#winterwidow fic

pairing: fatws!bucky x exwidow!reader

summary: fighting the flag smashers wouldn't have been a big deal, except sam's metal-armed friend seems torn between pining for you and making your life a living hell.

word count: 5.5k

warnings: none

a/n: thank you so so much for reading this far! i hope you loved it as much as i do ♡

~~~

Bucky had been nothing short of a gentleman. The small things, like making your toast and folding you blankets didn’t stop. He didn’t sleep in your room or smother you in physical affection. He was intentional. Attentive.

“I’m doing things slow with you,” he’d said that night, tracing your cheekbone. “I can’t rush in and mess it up.”

Two days had elapsed since your kiss in the living room; you appeared in the doorway, fully dressed for the first time since Bucky had arrived.

Jeans. A real shirt, not a sweatshirt. Your hair pulled back. Boots—the ones with good ankle support.

Bucky looked up from his coffee, and something in his expression shifted.

"I'm going outside," you announced.

He set his mug down carefully. "Outside."

"Yes. Outside. To Target. For groceries. Like a normal person."

"You hate grocery shopping."

"I hate sitting in this house more." You crossed your arms, wincing slightly at the pull in your shoulder. "I'm going stir-crazy, Buck. I need to—I need to feel like a person again. Not just someone recovering."

He was quiet for a moment, jaw working like he was fighting with himself. You could see it—the instinct to protect, to keep you safe inside where nothing could hurt you. But you could also see him recognizing that keeping you locked away wasn't the same as keeping you safe.

"Okay," he said finally.

You blinked. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stood. "But I'm coming with you."

"I figured."

"And we're being smart about it. Hats, sunglasses, the works."

"I'm not going out in a disguise—"

"Not a disguise. Just—" He gestured vaguely. "Low profile."

You studied him. "You're really okay with this?"

"No," he admitted. "But you need this. So we're doing it."

Twenty minutes later, you were both in his rental car. You wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. He wore a different baseball cap and different sunglasses. It was almost comical how normal you looked—just two people heading to Target on a Tuesday afternoon.

The parking lot was mostly empty. You walked slowly, favoring your ankle slightly but moving on your own. Bucky stayed close but not hovering, his hand occasionally brushing your lower back.

Inside, you grabbed a cart and just—existed. Looked at Halloween decorations. Debated the merits of different pasta brands. Argued about whether candy corn was an acceptable food (it wasn't).

"This is nice," you said quietly, standing in front of the cereal aisle.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You grabbed a box of Frosted Flakes. "Normal. It feels normal."

He smiled—that soft, private smile that was just for you. "Good."

In the car, he reached over and took your hand. You were about to say something—something about how you didn't regret it, how being with him was worth the exposure—when he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You've got—" He gestured vaguely at your face. "Chapstick. On the corner of your mouth."

"Are you saying I'm messy?"

"I'm saying you tried to put chapstick on while pushing a shopping cart and it went exactly as well as expected."

You'd swatted at him, laughing, and he'd caught your hand. Held it. His thumb traced over your knuckles, and suddenly the car felt too small and too big all at once.

"Bucky—"

"I know we said we'd take this slow," he murmured, eyes dropping to your mouth. "But I really want to kiss you right now."

"Then kiss me."

So he did.

It was soft and sweet and perfect—the kind of kiss that made you forget you were in a Target parking lot in the middle of the afternoon. His hand cupped your jaw, careful of the fading bruises. You leaned into him as much as the console would allow, fingers curling into his jacket.

When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling like idiots.

"We should probably go," you started.

"Yeah. Before the ice cream melts."

Neither of you moved.

"In a minute," he said, and kissed you again.

The photos appeared online that evening, but they were grainy. Unclear. Two people in a car, kissing, but the baseball caps and sunglasses made identification difficult. The angle was bad. You could barely make out faces.

The comments were split:

Is that them???

Could be anyone

That looks like his car tho

Half of Dallas drives a black rental sedan

The height difference matches

Y'all are reaching

Sam called an hour after the photos posted.

"So," he said. "Someone maybe got pictures of you and Barnes. Maybe kissing. Maybe in a car."

"We saw," you said.

"And?"

"And nothing. They can't prove it's us."

"But it is you."

"Allegedly."

Sam laughed. "You're really going to play it like that?"

"I'm not playing anything. I'm just—" You paused. "I'm not confirming or denying. Let them speculate."

"That's probably smart," Sam admitted. "Especially with the trial coming up. The less ammunition Walker's lawyers have about your personal life, the better."

After you hung up, Bucky looked at you from the couch. "You okay with this? The photos?"

"Yeah," you said, surprising yourself. "I am. They don't know for sure it's us. And even if they did—" You shrugged. "We were just living our lives. We're allowed to do that."

"We are," he agreed.

You sat beside him, tucking yourself against his side. "Besides, the photos are terrible. You can barely see anything."

"Your standards for photography are very low."

"My standards for privacy are very high."

He kissed the top of your head. "Fair enough."

—

The courthouse steps were a war zone.

You'd expected press—Walker's trial had been all over the news for weeks—but this was something else entirely. Cameras everywhere. Reporters shouting over each other. The questions roared before you were even out of the car.

