Desperately craving more, you roll your hips, but he snakes a corded arm around your waist, halting you.

“Nuh-uh. What’d I say?” He scolds, though his eyes betray his toughness with lust-coated adoration.

“That I can only move once Bucky’s here.” You whimper.

“Good girl,” he nudges his nose into your temple, hot breath enticingly tickling your skin, “Y’know he wouldn’t wanna miss the show.”

“Can’t help it, Frank,” you whine, squeezing your thighs around him, “You’re so big.”

He roughly chuckles and slots his thumb between your glossy lips, “So fuckin’ desperate.”

The weight of his thumb presses against your tongue and you eagerly lap around it, tasting your own juices from earlier.

In your peripheral vision, the door widens and reveals Bucky. Your enthusiastic hum of greeting is muffled as Frank grips the curve of your jaw, fixating your gaze on him.

“I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth.” Bucky teases, his chest heaving at the vision of you gloriously taking every inch of Frank’s length.

“Reckon she was moanin’ for you or the fact that I’m balls deep inside of her?” Frank cockily grins, sliding his hand away from you and rediscovering refuge on your ass.

You gasp for air, but it’s stolen swiftly as Bucky hungrily collides his lips against yours, making up for lost time.

“What d’ya say, baby? Want to find out who can coax the sweetest sounds from you?” Bucky smirks against your mouth and glides his Vibranium hand downwards, circling your clit.

They’re as equally needy for you as you are for them.

Clawing at it has only injured the nail polish you wear, the chipped coat mirroring your damaged love for performing the most entrancing form of art.

Invisible shackles wielded by the ghost of trauma has caged you in the studio built within your home. Imprinted into the ground is every memory of your lithe steps. The air has applauded your every leap, and the walls, mounted with framed certificates, awards and medals, have graced you with your success.

A success that has been torn apart by one accident.

Because that’s all it takes.

Just one.

Some people press ink to paper, every flick of their pen expressing their inner-turmoil swirling like a tornado within their souls. You, however, channeled it through ballet. You were cloaked in tulle and feathers, but brewed destruction upon stage. You controlled that tornado and changed it into something elegant. Fouetté turns became your eye of the storm, and the carriage of your arms spindled every emotion together transcendently.

It wasn’t merely the actions, but immersing yourself into a role that would infiltrate every aspect of your mind. You could ripen into someone else who doesn’t possess the ache stitched into your heart, nor wallowing dolefully in your desolate home numerous evenings.

The strength you wielded through precise, maintained movements in order to project every little expressive detail dissipates. Instead, it’s frozen over, the seasonal darkness striking it into shattered fragments. The attempts of rekindling that fire you ignited so diligently has crumbled to ash, and you are no phoenix.

You’re just yourself, and that’s never been enough for you.

The string that pulled you upwards has been severed, evident in how you’re slouched against the wall with your head hung low. If your instructor—past instructor—witnessed you now, she’d curse you for abusing your posture.

Yet, it doesn’t matter anymore.

You can never dance again.

This studio holds the last remaining sparks of your happiness. You refuse to budge from your slumped doll position, hoping at some point, the room built from love will return a glimmer of shine into your crackleware, not leaving it an empty cavern like this.

Scuffed boots with muted steps appear in your peripheral vision—a pair that haven’t graced these floorings since a Summer ago, where he’d toss them by your pointe shoes under the rays of sun gleaming through the windows, and would spin you around for the thrill of it.

No audience, no instructions, no perfectionism.

Just you and James Buchanan Barnes.

Until Winter came and stole that too.

A breath passes and he’s joined you on the floor, the warmth of his thigh kissing yours in a forbiddingly saccharine reunion. His presence neither rattles your heart nor provokes any butterflies. Instead, a lighter sensation drifts amongst you, like an oil diffuser expelling a calming scent.

“I forgot you still have a key.” You quietly say, voice raw from the cries that scratched at your throat.

You haven’t contacted anyone since returning home from the hospital in the early hours of the morning, where the sunrise brandished its weapon of warmth and melted the blankets of snow. And, yet, you still remained cold, but it appears as though he’s here to change that.

“Yeah,” he exhales as though it’s his birth right to grant this room his breath. He did build it for you, after all, “I’m keeping it safe.”

A smile yearns to break across the mould of your face, but it remains lost in a hollow abyss, “More like you don’t want anyone else to have it.” You whisper.

“Always have to be right, don’t you?” He rhetorically asks in a lighthearted manner.

Finally, you pull your head up, stabling it against the wall, and gaze at him. There’s a gentleness cemented into the faint lines of his forehead that not even you could master. His eyes are bluer if that’s possible, deeper to swim in. Or drown. And his lips, paler from wintertide, hold an almost-perceptible smile.

He mirrors you in a way: broken, but still remaining.

“Why are you here, Bucky?” You dispiritedly ask. “I was a terrible partner to you.”

His eyes never once drift to your medical boot, akin to how you never stared at his prosthetic arm until he was comfortable with it. He just looks at you, peering into a soul that kindled with his.

“You loved ballet long before you loved me,” he softly says, a sacred susurration. “And I know what it’s like to lose your first love. Didn’t want you to be alone.”

A tidal wave of guilt crashes into you.

He’s still here despite everything.

Despite the early mornings where he’d lean against the studio’s doorway after awakening from another empty bed, silently wondering if he were to merge into the walls, you’d notice him… and he still came over.

