you think I found out from Twitter?”

The audience laughs, tension in the room dissolving.

You grin.

The person with the question nods slowly. “Right. That makes sense.”

Bucky hums. Moves the mic away.

Then he reaches down and tugs a chair closer, flipping it around.

“Move, would ya?” he grunts, face slightly flushed. 

You silently move your chair to give him some space. 

He drops into it, not even bothering to look at you.

He doesn’t even say anything else, just sits. 

Close enough that his knee bristles with yours.

“Uh, good morning.” The moderator stares at him, shuffling through cards rapidly as someone hands him another mic. 

“Morning,” Bucky says, voice gruff.

“We weren’t expecting you.”

“I’m in the show too.”

“Well, yes, but-”

“So ask me questions too,” Bucky grunts.

You glance at his knee still touching yours. Then at him, expecting him to pull away.

Instead, Bucky just shifts, adjusting so he’s comfortable.

He doesn’t move away, just sends you a curt nod, clears his throat and looks straight ahead. 

It brings a stupid big grin to your face. 

The whole thing goes by quickly, question after question, answers delivered with just the right balance of stupidity and earnestness. 

Bucky had sat beside you the whole time, occasionally muttering some dry remark into the mic, mostly just letting you take the lead.

Things feel good. Not as heavy as the world did the night before. 

The moment you step off stage, you exhale sharply, shaking out your hands.

“That was fun,” you say.

“For you,” he responds dryly.

“That’s why it was fun.”

You glance at him as you walk, stepping through the side exit toward the quieter halls behind the venue.

People glance your way as you pass. Staff, attendees, lingering eyes that recognize you now.

Bucky doesn’t like that.

Doesn’t like the sharp shift in the air, the new weight of attention that seems to cling to you heavier than before.

But you’re still walking easy. Still comfortable in your own skin.

It makes him feel something he can’t quite name. 

He didn’t even think he had feelings like those anymore. It deeply bothers him that he doesn’t immediately hate it. 

A staff member nods at you as you pass. "Great panel."

You flash them a grin, throwing up a lazy thumbs-up. "Hell yeah, it was."

Bucky shakes his head, exhaling through his nose. "You're insufferable."

"You love it."

"Not even a little."

"Liar."

Bucky doesn't immediately deny it.

He just keeps walking.

You catch it, smirking slightly but let it slide.

A few more turns, and the noise of the main venue fades into a distant hum.

Bucky watches you roll your shoulders, adjusting slightly, as if releasing the last bit of energy from the stage.

Channelling the last bit of insane energy from the last day, he says-

“You looked good up there.”

You freeze mid-step. Just for half a second.

You turn your head, slow blink, slow grin. "Oh?"

Bucky regrets it immediately.

"Ohhhh?" you drag, delighted.

Bucky presses his lips into a thin line. Keeps walking. "Forget I said anything."

"Oh, no, absolutely not." You catch up, shifting to walk backwards in front of him, grinning the whole time. "Bucky Barnes, ladies and gentlemen. Giving me a genuine fucking compliment."

Bucky looks to the ceiling like he’s begging for an escape.

“Truly, a rare occurrence,” you continue. "I gotta savor this moment. Hold on, let me memorize every word. Can you repeat it, but this time do it way slower."

"You are the worst person I've ever met."

"Say it again."

"Absolutely not."

"C'mon, one more time."

"Nope."

"You looked good up there," you mimic, voice devastatingly low and serious.

Bucky shoves you. You laugh, almost tripping over your own feet.

When the teasing fades slightly, he catches you looking at him for real this time.

Bucky shifts slightly. Looks away. 

"Hey," you say, voice lighter now. "Thanks."

Bucky keeps his eyes forward. 

"Yeah," he mutters. "Whatever."

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As with everything, the Avengers refused to be normal when it came to planning Christmas. A giant tree had already been brought into the living room, with the bottom 3 feet already decked out in ornaments. Boxes upon boxes of ornaments– customised, traditional, passed down for years, new– lay at its base, waiting to be set up. 

Stockings had arrived in the mail, hot cocoa was being purchased by the pound, and the damn Christmas playlist had gotten boring 3 days into the month, but continued to play every single day like they were working in a grocery store. 

Bucky doesn’t really feel the cold as much as the others– spending 70 years in nothingfuck Siberia will do that to a guy. So while everyone wears ugly sweaters that you’ve gotten them with enthusiasm, he sticks to an ugly Christmas t-shirt you had custom made for him.

And felt-antlers. With bells. Because you stuck it on him and he never bothered taking it off. 

He’s fended off several attempts to get him to go carolling through the Tower. He did go to the soup kitchen to serve people the whole month, and shovelled snow from driveways for free. 

He thinks that’s good enough for Christmas Spirit.

“Bucky Barnes,” you announce, gliding into his personal space once more with practiced ease. “I have an idea for you.”

“Of course you do,” he says, voice like gravel after not using it the whole day. “Are you going to make another animal talk and then lie to me for months?”

“Lie to you for months?” you scoff, dropping your head into his lap, feet kicking up. “I literally fucking told you she talks, like multiple times. You’re the one who didn’t believe me.”

His hand instinctively moves to run over your scalp. “Oh I’m sorry, I’ll start taking everything you fucking say literally.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

He narrows his eyes. “Starting now.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“Starting now.”

“You’re my-–”

“Stop it. Get help.”

“You will never learn from your mistakes,” you tsk lightly, unperturbed. “I even told you she picked Alpine as her name, why the fuck would I lie about that?”

“I thought you talked to her like– I don’t know– an imaginary friend or some shit.”