Despite the afternoons where he’d deliver you lunch backstage and managed to grasp an hour of your time from the season’s production. Until, both of you were separated by a curtain… and he still sits beside you.

Despite the nights where you’d finally have a chance to make up for the neglect you placed upon him, only to eat alone at the table, tune out the movie screening, and replay his phone call in your head of a mission sweeping him away. He’d end up returning to a fast asleep you, too exhausted from the expectations of your job to remain awake … and he still fucking cares.

“I sacrificed so much for this,” you whisper, rolling your lips into your mouth to refrain a sob from slipping out. “I trained and pushed myself beyond my limits instead of socialising and making friends. I limited myself to salads and protein snacks instead of indulging in junk food. And y-you…” Your voice painfully cracks. “I sacrificed you. If I wasn’t so self-absorbed in my career, we could’ve worked out. We c-could’ve—”

Worry infiltrates every aspect of Bucky as your words break off with a sob. He cradles your cheek and brushes away the cascading teardrops, “Hey, hey…our relationship ending? Not all of it was on you, sweetheart, I’m just as much to blame. I prioritised missions over you… and that’s the biggest mistake of my life.”

Biggest mistake of his life.

Not his past… no. The biggest mistake of his life is letting you perform while his regular seat in the audience one day became vacant.

You shake your head at the purity of his understanding, yet the ache of being apart these few months is catching up, and you lean into his familiar touch, “But you help people. You save them.”

“Don’t do that,” he firmly states. “Don’t downplay the dreams you’ve always had of being a ballerina for me. I would never have gotten in the way of those dreams that made you happy.”

Grasping his hand and gently lowering it, you don’t let go. You linger. You linger like emotions on stage when an interval hits. Yet, there is no stage, and your life is still running. Being vulnerable is something you forbade yourself from feeling unless performing, where you received praise for it in forms of applause and roses. Now, the marble you churned yourself into is fractured, and a pitiful mist is seeping from the cracks.

There’s no applause, but there is Bucky, and that means more than anything.

“Do you remember how you’d store all of your tickets for my shows in that music box?” You inquire, a wistful sense fusing into your words as you lower your gaze, settling it upon the contrast of your footwear.

A boot and a ballet flat.

Almost like you and him.

“What I remember is how embarrassed I was when you found it,” he responds, although he isn’t ashamed. He wanted physical proof where he was graced by your artistry, because if his brain decided to go haywire again? The first thing he’d yearn to remember is you. It’s how he met you, anyways, by dropping his first ticket while embarking to the opera, and you kindly picked it up for him and surprised him later by being the Prima Ballerina, “Didn’t want the first and only dame I brought back to the apartment to think of me as some stalker.”

A ghost of a smile flickers on your lips, attempting to break through the barrier of life, because that’s what James Buchanan Barnes is: life in all forms, the pure and the dark.

You hum in remembrance, nodding slowly, “I’m like the ballerina in your music box,” you say, empty words that have poisoned your brain and seek clemency from your tongue, “Used for only a few moments, before being put away.” Your tone dips into a pond of hopelessness, “But for good this time.”

A silence settles upon you both. Not heavy, not light. Just one which you’ve shared before in the weights of your love. Except, this time you’re together. His hand snakes onto your thigh, a firm reassurance that he doesn’t believe your words to be true. He doesn’t have the right for this touch, he comprehends that, but nothing else will keep you in the moment.

Bucky doesn’t want you getting lost in that distraughtly beautiful head of yours.

“You were never just a ballerina to me.” He murmurs, dipping his head down to catch a glimpse of your face. “This…” he gestures to the orthopaedic boot, “…what’s happened, doesn’t define you, sweetheart.”

His words are like goo in your ears, warming you for a moment before dripping out. Instead of appreciating his kindness, you’re at a loss, trapped inside the bittersweet cage of your soul. The key may as well be lost in the blood-clad snow you found yourself in, just as he did many moons ago.

“Ballerina’s retire young, but not this young.” You whisper numbly. The tips of your fingers are stiff, mascara is clumped in ruffles under your eyes, and the ache in your neck is palpable in every pained flutter of your lashes.

When dancing, the passion for it was written into your bones. A light, freeing sensation that helped you believe you could glide as effortlessly as a swan. However, the exertion stitched into your wings caused damage incapable of healing, and can never flap adroitly again.

Exhaustion radiates from every crevice of yourself. It’s not the type that can be fixed with sleep, nor any peaceful atmosphere. No one can mend it but yourself, and Bucky plans to be there every step—or limp—that you courageously take.

“I don’t have dreams anymore… I have nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t part his mouth, his aching heart caught in his throat. Whatever he says won’t reach you unless it embodies Tchaikovsky’s canorous music. Thus, his flesh hand carefully cups the nape of your neck, his Vibranium hand cradling your cheek, and he coaxes you into leaning against him. He’ll shoulder the grief you’re experiencing, and he’ll never leave you standing by the grave alone.

As you tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder, the memory of your tears soaking the threads of his clothing, he breaks the hopelessness by brushing his lips against your head devotedly.

“You have me. Always.”

a/n ۶ৎ if anyone can recognise the different ballet’s i’ve subtly referenced/tied to my writing in this fic, i applaud you. but i applaud you anyways if you read/clicked on this!