“She’s not imaginary.”

“I know that now,” he hisses. “She’s been calling me a little bitch for the last 2 weeks every chance she gets.”

“Have you considered that perhaps it’s because you are, in fact, a little bitch?” you ask brightly. 

“I know that, doesn’t mean I wanna hear it every time she wants food.”

“You should get her one of those dispensers where she hits the button and it gives her food.”

Bucky grumbles, adjusting so you can be more comfortable, “It’s her Christmas present.”

“You’re a big ol’ softie,” you say approvingly, patting his thigh. “Speaking of Christmas presents, what did you get me?” 

“Didn’t get you shit.”

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t need to ask me for permission, ‘s a free country.”

You push up from his lap, glaring at him. “Did you get anyone presents?”

“I got Steve socks.”

“What about Sam?”

“Socks.”

“Nat?”

“So–”

“If you say socks, I’m gonna kill you.”

Bucky shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“Did you get me socks too?”

“No, they didn’t deliver in time. You'll get them next month.”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“You sound like the fucking Grinch.”

“Whatever.”

“You sound like Scrooge. You’re gonna have a 200 year old Bucky Barnes show up tonight and make you change all your ways and then you’ll be nice to me,” you say, laying your head back down on his lap. 

“I’m always nice to you,” he scoffs. Which is true. He even made sure the fucking temperature was to your liking, even though everyone had complained about it. 

“Liar. Anyway, that reminds me of what I came here to talk about. It’s so convenient that your personality is a natural segue into Scrooge. I think that says a lot about you.”

He stares at you. You grin at him. 

He rolls his eyes, glare dropping in favour of a small smile instead. 

“I found a Reddit post about how to summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future,” you say, pulling it up on your phone. “All you need is 2 red candles, and some blood and stuff.”

“Feel like you’ve skipped over a lot there.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m gonna get red candles delivered for the Tower anyway, and I’m sure the chalk from the seance we did a few months ago will be enough.”  

“While you’re at it, you can get yourself socks too and I’ll pretend it’s from me.”

“Stop.”

“I’ll put a note on it, if it helps.”

“It does not, I hate you.”

“Guess I’ll cancel the socks then.”

“I’ll kill you, Barnes.”

Finally, after a marathon of Die Hard, the Tower retreats into quiet. Everyone gets back to their floors, leaving only soft lights on and the faint hum of Eartha Kitt in the background.  

Bucky sits at the counter, waiting for you to get on with your scheme. 

There’s a plate of cookies beside him that was definitely supposed to last the whole week, but was depleting rapidly at a pace that was unjustifiable.

He looked comfortable. In a good mood, even.

You slid onto the chair across from him, a candle in each hand and your phone tucked between your shoulder and ear.

“Did you know,” you said, striking a match, “that if you perform a Yule invocation on the night of a waxing moon–”

He only chooses to listen, chewing absentmindedly. 

“—and speak the ancient lines passed down by account owners on Reddit—” The flame on the candle lights up your face. “—you can summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.”

He thinks you look nice in the candlelight. His head tilts lightly as you light the other one.  

“You mean like the story?”

“No, like the tax auditors. Yes, like the story.”

He slides a cookie over to you, which you accept. “It’s two nights before Christmas. I should be resting.”

“You’ve been resting all day.”

“I shoveled a driveway this morning.”

“For five minutes.”

You place the candle in a chipped ramekin you stole from the kitchen. The second one wobbles slightly before finding its balance.  

“You know,” he said eventually, “for someone who claims to hate rules, you love rituals.”

“Completely different.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, taking another bite before asking casually, “How’s this month been for you?”

You look at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is this a performance review?”

He shrugs. “Christmas tends to be a lot. Family this, family that. First year here was incredibly claustrophobic.”

You draw a little diagram on the counter with a sketch pen. He’d have to wipe that off later.

“It’s been alright,” you say after a while. “This is probably the first time I’ve been a part of something like this.”

“You can fuck off somewhere quiet.” He offers you another cookie from the plate, watching as you take this one as well. “No one would say anything.”

“Sam’s got me learning some choreography with Cass and AJ, so I’m pretty sure he’d mind.”

“No one cares what Sam thinks.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him, you can’t fool me.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. The corner of your lip pulls in a smile.

“Besides– maybe all this ‘family this, family that’ will help me get what you meant by silent blenders.”

He stops chewing momentarily, trying to place what you’re talking about. It sounded familiar, just on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t place it.

“Clock tower,” you remind him.

Oh.

God, that was so long ago.

So many things have changed since then. Looking back, he thinks he’d have done things a lot differently.

You handing your phone over to him snaps him out of his quick flashback.

“What?”

“This is a two-person ritual,” you tell him. “I need you to read it so that they come haunt you too.”

Bucky’s nose twitches.

Did he really want more people after him.

He skims through the Latin line on the screen with the same energy as reading a rental agreement. 

“This is too much effort.”

“Um.”

“It’s the middle of night, I don’t want to learn Latin.”

“You’re such a pain,” you whine. “Fine, just repeat after me then.”

“What if I say it wrong?”

“Well, then you’ll probably summon something else, Buck. You looking forward to that? You wanna make a new friend?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, watching you over the rim of his mug. The light from the candles flickered across his face. It made him look softer. The quiet suited him.

 “Repeat after me. This is the oath,” you announce. “I do.”

“I do,” Bucky says dryly.

You nod your head. “We’re married now.”

 His lips stretch into a thin line, casting a wry look at you. 