Wondering is easy for a lonely person, because he isn’t receiving any answers. His imagination bares the burden of being his only friend, and with hands stuffed in his pockets, he won’t stop it from running wild—not while his mind was a hollow cave for so long. His brain storms with the remembrance of smelling lemon squares Winnifred used to bake, or the clacking of Rebecca’s ridiculous crimson shoes against the ground, just how he concocts blissfull memories after every nightmare in hopes of overriding them and reminiscing that he once was happy… just decades out of reach.

Yet, reality fails him. Damp earthly scents entwine with rotten flowers left forgotten. The misty, darkened, navy sky weighs heavily over Bucky as he gazes down at his father’s grave. It’s sturdy, poised tall with minuscule chips, akin to how he was before time stopped ticking for him.

Bucky hopes one day he can be equivalent to the great man George Barnes was. That the world hasn’t abandoned him completely. That something remains left for him to show his soul hasn’t completely turned off the lights, just waiting in flickers.

A deep sigh exhales from his mouth and he turns, head bowed while trudging away from the dead. His boots scuff against dirt as old as him, not caring for the marks embedding deep into the shoe. All nice things regret associating themselves with him anyways.

The silence isn’t deafening, but a tension that pulses in the bitter, autumn air. It thumps louder than his heart, and can bleed ears which aren’t familiar with it. Yet, Bucky’s body freezes in motion at the sound of a snap reverberating within his being.

Heckles raising like a dog, his head lifts. Eyes calculated and sharp scan in the direction it belongs to.

The woods beside the graveyard.

A place he’s never ventured in.

A maze of trees flow for miles, acting as protectors for the ghosts haunting the land. No leaves clothe the thick, spiny branches, for they pose as blankets in colours of chestnut and swirls of amber on the ground under the moonlight.

Bucky should leave it alone, allow nature to enjoy its dinner, but the sound reappears, closer this time, in rhythm with the cautious whir of his Vibranium arm. His ears, the tops tinged rosy, listen carefully, and slowly, he moves his feet in front of the other. His mind acts for him, a nagging voice whispering,

‘What if someone’s hurt?’

‘What if an animal is trapped?’

‘What if he’s being followed?’

Suddenly, a glimpse of cascading white trails across the ground, gracefully disappearing behind a tree trunk. It looks out of place amongst the gloomy tints of terrain. A whirl of paled starlight rejected from the sky and finding its way back.

The sight taunts him as though it’s whispering bewitching words into his ears that reach his spine, spelling it to straighten, and his legs carry him with a quiet urgency.

Gone all protocols of laying low. Gone all senses of protecting himself. Gone all of the voices that rolled around the empty crevices in his head.

Just tunnel-vision and a heart set on discovering this mysterious creature.

As he enters the collisions of withered oak and bone-crunching leaves, a flurry of black cloaks above him. Immediately, his head snaps upwards, tilting his chin up in concern at the crows squawking frantically and wings flapping incessantly.

A hint of trepidation tucks under his ribcage.

He should turn back. Retreat to his tiny, suffocating apartment with one chair, one bed, and an unused couch. Yet, here, surrounded by the dead, a freeing sense has fused into the oxygen he breathes.

All Bucky’s ever yearned for is to be free, and he’s witnessed much more terrifying things.

Drowning the birds out, he glances around, until his breath catches in his throat. A woman—you—drifts further away with your back to him, the skirt of your dress creating a pathway behind you. The magnetic pull tugging him forwards skyrockets, desperate to ease the entrancing pressure.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” He calls out, managing to keep his tone light in case you get spooked like those crows did.

He walks swifter, heart thundering in his throat. Staying stealthy isn’t at the forefront of his mind anymore. He wants to be heard. He wants to noticed by the enigma essence of yourself. He’s been a phantom for decades, roaming from place to place without ever being spotted.

It seems as though you’ve mastered the same covertness he was forced upon as you vanish again.

“Shit.” Bucky curses under his breath and jogs towards the winding trees.

Maybe you don’t wish to be discovered. He was once like that, hiding away in Bucharest with only his guilt-plagued thoughts. Yet, the loneliness was a cold blanket settled across his shoulders, and it only began slipping off once he was found again.

What if that’s the same with you? What if your blanket is damp with sorrow?

The woods appear to be caving in on him, the air burning his lungs despite the chilliness of it. His ears are attuned closely for any snapping twigs, rustling leaves, or mere breaths.

His movements falter, until he finally slows to a stop.

His boots plant in the dirt, and a slight breeze trickles through, but he doesn’t believe it’s that which causes the goosebumps to awaken on the nape of his neck.

Rays of moonlight ricochet off of you, a glowing blue aura shielding you against the sudden exposure amongst the darkness. Yet, when he blinks, it’s disappeared, and his eyes travel to what you’re clad in.

A wedding dress.

A dress as pale as death, with dirt clinging to the edges of your skirt, the back of your bodice is slashed, revealing skin he oddly finds himself yearning to touch. Crowned upon your head is a veil, its sheer fabric swaying soft with the gentle wind, waving hello to the leaves floating away. Or possibly bidding goodbye to something.

He has yet to witness your face and hear your voice, but the one in his head returns, saying one word as clear as water:

Ethereal.

Then, an unsettling sensation—not for himself, but for you—crawls into his bones at the sight of dark patches clumped around the torn fabric. Is that old blood? There isn’t any wound scarring you though.

Your head turns in every direction but his, and he begins wondering if he’s transparent, or dead. Glimpses of your face is caught by his eyes, but it’s not enough.

“Miss?”

There’s a shift in the atmosphere when your head glances over your shoulder, and you turn around inquisitively. This meeting feels forbidden, with the crooked branches weaving through the ground, eerily observing. Maybe the heavens have concocted this, unaware of the consequences that may come to light in the shadows.

Something inside of Bucky stutters. His heart, his breath, his limbs. Mesmerisation invades his senses. You stand poised, shoulders straight like an invisible string is holding you up. He can’t seem to compare your beauty to anything living, but freshly perished roses come to mind. Your edges are crisped with death, but a sliver of what once was life remains intact.

Hauntingly beautiful.

Swallowing thickly, he attempts to find any word he can grasp ahold of. Until, he watches the slight curve of your lips, that wilted rose letting nature know you’re still standing tall, and they part.

“What year is it?” You ask, and he internally swears your voice is a melody he’s heard layering with the wind when visiting the graveyard. Distant and lonely, now clear and in front of him.

You speak with an elegance he hasn’t heard in decades, with a touch of whimsical beauty. It soothes his rattled bones.

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together at your question.

Soldat… no, Bucky—as the man from the bridge, the man he saved from the water, choked out amongst the blood he bared—scans the newspaper that was tossed in the park bin, head hung low as not to be noticed. His eyes land on the year, big and bold: 2014.

He diminishes the flashback from his mind, wary yet intrigued on how similar your question resonates with him, “It’s 2024, ma’am.” He answers carefully.

A thoughtful hum escapes from you and you glance up at the towering trunks of bark, “I thought the trees were looking quite old.”

He tilts his head. How strange.

Despite your confident posture and peculiar aura, there’s a hint of shock in the way your throat bobs and gift the air with a faint cloud from your exhale.

You must notice his staring, as you return his gaze and sheepishly smile. And that smile can send the strongest of men to their knees, concluded in his own weakening, “I apologise, I haven’t introduced myself.”

When you grace him with your name, he repeats it on his tongue quietly, engraving it onto the muscle. A subtle smile flickers on his lips, “I’m James,” he responds, but unsure as to why he spoke his given name, “Or Bucky. Most people call me bucky.”

“If most call you Bucky then I’ll call you James.”

James.

Only the dead have called him James.

“You look lost… are you alright?” He asks, taking a concerned step forwards, “Didn’t just come from church, did you?” He quips while gesturing to your clothing with an extended, gloved hand.

“Church?” You confusingly say before tipping your chin down in realisation, “Oh, no! No…” Nerves capture you and you rub your arm, “I actually came from there.”

He blinks when he follows the delicate length of your arm, pointing in the direction of the ground destroyed. Masses of soil with the odd stragglers of grass are overturned, creating an unmade bed, and a headstone lays fallen amongst the clawed mess, a crack strikingly sliced across the surface.

Bucky has been perplexed numerous times throughout the years while sorting out the foggy memories that floated around him until he'd grasp them in the ink he poured onto paper. Yet, surrounded by unseen creatures and shadows hiding from the moonlight, he finds himself more befuddled than ever.

“You came from the ground?” He carefully inquires, and worst case scenarios gallavant like a horse on the tracks of his brain.

Has someone hurt you?

Were you buried alive like his soul was?

Is that why you're caked in dirt?

“Yes,” you simply say, as if that mere word is the answer to everything, “I'm aware it doesn't seem imaginable. I suppose you're quite confused, I am too. Believe me.”

You meekly chuckle, “You see, a long time ago, I was here, then suddenly I wasn't. I went away for a while and for some strange reason I've returned.”

Bemusement is seeped into the crinkles by his eyes, although worry remains tightly wrapped around him, “You’re speaking in riddles. Do you need me to call someone? Need me to take you to a hospital?”

“No!” You frustratedly complain and cross your arms, the formality that’s embedded into you cracking, “Gosh, do men still assume when a woman speaks up they’re being hysterical?”

An invisible barrier is immediately forged, and Bucky can see a lifetime of resentment in the swirls of your irises. He yearns to grasp that hurt and crush it into tiny pieces under his boot.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky is quick to soothe, a sickly taste bubbling in the back of his throat at the mere thought of being a sexist. He nods towards the ripped seams of your dress, “You look like you’ve been through it and I just want to help.”

Your stiffened shoulders lower, a glimpse of contemplation passing over your face. A sigh, dulcet and almost wistful, is what he’s met with, and the ghostly wall separating you from him slowly dissipates.

Extending a hand, you ask, “May I have your hand, please?”

He gazes at your hand, an invitation to something beautiful he may accidentally crumple with his roughness. You’re a stranger, and he’s a man who’s been melded into many things, but not one to back away from something extraordinary.

“Not gonna bite me, are you?” He asks with a teasing glint in his eyes.

He hasn’t teased anyone in a long time. Oh, why does it feel normal with you? Why is his heart rediscovering the freeing wonder that was weighed down with morbid curiosity?

You shake your head with a joking eye roll, wiggling your fingers. Slowly, he offers his human hand, and you tenderly grip it, sliding off his glove with a slowness he trusts. You’re giving him a chance to pull away, yet he doesn’t. Instead, he allows the crisp air to make contact with his skin, and goosebumps on the nape of his neck awaken as your hand guides his index and middle finger against your wrist.