“I’ll get you there some day, baby.” You grin. “Alright anyway. ‘Si spiritus circumvagantur–”

He says it, not sounding even remotely interested. 

“Monstra nobis praeteritum, praesens et futurum.”

“Monstra nobis– how long is this thing,” he interrupts. 

You send him a pointed look. He says the stupid line.

“Ut quod fractum est reparare possimus.”

Bucky feels a sudden sense of unease as he says it. He may have thought of it as a joke before, but did he actually want more people haunting him? Did he want the one person who was haunting him to show up once more.

“Sana quod vulneratum est. Muta consilium Parcarum,” you read, glancing over at him. 

He says it, but his words get more faint, shoulders tensing.

“Melior homo esto ante lucem,” you finish.

You look at him expectantly.

“Good night,” he says instead, chair scraping against the floor as he pushes away from the counter. 

“Did you just quit on me at the last second?”

“Got bored.” 

“I cannot believe–”

“It was too long. Get a shorter spell next time.”

“I can’t believe you made me summon ghosts alone.”

He raises his hand in mock salute. “Hope your visit goes well.”

“I hope you get visited by the Ghost of Being Lame.”

“Maybe he’ll bring socks.”

You stand up, blowing out the candles as look at him. “You're lucky you’re cute.”

His face suddenly feels hot, which is stupid, because the candles were already extinguished. 

Nothing happens.

You declared it was because you were literally perfect and there was nothing to change ever, so they didn’t even bother making the trip to see you.

Bucky’s sort of glad he doesn’t have to see his sister on her favourite holiday. 

The next morning, the Tower was already loud before a reasonable time. 

And much like a fucking minefield, there was mistletoe everywhere.

All over the ceilings, every doorway, hanging from sticks on top of basic necessities like the fridge. 

Bucky noticeably avoids walking under any of the mistletoe, which only made it more fun.

“Are you allergic?” you ask innocently, trailing behind him into the kitchen.

“To you, yeah,” he muttered, swerving clear of opening the fridge like it might save him.

You lean on the counter. “What would be the worst thing that happened? Someone kisses you?”

“Someone sees it happening,” he says.

He turns around, only to immediately bump into Nat. Bucky whose lets out something similar to a screech and has the look of a cat who accidentally touched water, books it. 

You’d never seen him leave a room faster.

Afternoon is spent at a volunteer event downtown. 

Distribution tables, hot meals, paper hats. A photographer from some local paper follows Sam around for three hours. 

Bucky stands beside you and quietly refills the cider table without being asked.

“You know, just because you haven’t mentioned the thing you said on the ship, doesn’t mean I forgot it,” you pipe up.

Bucky pauses, grip tightening on the ladle. “I was seasick.”

“Yeah. Which is why I think you were telling the truth.”

“Wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I’m not gonna push you, Buck,” you tell him. “I’m just sayin’ that if there’s something you want to talk about, you can.”

He stays silent, instead focusing on whether every glass was filled the right amount. 

You squeeze his shoulder and go to find Nat to help with blanket distribution.

Bucky barely moves from his designated table. You show up occasionally to make sure he steers clear of the photographs being taken at random. 

On your way out, he silently hands you a candy cane and doesn't look at you when you take it.

Clint catches him under the mistletoe in the garage.

Bucky physically recoils when a sloppy, wet kiss is pressed to his forehead. 

By the time the sun dipped behind the Tower, dinner was long done and half the team had changed into progressively worse pajamas. 

The living room smelled like cinnamon and pine. The movie was something old and animated, the volume low enough to talk over.

You were on the floor with your back against the couch, half-wrapped in the throw blanket Bucky had been using until you’d stolen it.

Steve flips through a catalog Wanda had brought back from a Christmas market. He keeps holding up strange ornaments and asking if they were “a thing now.”

“That’s a mushroom,” Wanda said flatly.

“It has a face.”

“They all do.”

“It’s smiling at me.”

“Smile back.”

On the other couch, Sam had Alpine on his lap. She was tolerating it with visible judgment.

You weren’t really talking. Not in full conversations. Just that easy holiday haze of noise and small jokes and unfinished thoughts.

“Who keeps changing the thermostat?” Steve asked without looking up. “The hallway’s freezing.”

You didn’t say anything, biting back a smile at Bucky very pointedly staring straight ahead. 

You bump your knee into his.

He bumps it back.

It’s too late when everyone disbands. 

By the time the lights switch off, Bucky’s too drowsy to drop you to your floor the way he usually does, instead groggily making his way back to his room. 

You told Nat you’d be there in a while, that you’d set up your presents and then come upstairs. 

You can’t sleep.

There’s a restlessness in your limbs, like something’s trying to shake loose inside you.

So you walk.

You grabbed the throw blanket off the couch, draped it over your shoulders, and stepped into the quiet, humming the last carol that was playing when you left.

No point in really paying attention to where you’re going, it’s not like it matters.  

The only light came from the window, where the skyline buzzed faint and gold against the glass.

The hallway beyond the common room was empty.

As you shuffle along, something shifts.

It’s faint, but there.

And though you’d had variations of it over the last few days–something about it is so familiar, it slows your stops. 

A trace of cinnamon, baked sugar, worn wood, and warm cloth. Scents buried under years, suddenly so vivid.

You stop walking, whipping your head around to look at the kitchen.

It was empty, the leftovers stuffed into containers in the fridge.

The hallway is the same–quiet, washed in soft light.

But the scent is unmistakable.

Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.

And when you turn to look back at the path ahead of you.

She’s already there.

At the far end of the hallway. 