The first thing he notices is how cold you feel, like winter is hibernating into your veins, blood and skin. The second thing is how soft you are compared to his calloused fingers. He slips his fingers a little lower, subtly caressing your skin in a slow motion so the moment can last longer. Maybe even forever. Until, his movement freezes.

He searches for the steady thump in your radial artery.

There’s no pulse.

Nothing beating besides his own.

Immediately, Bucky’s widened eyes reunite with yours. You’re already staring at him, warily searching deep into his soul for a reaction he can’t come back from.

“You’re dead.” He breathes out, and that single sentence has the woods stilling.

“Undead,” you whisper and tip your head downwards. “I can still feel and experience things, and I can still move and talk... but my heart no longer beats.”

His brain feels like it’s circuited. Not in the way HYDRA would shoot convulsing shocks into him, evoking rattling teeth and violent screaming, but making room for a whole new space purely for this information. Purely for you.

You’re dead—undead—and yet you’re in the land of the living.

The flying car that never reached this century, the man built with a skull of crimson, alien invasions and glowing stones wielding a life-threatening power. Hell, even Scott enlarging himself to the size of a building knocked the socks off his feet. They’ve all bewildered him throughout his life time.

Yet, this nails the mark as first-comer. You’ve arrived from a different humanity—one no person with a pulse has witnessed—and returned without a beating heart. You must be incredibly lost, unaware of who to turn to, and by the design of your dress, you’ve been dead a long time.

He opens his mouth, then clamps it shut, speechless. How is one supposed to react to this? How is he supposed to act when two different entities are reconnecting on a tightrope, holding onto each other so neither will slip?

He’s life and you’re death, and he finds himself inching closer to you.

Bucky’s hand slowly slips away from you, a twist in his chest at the loss of contact, but it disappears once he grasps your chin and tilts your face back up. The hitch in your throat doesn’t go unnoticed, and his eyes, as vast as the ocean, soften. When he gazes at you, he doesn’t see someone to be scared of, nor someone to be disgusted by. He visions a face who’s lived too much and seen too much, who’s walked on the wrong path and lead you here.

He knows because he’s been embarking on the wrong path for decades.

“I’ve met death many times...” Bucky trails his quiet words off, “…but it’s never looked as heavenly on a person until you.”

His words are a sealed promise floating around the woods. They seep into the roots of the ground, the age lines of the trees, and clears the sky of any mist. An everlasting memory engraved into the very woods which coaxes phantoms to life.

You smile, wide and pearly teeth on display. A genuine smile that Bucky wishes he was familiar with in HYDRA’s clutches, because he knows that’s one thing he’d never forget: a smile he could remember when he can’t perform the action himself.

Remembering himself, he clears his throat and drops his hand, retrieving his glove back and tugging it on while your shoulders lower in-sync with your chest, “You got anywhere to go?” He asks, not wanting to leave you alone.

Lashes kissing your deathly skin in a flurried shock, you shake your head.

“C’mon,” he nods towards the crooked, stoned bridge which paths the way to his place, “Would never forgive myself if I left a dame alone in the woods.”

The city that never sleeps discovered its bed when Bucky began roaming freely without a caged mind. The vibrant billboards are cloaked in a dull haze, its duvet covering what once was. It’s a shame it hasn’t awoken for you like you did for it—albeit unknowingly.

His eyes haven’t peeled away from you, terrified if he blinks, you’ll vanish along with the homely foundation built inside his chest. You, however, have been admiring the cars whizzing by, your head following each one.

He’s had to settle a careful, almost hesitant, hand against your hip numerous times to gently guide you away from bumping into someone.

“You’ve never seen a car before, huh?” He muses while forcing himself to look away from the pure fascination glazing over your haunting eyes.

Though, they’re not haunting in a ‘constantly peering over one’s shoulder’ notion. It’s because they linger in his soul, weaving through the dark tunnels and leaving a fluttering trace behind.

“In my day, we had carriages.” You comment.

The city’s chaotic noise fades into a quiet hum by your words, and Bucky focuses on every syllable you pronounced.

“If you— ah…” He scratches the nape of his neck, “If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

An unexpected gasp, feigning dramatics, flows past your ashen lips, “I do mind you asking! I’m a lady, not a child.” You scold.

Yet, the corners of your mouth cheekily curling upwards eases any previous nerves that may have burdened him. There’s something achingly familiar about you, perhaps the old-fashioned vibe desperately clinging to you in a world that’s traversed on.

Jokingly, he raised his covered hands up in defence, “Well, it’s better asking than making assumptions,” he says before humming, “Unless you’d rather me assume?”

“I’ll save you the embarrassment.” You grin, but it diminishes just as swiftly.

He knows that look. He perfected it in his withered apartment. It’s the look of harsh memories clouding one’s mind. Sometime, he’d wish the fog remained in his head, his conscience protecting him from discovering what life was like. Instead, he’s forced to remember how he embodied a figure of death, stealing people from their own lives and sending them to a place you’ve already visited.

Exhaling almost reminiscently, you speak, “Well, if you must know, I perished in my twenties, so I must appear and mentally think like I’m in my twenties. Yet, if my math is correct, I’m truly in my one-hundred and fifties.”

Someone older than him traipses this land, and the ancient abandonment he’s grown used to now feels… fresher.

“You were born in the late 1800s?” He inquires, and no judgment is weaved between his words.

Merely a curiosity for someone whose heart stopped so young, mirroring his in a way.

Both frozen in time.