She’s just there, the way she used to be at the end of a long shift, standing in the kitchen doorway of the bakery with a dish towel in her hands and something cooling on the counter behind her.

Same cardigan, same sleeves rolled to the elbows. Same soft shoes, same patient gaze. The way she used to watch you when you thought you were being subtle.  

You’re not sure if your body moves first or your voice.

“Mrs Mullens?” 

She smiles, and it feels like the world has opened up to swallow you. 

You can’t remember the last time you saw her. You’re not sure you even remembered what she looked like. 

You’ve had years of impossible things since then. Cities falling. Rooms shifting. Time and space slipping out of your grasp. But this makes your throat ache in a way none of those things ever did.

When you don’t take a step towards her, you still find that she’s closer. Like you have no choice but to meet her midway. 

“It’s been a while,” she says, voice airy. It reminds you of wind chimes. 

Your voice cracks, just slightly. “You look exactly the same.”

“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “you slouch more now, so it evens out.”

The laugh that escapes you is soft, unsteady.

“Walk with me,” she says. 

You  find yourself nodding before it even registers. 

Moving down the hallway you’ve done hundreds of times in the last year now feels like the floor of the café again. 

The air warm with sugar and vanilla. The low sound of a radio playing something old. You, legs aching from a double shift, watching her knead dough like it was nothing.

“How long has it been?” she asks.

You shrug, but your eyes sting. “Too long.”

She nods once, small smile teasing on her lips. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

“I meant to come back,” you say, quieter. “I really did. I told myself I would.”

“I know,” she says.

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “Working at the cafe was the first time I didn’t feel like– you know.”

“I know that too.”

You stare at her. “I shouldn’t have taken off like that suddenly. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“You were scared,” she says gently. 

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

“You weren’t ready to.”

“Should’ve tried.”

Her voice stays level. “You stayed longer than I thought you would.”

You glance at her.

She smiles again, soft. “And I hoped you’d stay longer still. But I also knew what it looked like when someone was running.”

Your throat closes.

“I was going to give you a raise,” she continues, just conversational. “I’d already had the envelope.”

You blink hard.

“I think I hoped,” she adds, “that if I gave you enough reason to stay, you would.”

“I know,” you say, without meaning to. The words just slip out. “I’m sorry. Everything felt like it was closing in on me.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

You look away, not knowing what to do about the guilt grabbing hold of your ribs. 

“Why are you here?” you ask after a while. 

She shrugs, lightly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Same old.” Your shoulders rise in half a shrug. “Don’t think I’ve ever had a biscotti as good as the one you used to make. Used to steal them right out of the display case.” 

She chuckles. “I knew. Why’d you think we never ran out? I started making extra.”

You grin, despite yourself. 

You’re not quite sure you’re awake. Everything feels hazy and unclear.

Like it’s a reminder that this is actually happening, she reaches over, resting a hand on elbow.

Your fingers tighten around hers. It feels like the guilt was going to eat you alive. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to say thank you,” you say. “I should have stayed.”

“You can still do that,” she tells you gently. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

And when you look at her to respond– 

You come up empty. 

Just gone.

But the air still smells like cinnamon.

You blink hard a few times, looking behind you. 

The silence fores you to keep moving down the hall. 

The elevator ride up seems unusually short, but you cant say for certain that you were focusing on anything but what happened. 

It dings, the door opens up and you step out to more quiet.

As you walk down the hall to your room, the smell of cinnamon fades. The touch of her hand on yours also begins to ebb away, as much as you don’t want it to. 

You take a turn to your room, walking past picture frames and more mistletoes– until you come to an immediate halt.

There’s a bench you don’t remember being there before.

Someone’s sitting on it.

You stop, hand at the ready at your sides. 

The person on the bench slowly turns to look at you. 

It damn near knocks the breath out of you. 

They look like you. 

Well, it’s not exactly you– there’s a lot more lines and…fatigue. 

Enough to unsettle. Not enough to feel like a mirror.

“What the hell,” you whisper.

Other You raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Gonna take a seat?”

You don’t give an answer immediately. 

“Well?”

You cautiously slip onto the bench, watching from the corner of your eyes.

“Well at least we’re still hot,” you mumble.

Other You has a thin smile, nodding along. “One of the constants of life.”

You give a sidelong glance. “You’re from the future, I’m guessing.”

They lean forward a little, elbows on knees. You match it.

“You here to warn me?” you ask. 

“Not exactly. Life’s fine.”

You furrow your brow. “Then why are you here?” 

Other You shrugs. “What, we can’t have a conversation? This should be the most interesting talk in the world.”

“Do we ever win the lottery?”

“No, but we waste a lot of money buying tickets.”

“What stocks should I invest in?”

“Chicken. Bouillon.”

“Do Bucky and I ever–”

You don’t even finish your sentence before Other You’s head is shaking with half-smile. 

“Seriously?” you ask. “Not even once?”

“Nope.”

You honestly asked as a joke but the answer has you feeling more dejected than you’d anticipated. Which was wild. Because what the fuck.

“We leave soon, I suppose,” you pose.

“A week after Christmas. Another roadtrip someplace, but this time, you don’t come back to the tower with him.”

“Well that’s fucking bleak.” You blow out an exhale. “We ever stop anywhere?”

“Couple months. Year, maybe.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “What does life look like now?”

Other You scratches a spot on their jaw. “You meet a lot of new people. Mediocre coffee. See new places. Thirty two new jobs.”

You nod slowly. “Sounds pretty–”

“Lonely. Yeah.” 

You exhale. “I don’t want to be tied down.”

“Nor did I.”