Silently, you nod, and this revelation makes Bucky selfishly enjoy how freely you speak around him, for that must not have been an easy feat in neither your olden days or his.

His age lays on the tip of his tongue, but if he reveals it, he’ll unravel a string of grief that he’d prefer remain taut right now.

Instead, his eyes linger on the smudge of soil glittering against your cheek under the following moon. It compliments you, somehow. Or rather you compliment it—taking something some consider as messy and wearing it transcendently.

His movements slow until he pauses at the edge of the sidewalk, and you allow yourself to sync with him.

Carefully, his hand raises and in a featherlight motion, grazes against the blemishes. The burn of your widening eyes sets alight something inside of him he thought the throes of trauma washed out. But he continues brushing the dirt away, the leather of his gloves making contact with your skin, until anyone peculiarly staring at your wedding dress passing by becomes a blur of reality.

“We’re almost there.” He suddenly murmurs, roughly shoving his hands back into his pockets.

Death brings out the gentleness of him, and it’s a terrifying notion.

His apartment has no life. The paint coating the walls like it’s hiding something painful is chipping away, the floorboards eerily creak with each step, and the furniture is scarce, like a ghost resides here in replacement of a human. And perhaps that’s what Bucky is, until you saw right through him.

It’s his own personal graveyard, dimmer than the one you were risen from. Yet, having watched you delicately trace your finger across the surfaces, a shift in the atmosphere settled in.

A liberating, refuge of life instead of tormenting nightmares imprisoned by the walls.

The trickling sound of the shower water reverberating throughout the place begins quietening down. You’ve been in the bathroom for a while, most likely playing everything that’s occurred in your head then allowing the liquid to smooth it over.

A hypnotic giggle sways through the cracked bathroom door—you refused to shut it oddly—and reaches where Bucky hesitates by it. He’s been lingering close by in case you desire anything while silently scolding himself for how creepy he must seem.

However, when an ecstatic squeal sounds next, his knuckles lightly rap against the wood, “You okay in there?” He asks, amusement twitching in his lips.

The door widens swiftly and his eyes roam his clothes adorning yourself. It’s nothing akin to how you were dressed before. These shades of fabric are darker and less fitting. Yet, the sublime vision of you shyly smiling and fiddling with the hem of the shirt evokes a whirlwind of tranquility inside his stomach.

“Yes,” you respond bashfully, “Apologies, but your clothes are just so… freeing.”

He shakes his head at your politeness, “I bet it feels good without a weaponised piece of clothing constricting you.”

Because he’d know. The imprints of that mask digging into his skin still feels like a phantom pain of its own.

“You’re good with words.”

Your compliment sticks with him deeply. He didn’t utter a single sentence for decades, only a rotting phrase or a forced, obedient “comply.” Informing him he’s good with talking when his words have been trapped for so long encourages him to want to speak more.

He dips his head momentarily, flustered, “I’m usually better at acts of services.”

“I can see,” you gesture to your surroundings, “Thank you for… well, everything.”

When his gaze reunites with yours again, he realises he’s never felt this more needed until now. Not during the army and especially not in the shackles of HYDRA.

And that—you—revives a beat of hope inside his being that he’s not been forgotten about, but given a chance to do something meaningful.

next chapter ( coming soon )

Wayne Enterprises is one of them.

Poised on the highest floor by the tall windows, your eyes roam the vastness of the sky. There’s no celestial in sight, for Gotham doesn’t deserve its etherealness.

It’s the worst kind of punishment… being wrapped in shadows each night.

Fortunately, loneliness is a notion you can’t remember, as strong arms you’ve memorised encircle your waist. Bruce’s cologne flows into your senses, coaxing you into relaxing against his chest.

Your relationship is still fresh. The darkness of Gotham could intrude the gleam it brings. For now, you both agreed to keep it on the low, out of papers and press especially. Yet, in quiet moments like this, you allow yourselves to bask in the glow unreachable anywhere else.

“What are you still doing here, darling?” Bruce asks, his voice quietly piercing the silent board room. He ducks his face down, grazing his nose against your shoulder before planting a tender kiss there.

“You don’t see stars here,” you absentmindedly say, “They’re just city lights.”

His lips travel up your neck, his devotion for you apparent in each slow, thorough kiss. Reaching his destination, he murmurs by your ear, “I must admit, I may have something to do with that.”

You tilt your chin up, catching the affectionate glint in his usually brooding eyes, “I stole the brightest star,” he whispers, “And I’m never letting her go.”

A rush of bliss, swifter than any shooting star, encases you, and a smile so great spreads across your mouth. He’d have kissed it off by now if he weren’t mesmerised by it.

“I’ll take you somewhere the stars can worship you, just as I do.”

Your eyes flutter shut, drifting to a heavenly haze nothing outside these walls can touch.

Your father attempted to mould you into one, but you’re strong enough to sliver out the cracks. You refuse to be a piece in his game that’ll grant him a greedy step closer to more alliances and wealth. The fourth finger on your hand remains bare and not weighed down with unbearable expectations, and you’ll ensure it remains that way, because if you were to be married off, everything has to be on your own terms: the dress, the ring, and the man.

Especially the man.

And Bucky Barnes is not that man.

Growing up, you sprinted away from the shadows trying to show you the cruel reality of what life will be like once older. You chose to remain in the light, imagining a flowing white dress of your own—not the one which has been passed down by generations—where the hem kisses the grass in gratitude for allowing the sacred union of your love to grace the land.