Another silence.

You look at Other You, a little sharp, but their face is calm, unbothered.

Other You stretches out their legs, ankles crossing. “It’s not a tragedy, you know. The way we turned out. We’re not a cautionary tale or anything.”

You look away. “Do you want people?”

“Yeah,” they say simply. “I have them. For a while, anyway. Life isn’t bad. I don’t answer to anyone. I can go wherever I like. It’s fun.” 

You sit with that. “Would you do it again?”

“I don’t know anything else.”

You fidget with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know if I do either.”

“Yeah.”

You glance at them.

“But you’re asking. That’s more than I ever did.” Other You stands then, stretching a little. “Any other questions?”

You look up. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough,” Other You says. “If you’ve got no more questions, I’m gonna head out.”

“Can you tell me what the lottery numbers are?”

“What makes you think we remember random fucking lottery numbers?”

Your face cracks into a smile. 

The lights above you flicker, demanding your attention for  split second. 

When you look back down, you’re on your feet. 

No bench in sight.

And no you.

You sigh, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself as you continue down the hallway to your room.

Past the floor common room, and by the kitchen, until you catch sight of flaming red hair. 

The kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove.

You don’t turn anything else on. Just walk in, barefoot, letting the tile cool the heat in your skin.  

Nat’s perched on the counter, feet tucked under her, arms crossed. Her hoodie’s too big and her hair’s still damp, like she just got out of the shower and couldn’t be bothered to dry it. 

There's a jar of olives open next to her. She picks one out and eats it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not really. You wouldn’t believe the night I had.”

She nods once, popping another olive into her mouth. 

You open the fridge and stare into it like it's going to offer you something new. It doesn’t. 

You grab the first thing that makes sense. Half a juice box. 

Nat watches you for a second. “You’re the only one who drinks those.”

“That’s not true.”

“No one else touches the purple ones. You keep pretending someone else is buying them but I’ve seen the receipts.”

You snort quietly. Toss the empty box into the bin. It misses. You let it.

She offers the jar of olives. You shake your head.

“Why are you up?” you ask. “What’s bugging you?”

“You remember that guy we met on the roof last month?” she asks. “The one who said he knew me from the Red Room but kept calling me Nadia?”

“Yeah.”

“I still don’t know if I knew him.”

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. “That’s what’s keeping you up?”

“Not really. But I’m thinking about it.” Nat picks another olive out of the jar, inspects it, then eats it. “Steve was trying to wrap presents earlier. Took him two hours. He’s probably used all the tape in the country..”

You smile, just a little.

“He put your name on one of them,” she adds, chewing on another olive.

 “You spy on everyone’s gifts?”

“I notice things.”

You pull a chair out and sit. It creaks a little. 

“You didn’t have to stay up,” you say.

“I agree.” She slides the olive jar closer to you.

You still don’t take one.

“Do you think I’m strange?” you ask, not really sure where it came from.

Nat doesn’t blink. “Yeah.”

You laugh, soft.

“Not in a bad way,” she continues. “Just– specific.”

You chew that over.

Nat kicks her heel lightly against the counter.

There’s a crack in one of the tiles. You wonder how long it’s been there.  

“You used to be on the run too, right?” you ask her finally. “But you’ve been here for a while. Why’d you stay?”

“Helps if the government isn’t trying to hunt you down.” She shrugs. “Besides, I figured if you ever stopped long enough to look behind you, someone should still be here.”

You don’t reply.

Nat screws the lid shut on the jar. “This place suits you.”

The haziness that’s been following you around all evening suddenly swells around you, reminding you of its presence. 

Hesitantly, you call after her, “Are you real?”

She shrugs again. “I’m always real when it counts.”

The radio hums from nowhere. The lights flicker once more.

And you’re back in the hallway in the common room downstairs.

The living room is silent. The lights from the city glimmer. 

You stand quietly in the centre of it all. 

Bucky wakes up to Alpine pawing at his ribs.

It’s too bright out. 

He rolls onto his side. She chirps. Climbs over his shoulder and plants herself by the window like she’s keeping watch.

He gets dressed. Stretches. Rubs at the back of his neck until the worst of the stiffness fades. 

Alpine judges.

Downstairs is warm, loud, and already a mess. Wrapping paper underfoot. Someone’s spilled cocoa.

He takes a lap, slipping in and out as unannounced as he can. 

Doesn’t see you.

You’re probably just late.

He sits on the couch.  

He gets up again.

Checks the kitchen.

Your mug’s still in the sink from last night.

He opens the fridge like it might contain a clue. It doesn’t..

He pulls out his phone.

No texts.

He scrolls. Finds your name. 

Types ‘Where are you?’

Deletes it.

Tries again.

‘You skipping Christmas?’

Deletes that too.

He settles on ‘You good?’

Sends it. Doesn’t wait for the read receipt.

Wanders down the hall. Checks the gym. Empty. 

He walks back to the common room. Nat’s lounging on the arm of the couch, chewing on a candy cane.

He sits beside Steve, who’s halfway through a puzzle that no one asked for.

“You alright?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.”

The word comes out before he even thinks about it.

He takes a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. Someone messed with the settings again.

The snow keeps falling.

You’re not here.

He’s not worried.

He’s just… watching the door.

In case.

Just on time, it swings open loudly.

The chatter in the room dies down until everyone’s looking at who just barged in.

“Oh shit– was that too loud? Sorry,” Peter’s words trip over themselves. “I thought I was late– the bus didn’t come. I didn’t want to–”

“Hey, kid,” Sam calls. “You’re right on time. Come on in.”

Peter grins wide, bounding into the room with two giant bags. 

“May sent pie. D’you guys wanna eat some– actually, it’s pretty early. I can just leave in the kitchen for later,” he rambles, pausing when he catches sight of Bucky stretched out on the couch. “Oh hey, Mr. Barnes. I wanted to talk to you about something when you have the time–”

“Presents first, conversation later,” Clint announces. “I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of dawn.”

“You woke up ten minutes ago.”

“I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of ten minutes ago.”

Bucky settles in, eventually.

Takes the mug Steve hands him, warm and too sweet, and the plate of cut apples.

You’re still not here.

The living room’s already littered with opened boxes, half-crumpled wrapping paper, that one roll of tape Clint lost and blamed on everyone else. 

Bucky’s got his own small pile tucked in the corner. Nothing dramatic. Just things he picked out with intent, which is about as much holiday spirit as he can manage.

Sam gets a replacement for the book Bucky accidentally dropped in a puddle three weeks ago. Same edition, leatherbound this time. 

“Fancy,” Sam says, flipping it over. “Trying to buy my forgiveness?”

“Just stop threatening to sue me.”

He gives Wanda a little wind up music box, with some tune he remembers her humming months ago. 

Peter gets everything ranging from Legos, to a promised trip to the NASA headquarters, to gummy bears. 

Nat’s gets a knife. Obviously. Custom handle. Something he shaped himself. She doesn’t say anything. Just runs her fingers along the spine of the blade, nods with a smile, and taps his shoulder as thanks.

Steve actually gets socks, because he’d found the limited edition signed copy of a Gid Tanner CD in Bucky’s room already by mistake. 

Clint gets socks that don’t fit him. 

There’s one more box left in the corner. Wrapped more neatly.

He doesn’t touch it.

Steve reaches under the tree and pulls out a package marked with Bucky’s name. The paper is pink. The tag has hearts drawn in glitter pen.

“What the hell is this,” Bucky mutters.

A tie.

With each Avenger’s face on it, stitched badly in red and green thread. Alpine’s head is on one. 

He stares at it for a full ten seconds.

Then folds it carefully and tucks it back into the box.

“That’s what you get for not telling us what you wanted.”

But they do get him plenty of things. It’s enough to last him a year and more. 

Noise canceling headphones, a subscription to National Geographic, more tools for woodworking and a new set of gloves. 

The gifts keep coming.

And somewhere in the room, tucked under the tree, your box still waits.

By the time the sun dips, the Tower has thinned out.

Alpine has claimed Bucky’s lap like a throne. He doesn’t argue. She won’t mov either way.

The snow is still falling.

He checks his phone again. No new messages.

Dinner came and went. Steve made something that tried to pass as stuffing. 

Your name was mentioned twice, but only in passing. 

It’s getting late now.

He lets his hand rest on the box still tucked behind the tree. Doesn’t unwrap it. Doesn’t move it.

Thirty minutes to midnight.

He gets up, Alpine protesting with a growl, and walks out of the room.

She, of course, calls him a little shit once more.

The elevator hums softly on the way up.

He reaches your floor. Pauses at the door.

You’d always told him to just come in. He knocks anyway. Waits.

Nothing.

He lets himself in.

The lights come on with a soft click.

Your room is… mostly the same. Bare, except the weirdly bent lamp.  

Bucky looks around now, trying to decide if you’ve taken anything.

There’s nothing obvious. But then again, he wouldn’t be able to tell if you did.

He looks at the clock.

Still time.

Karaoke has entered the equation.

Steve is halfway through “Blue Christmas”. Clint’s howling along in a key that doesn’t exist in music theory. It’s a disaster.

Bucky watches it all from the corner of the room, nursing the last of his lukewarm coffee, one leg bouncing under the coffee table.  

He gets up finally, under the guise of grabbing something sweet. 

Half the table’s been picked over, but there’s a bowl of wrapped caramels shoved into one of the stockings over the fireplace. 

He leans down, reaches in–

And hears the door open.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Took your time.”

Your voice follows, breezy and a little wind-chapped, “You’d think I’d never left.”

You’re still in your coat. A box under one arm, big bag in the other. You’ve clearly been outside a while.

“Presents are in the bag,” you tell them, “Help yourselves.”

Clint’s already shoving a mic at you, demanding a duet. 

“In a minute. I’ve got a thing to do.”

They elect to finish off the monstrosity that was Blue Christmas. 

You sway into the living room where he is, ruffling Peter’s hair on the way.

“Hey,” you say, smiling at him, small and familiar. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up with something.”

“What was it?” 

“I drove next state over to find the cafe I used to work at. To see if the lady I used to work with was still there,” you inform him with a sigh. “Turns out they moved years ago.”

“Why’d you look for it?”

“I wasn’t really thinking,” you admit. “Got stuck in the holiday rush on the way back. Sorry for not answering your texts. I was driving pretty much the whole day.”

He stares at you.

He knows you’re impulsive, but something about this felt like it was…off. 

It was too short, you looked too distracted. 

You weren’t telling him the whole story, for whatever reason it was, but it was enough to make you drop everything and go look for something you’d left behind in the past. 

“Got you something,” you add, pulling out the box from under your arm.

You hold out the box.

He doesn’t take it right away.

Instead, he says, “You almost missed karaoke.”

You step further in. “How would I have lived?”

You stop in front of him. Still holding the box. You’re a little out of breath, like you came straight here without thinking.

“I’m fine, by the way,” you say.

“I know,” Bucky replies.

You finally offer him the box again. He takes it this time.