The ring slipped onto your finger by a hand that cherishes you would glisten heavenly under the rays of sunlight. It would be a ring that signifies loyalty and connection, not a mere jewel to showcase that a self-centred man owns you. It would never know a drop of blood, for its brilliance outshines the impurity of your world.

No one is aware of your favourite ring, the one you’ve dreamily imagined being snugly perched on your finger since a little girl. You vowed that you’d never marry someone who doesn’t know it, as a marriage is meaningless if you’re oblivious to the things that coaxes your partner’s eyes into a pool of bliss, and your loyalty to that vow is unbreakable.

The words ‘I do’ are caged on your tongue, and the key is hidden in the small tidbits of purity this world crushes.

His imposing figure leans against the doorway, and you tilt your head to the side, sparing him a glance. He never adorns the suits normally taught against his muscular body here. It’s oddly refreshing to witness that he isn’t the hardened, brooding man you’re familiar with, but a man who can have a normal life too.

It’s infuriatingly messing with your head.

Bubbles cloak your skin in a sensual haze, but he never once lowers his eyes concealing secrets away from your face.

It’s transparent he desires this marriage to happen, for it’ll raise him higher in the ranks. After all, you do bear the title of ‘Princess’ in this horrific lifestyle. Yet, Bucky genuinely yearns to hear your thoughts on this marriage, unraveling them until it’s formed a line he’s willing to embark on. He’s respectful… even if privacy isn’t a notion around here.

Your gaze lowers to a thickness in his pocket, and the corner of your lips curl upwards, “Is that a ring box in your pocket or you just happy to see me?”

Smirking, he strides towards you, encouraging your chin to tilt upwards, “I am happy to see you finally relaxing around here.” He states while lowering himself upon the edge of the expansive bathtub.

Neither of you tear your eyes from the other’s—not until your breath hitches at how close he’s become. They travel to your delicate throat, and an almost unnoticeable flame of wanting sparks in the depths of his vision before it diminishes, but you notice. You always do.

“Privacy is a thing, you know.” You manage to speak above the wild thrum of your heart.

“There is no privacy in our home unless you truly wish to get away from me,” Bucky’s gruff voice responds, “And by the way your breath just deliciously hitched, I know you don’t want that.”

You purse your lips in frustration, endlessly sick of others determining your fate for you. It makes you almost forget how he referred to is as ‘our home.’

Originally, you merely indulged in residing here because it has greater storage for your clothes. However, over time, through petty squabbles and stolen, intense glances, you discovered safety here, falling into the comfort that it will never end in bloodshed.

“And how would you know what I want?” You question defensively, tucking your knees to your chest and allowing droplets of water to trickle down your legs in a race to reach the bottom.

The bubbles slowly begin fading away, but you’re entranced with the softening of his features. How can a man who’s annihilated the worst possible kinds of enemies… behold a gentleness with you?

“You’re right,” Bucky quielty agrees, and your eyes widen, “I don’t know what you want, and only you can decide that, but I do know you. I know that you dislike when certain foods touch each other on your plate, and how you sip your drink to hide how flustered you get. I know you do that silly thing where you spray your perfume then walk into it, and I…” His words trail off momentarily, “I know you have this grand idea of what your wedding should be. I’d like to turn it into reality.”

Every defensive crevice you’ve built into yourself overtime has been chipped at with each second he breathed out a sentence. It’s frightful he paid close attention to you, for no one else has. It swirls inside your stomach, freer than this bath, until a whirl of beauty you’ve never experienced before is concocted.

You swallow thickly, “H-How..?”

A rare smile graces the pink of his lips, and his fingertips drag across your knees in a featherlight motion, coaxing them into relaxing, “You don’t think I heard your voice when it got lost over others?”

Flashes of the awfully tense dinner parties your mother hosted in attempts to maintain a realm of peace between people appear at the forefront of your mind. Bucky was always quiet, burning his stare into other’s. He’d only speak if he was spoken too, and would leave a trace of mysterious silence once disembarking.

You used to praise yourself for how well you studied others, but you never once realised he was studying you.

“You never said anything.” Your whisper penetrates the silence.

“I know,” he soothes, “When I opened my mouth to talk, nothing seemed worthy enough for you, so I closed it back up.”

A laugh flows past your lips, and you swear if you looked any deeper in his eyes, there’d be no secrets left to uncover, “So, not only are you a know-it-all, but you’re shy now too?” You tease tenderly.

Shaking his head in amusement, the warmth of his touch disappears and slips into his pocket. You’re disappointed for a split-second, before something else overpowers it: a shock-inducing, breath-taking watch as he pulls out a velvet box you’re oh so familiar with.

“I also know one more thing.”

Lowering himself onto a knee, his calloused hands slowly open the box, and your hand immediately cups your mouth to halt any dramatic gasps from escaping.

Slotted between pillows created for the finest of jewellery, a ring—the ring—poises inside. It bares the correct diamond you used to trace on your computer screen, the engraving for the exact carats lays on the inside, taunting you under the warm lighting, and it’s the identical colour you’ve bought endless outfits to correlate with.

The most beautiful jewellery in existence is in the palm of Bucky’s hand, and he’s offering it to you.

You shakily lower your hand, a sheen of gloss coating your eyes as you reunite your gaze with his hopeful one.