He lifts a brow, when he shakes it to get a clue of what’s inside. Something rattles around, but he draws a blank on what it could be.

You drop down onto the floor, sitting cross legged. He elects to join you, bringing the big box you gave him along with him, 

You reach toward the tree, like you’ve known exactly where your gift’s been this whole time. You grab it, navy wrapping, a little crooked at the edges, and hold it up.

It’s heavier than you were expecting, which makes you raise your eyebrows.

You look at him. “From you?”

“Yeah.”

“If it’s socks I’m gonna jump out the window.”

“I’ve left it open.”

“Thanks,” you snort. “Go on, then.” 

He peels back the paper carefully and opens up the lid. 

There’s another smaller box in there, which he finally flips open to reveal a collection of drink sachets. Every kind imaginable. Weird flavors. Strange colors. A handwritten label on each one. 

Some are just jokes. Others are things you actually thought he’d like.

He stares at them.

“Fuck coffee. We’re gonna figure out what drink you really want,” you say, grinning. “You can play beverage roulette.”

He picks one up. 

“Lemon hazelnut cinnamon tea,” he reads, before  looking up at you. “This sounds terrible.”

“You’re gonna try it anyway.”

He shakes his head, trying not to smile.

“Okay,” you say, “Second one’s a little different.”

Bucky reaches into the box to find a flat, thin package wrapped in dark red. 

He runs his finger under the tape and pulls out a frame.

He freezes.

Inside are two yellowed tickets. Old. Worn at the edges. 

Not quite the originals he remembers. But close.

“I tried to find the real ones,” you say. “They’re not in circulation anymore. But these were the same ride. Same year. Closest I could get.”

The Miniature RailwayDreamland – Coney IslandAdmit one – 10c

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

You watch him a beat too long. “I thought maybe… you’d want a piece of that day.”

His fingers are still resting on the glass.

After a long second, he says roughly, “You remembered.”

“Well, yeah. How could I forget Becca Barnes dragging you five times onto a tiny train?”

He looks at you with something flickering behind his eyes. For once, you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He sets the frame down gently. 

“Thanks,” he says softly.

You beam at him. 

He leans over to push the box he got you towards you. 

Unlike him, you tear off the paper.

He’d have rolled his eyes with a smile if he wasn’t about to– well, he doesn’t know. He can’t name a single thing running through his head right now. Al he knows is that his chest feels like it’s going to explode.

You find a flimsy cardboard box inside, which you also essentially yank off, but significantly gentler this time. 

It takes a while to register what it is. 

Inside is a miniature house.

Not a dollhouse — not quite. 

It’s rough-hewn, handcrafted, clearly made in a workshop, not a factory. 

Each room is lined with pieces to match. Sinks, a bookshelf made from matchsticks, a tiny coat by the door that looks suspiciously like the one you always wear.

The doors all open. The windows too.

And there are people. Tiny replicas of the rest of the Avengers in their costumes, each in a different room. 

You lift up the box wordlessly to have a closer look, when you notice everything is glued down, including the rest of the team.  

Except for one little figure. Not much bigger than a thumb. Untethered. Looks a lot like you. Like someone specifically took extra time out to carve it to be as authentic as possible. 

You turn it over in your hand slowly. “Are these…?”

“The team.”

“They’re glued down. Mine isn’t.”

“Figured you wouldn’t want to be.” Bucky clears his throat.” Point is, they’re always there. Even when you aren’t.”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the box. “You built this?”

“Tried to.”

You swallow hard. “I love it.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches.

You trace the edges of the house again, fingers catching on the little imperfections in the wood. The weight of it sits in your lap, solid and strange and oddly warm.

“You asked me what it feels like,” he murmurs. “To have people like that.”

You glance up. He doesn’t meet your eyes, just watches the house.

“When I first moved in, I was in the kitchen and someone was making a smoothie. The blender made this awful noise when it powered down. And it sounded so much like… something else. One of the chairs they used in Siberia, or something.”

His voice stays even. Distant, almost. 

“Threw up all over the breakfast table. Everyone was there. Sam. Steve. Nat.”

You stare.

“They didn’t say anything. Just… cleaned it up. Gave me water. A different shirt. And the next week, there was a new blender. And it made no noise.”

You feel your throat go tight.

“They make fun of me constantly,” he says. “For everything. The way I eat, the way I breathe. But they’ll clean up the table. Replace the blender.”

You look at him now. Really look.

“So when I think of what it feels like– that’s the closest I’ve ever come to naming it.”

“Silent blenders,” you say, voice quiet.

He nods once. Eyes still on the little house.

You don’t say anything for a while.

And neither does he.

You close the box gently. Rest your hand over the lid like it might keep the warmth inside.

When you look back at him, he’s already looking at you.

The noise of the team still going strong in the background.

“Come on,” you say softly. “We got some karaoke to do.”

He exhales out a laugh in the form of a small breath, accepting your hand as you tug him to his feet. 

“Did you sing?”

“I don’t sing.”

“Nonsense, I know you got a set of pipes in you. Michael Buble’s gonna bring it right out.”

He’s about to respond when something rustles overhead. 

You glance up.

Sure enough, mistletoe hung slightly askew on a sliver of garland, taped with what looks like medical adhesive.

It swung dangerously, like it was just about to give up. 

You look back at Bucky. “That was completely coincidental.”

He raises an eyebrow. 

He’s not smiling. But his mouth is doing that thing it does when he’s fighting one.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters. 

You stare at each other.

Neither of you moves.

“You gonna do anything about it, or just keep calling it names,” you challenge with a dumb smile on your face.

Bucky exhales through his nose. Looks like he might say something else. 

Instead, he just steps closer.

The smile you have on falters. 

Honestly, it’s not like you were expecting him to do anything about your stupid flirting because– well– he hadn’t done anything in months. 

But he’s looking at you with something unreadable on his face and you can smell the remnants of the day on him.

“What?” he asks, voice low, taking a dangerous step closer. “No comment now?”

Your mouth opens and closes. 

God, he may look like he wants to commit homicide, but nutmeg smells real good on him.

“Well,” you breathe out, and add nothing more.

His eyebrows raise in amusemuent for just a second before his face changes into something else. Something more serious. 

He’s close enough that you can tell that he’s controlling his breath. 

“It’s tradition,” Bucky murmurs, like you need any sort of justification whatsoever. 

Your eyes dart down for a split second, but he still fucking catches it, the corner of his mouth upturning just minisculy.

Your hand reaches up to fist his stupid sweater–

“Hey! Good, great, you’re both here. Finally.”

Both of you jump apart like you’ve been caught doing something scandalous. 

“Peter,” you say, blinking repeatedly as you attempt to catch your breath. “What’s wrong?”

The kid skids to a stop. “Okay, so I’ve been trying to ask this for like, months, and nobody’s been answering me, and I figured since I’m technically an Avenger and it’s Christmas, I can just—wait, are you guys mad at me?”

Bucky stares at him, dry as all hell as he asks, “Why would we be mad at you?”

You flick at him, telling him to behave.

Peter frowns. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you were ignoring me on purpose? Because I’ve tagged you both, like… a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Tagged us where?”

“On Twitter.”

There’s a moment where you all stare at each other like you’re speaking in an alien language. 

“I’ve been tweeting at you since you started this series,” Peter continues, eyes darting between the both of you. “You even read one of my tweets in your videos. I thought you knew.”

Bucky’s head turns slowly toward you. You’re already staring at Peter like he’s sprouted a second head.

“What are you talking about?” you ask slowly.

“Well, it’s my alt. I didn’t want people from my school to see that I was tweeting at you guys.” He scratches the base of his neck. “Sk8rboy02?”

“Wait,” you say, jaw dropping. “You’re sk8rboy02?”

“Yeah,” Peter drags in confusion. “I thought you knew?”

“You’re the one who kept replying to the giveaway post with ‘I deserve this because my cousin died in a haunted Chuck E. Cheese’?”  

Peter nods, completely sincere. “And also ‘if you give me the EMF reader i’ll use it responsibly (lie)'.”

“You entered the contest seventeen times,” you say slowly. 

Peter brightens. “So you did see me!”

“Of course we saw you. You called that guy from the Daily Bugle a balding fuck.”

“Oh yeah, he’s my boss. He sucks.” Peter waves off. “Wait, so you just… didn’t realize it was me?”

“No?” you ask incredulously. 

“I said I knew someone in the Avengers in like four different tweets!”

“Everyone thinks they know someone in the Avengers,” Bucky mutters. 

“Okay, yeah, fair.”

You shut your eyes. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been tweeting at us all year. You’ve been defending us online. You fight random reporters.”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t think to just… say it to our faces?”

“I honestly thought you guys knew.”

“No,” you and Bucky both say at once.

Peter shrugs and flips open a small, folded notebook from his hoodie pocket. “Okay, cool. Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ve got some questions I’ve been collecting on behalf of the internet.”

“No,” Bucky says again.

“Just a few!” Peter insists. “They’re good questions! Like have you ever brought home something cursed by mistake? Or if a ghost starts following you, how do you tell it to leave? Or—this one’s from me—have you ever faked a haunting just to win a bet?”

Silence hangs in the air. 

“Or not,” he says, closing his notebook. “I’ll just– head out.”

You glance over at Bucky. 

He rolls his eyes.

“One question,” you say, turning back to the kid. “Holiday spirit.”

Peter practically vibrates. “Okay. Okay. This is a good one. What’s the most haunted place in the Avengers Tower?”

“Laundry chute on the south side,” you say.  

Peter scribbles something into his notebook like it’s the gospel truth.

“Thanks, guys.” He beams at you. “I’ll see you out there.”

Before you get a chance to reply, he zips away, already calling for his shot at the mic.

You and Bucky just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, in the lull left behind by Peter’s hurricane.

You glance up.

More mistletoe. Hanging smugly from the beam above you like it planned this.

You both clock it at the same time.

“Again?” he says. Tired. But not really.

“Second time today,” you reply, hands stuffed in your hoodie. “Third if you count the one in the elevator.”

“Which I don’t.”

You turn slightly to face him. 

“You know,” you start, tone carefully casual, “for a guy who once took a full round to the ribs and still had the energy to toss a grenade into a Hydra facility, you sure are squeamish about a little mistletoe.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just glances at you sharply, like he’s assessing something. 

“I’m just not trying to do something halfway,” he says finally, tone even.

You open your mouth. Close it. 

“Okay.”

You step closer.

Just enough that your hands brushes his. That shared warmth again. Static in the space between.

You lean, slow. 

Your lips press gently to the corner of his mouth. 

Barely there, more cheek than kiss, but close enough to make him inhale through his nose like he didn’t mean to.

When you pull back, you say nothing.

He blinks once.

“You missed.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Little to the left next time,” he mutters.

“Maybe,” you say, already turning to leave. “Next Christmas.”

Bucky exhales, shutting his eyes for a second before he follows right behind you.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. I BOUGHT MYSELF SOME CAKE.