“I never wanted this marriage for business, sweetheart. I want… yearn to be your husband because knowing you makes me breathe easier, and I’d love to spend the rest of my life learning more about you.”

His confession connects with your soul so deeply, your eyes well with tears of joy, overflowing with it until once cascades down your face, “You could have at least waited until I put a towel on.” You choke out through a laugh.

Bucky grins so widely it must hurt his face as he carefully glides the ring onto your fourth finger. You don’t feel trapped when it sits perfectly, and you exhale without any burdens.

“May you do me the honour, and accept me as your husband?” He softly asks, caressing where the band meets your skin.

The vow you once made to yourself ignites stronger than ever. You stuck to it, and found someone else who completes it.

“Yes.” You whisper, “I do, I will.”

His face inches closer, and he brushes his nose sweetly against yours in your own version of a kiss. You’re silently glad his lips don’t collide with yours, for that should be savoured in another moment. Now, you dedicate it to the light sensation floating in your chest, where it’s filled with no expectations or fear.

Just your heart that has been beating for this.

“I like seeing you in nothing but this ring,” he smirks, “And I can’t wait to see you dressed in white.”

You hum, feigning a thought, “What if I want blue?”

His chest rumbles with a chuckle, and you rediscover the pureness you thought ghosted this side of the world, “Whatever colour dress you want, sweetheart. Anything you desire, you’ll have.”

The water grows mellow around you, and while your body presents itself vulnerable to him, that’s not the only free thing here.

Your soul, too, is free to be yourself with him.

Clark Kent's body syncs with the rising sun, awakening when trickles of rays filter through the sheen curtains. He gifts himself a moment to admire you curled into his side, sleeping serenely, and seals his adoration by kissing your forehead. Later, he slips into the kitchen with one goal in mind: cooking your daughter’s favourite breakfast.

After bravely enduring a night where monsters could have crawled out from under her bed, homemade pancakes glistening with maple syrup is a rewarding fuel he just so happens to have mastered ever since you walked into his life with a shyly smiling girl hiding behind your leg.

The melodic giggle tumbling from her chest—once he adds whipped cream to her plate and nose—evokes a grin so wide across his face, it aches and the only cure is your lazy, morning kiss.

Clark Kent includes dorky notes to her lunchbox after you’ve filled it with nutritious goods. He purposely bought your daughter’s favourite coloured sticky-notes and leaves each letter in glittery, gold curves. Some days, his writing consists of dad jokes he’s engraved into his mind like ‘why did the cookie go to the hospital? Because it felt crummy.’ On gentler days, he writes how proud he is of her for simply venturing into school, accompanied by a smiley-face drawing.

The pride that builds inside his chest isn’t the same when he saves citizens as Super-Man. This pride, dedicated to the little girl with your expressive eyes, is different. It’s infinitely more precious, and he’ll do everything in his power to cherish it.

Clark Kent is advanced on taking time off work to witness any upcoming recitals. No deadlines nor paperwork will get in the way of him being a supportive step-father. Perched front row, large hand entwined with yours, together you admire the talent she’s honed with months of practice. And once the performance ends? Gosh, does Clark fawn over her! She giddily rushes towards you both and he scoops her up into the safety of his arms.

“Was I good? Did you see me?” She questions in a flurry of joy.

His response always confirms you let the right man into your world, “There wasn’t a moment your Ma or me took our eyes off of you.”

Clark Kent often encircles his arms around your waist, instantly coaxing you into melting against his hardened chest. He ducks his chin down to settle on top of your head, all-while your baby girl could be doing something as trivial as colouring or running in circles with Krypto. While Clark is undoubtedly proud of the caring person she’s becoming, the eminence he beholds for you soars further than he can fly. Swaying you side by side in a slow rhythm, his words are the song his heart beats to: “she reminds me of the good in this world, and you’ve set that example, honey.”

Clark Kent's stomach churns when his ears tune to her sniffles and his eyes cast over her teary-face. The worst sound in the world isn’t a blaring car alarm or a squeaky hinge, it’s her pitiful sobs wracking from her tiny body. She only cries like this when you’re away on a work trip, despising the distance between her and her mama when it’s longer than two days.

He tenderly wipes her tears and extends his hand, patiently waiting for her to grasp his thumb. When she does, a slow-paced trip to the nearby pond settles her down, and he reveals mythical ‘stories’ of how the glowing orb in the sky lends a helping hand in healing his worries… maybe it’ll do the same for her.

“Sun helped a little,” she murmurs once time slips by, “but you helped more, Clarkie.”

Clark Kent grapples over the terms ‘step-dad’ and ‘dad.’ They blend together, definitions blurring each day he parents her by your side. Not wishing to overstep, he asks both you and her if he can possibly start calling her ‘his daughter’ too. Your burst of euphoria is unmistakable across the crinkling skin by your eyes and the drag of your fingertip against your necklace he bought you, but you let yours—and possibly his—little girl answer, for this is a change that’s wholeheartedly her decision…

A decision she accepts with the utmost enthusiastic nod in this universe.

Clark Kent drops her off at school one day, checking she has everything, giving her a small squeeze, and waving her off while she scurries to her friends. As he swivels around and takes a step towards his car, an innocent conversation drifts into his ears and courses through his veins.

“Is that your dad?”

“Yeah, he makes the best pancakes!”

Immediately, he was on the phone to you, eyes pooling with unbridled bliss and voice bouncing in excitement.

Clark Kent does his best at being a father.