"Are you the Shadow?"

"Is it true you're dating Sergeant Barnes?"

"Can you confirm your identity?"

"How long have you been involved with the Winter Soldier?"

"Were those you in the Target photos?"

Sam was on one side of you, Bucky on the other. They created a buffer, but it barely helped. The crowd pressed in, desperate for answers, for confirmation, for anything.

A microphone shoved into your space. "The public has a right to know who you are!"

You kept your eyes forward, jaw set. Sam's hand was steady on your elbow, guiding you through the chaos.

"Is Sergeant Barnes here to support you or intimidate witnesses?"

Bucky's hand found the small of your back, and you felt him tense. Controlled.

"Almost there," Sam murmured.

"Did you attack John Walker?"

"Are you a Russian operative?"

"Is your relationship with Barnes real or fabricated for the trial?"

The doors finally closed behind you, cutting off the noise. You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

"Jesus," you muttered.

"It's going to be like that every day," Sam warned. "You sure you're ready for this?"

You straightened your shoulders, smoothing down your blazer. "Let's get this over with."

—

The courtroom was packed. Reporters in the gallery, sketch artists positioned strategically, cameras (audio only, no video allowed) set up in the back. Walker sat at the defendant's table in an expensive suit, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

You were sworn in. Sat down. The wood of the witness stand was cool under your palms.

The prosecution's lawyer, Patricia Valdez, started with the basics. Establishing the timeline, your involvement with the Flag Smashers situation. You answered carefully, aware of every eye on you.

Then she got to it.

"Can you please state your full name for the record?"

This was it. The moment your anonymity died.

You took a breath. "Y/N Y/L/N."

A ripple went through the gallery. Reporters scribbling furiously. Sketch artists' hands moving faster.

"And Ms. Y/L/N, the press has been calling you 'the Shadow.' Is that accurate?"

"It's a nickname I didn't ask for," you said evenly. "But yes."

"Can you describe your background? Your training?"

"I was taken by the Red Room as a child. Trained as an operative. I escaped approximately six years ago and have been trying to build a normal life since."

More murmurs. You saw Walker's lawyer lean over, whispering something to his client.

Valdez continued, professional. "And how did you come to be involved in the Flag Smashers situation?"

"Sam Wilson—Captain Wilson—asked for my help. I agreed."

"Why?"

"Because he needed someone with my skill set. And because he mentioned it was for Steve Rogers."

"Captain America."

"Yes."

Valdez nodded, establishing your credibility, your connection to trusted people. Then she moved on to the attack.

"Can you describe what happened when you encountered Mr. Walker in Riga?"

You'd practiced this. Gone over it with Sam and the lawyers until the words felt like a script. But sitting here, with Walker staring at you from across the room, with your name now attached to everything, the memories came back sharp and immediate.

"I found him standing over a Flag Smasher he'd just killed," you said, keeping your voice steady. "The man was already dead. There was blood on the shield—Captain Rogers' shield."

"What did you do?"

"I tried to de-escalate. I told him to put the shield down and walk away."

"And how did Mr. Walker respond?"

"He attacked me."

The defense attorney objected, but the judge overruled it. Valdez continued.

"Can you describe the attack?"

This was the part you'd been dreading. The part where you had to put words to what had happened.

"He hit me. I flew backward into a wall hard enough to crack it. I tried to get up, and he kicked me in the ribs. Three of them broke on impact."

Your voice was steady, clinical. Like you were describing something that happened to someone else.

"What happened next?"

"He grabbed my hair and slammed my face into the cobblestones. Multiple times. I tried to defend myself, but he had the super soldier serum. I didn't. I couldn't fight back effectively."

"The medical reports show you also sustained a dislocated shoulder, a fractured ankle, and significant head trauma. How did those injuries occur?"

"The shoulder and head trauma were from him throwing me into the wall and the pavement. The ankle—" You paused. "I managed to escape briefly. I ran. But I landed wrong and it fractured."

"You were able to escape?"

"For a few minutes. I hid in an alley. He chased me, but then Captain Wilson and Sergeant Barnes arrived in the square, so he went after them instead."

Valdez's expression was sympathetic but professional. "And how long were you alone in that alley before help arrived?"

"Eleven minutes."

The number hung in the air. Someone in the gallery inhaled sharply.

"What were you doing during those eleven minutes?"

"Bleeding. Trying to stay conscious. Failing at both."

"Thank you, Ms. Y/L/N." Valdez turned to the judge. "No further questions."

The defense attorney stood. He was younger than Valdez, with slicked-back hair and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Ms. Y/L/N," he began. "Or should I say, the Shadow?"

"Y/N is fine."

"Y/N, then." He paced in front of the jury box. "You testified that you were trained by the Red Room. That's a Russian intelligence organization, correct?"

"It was. It doesn't exist anymore."

"But you worked for them for—how long?"

"Approximately ten years. I was a child. I didn't have a choice."

"But you did make choices, didn't you? As an operative?" His voice sharpened. "You killed people."

Valdez objected. "Relevance, Your Honor."

"I'm establishing the witness's background and potential bias," the defense attorney argued.

The judge looked tired. "I'll allow it. But get to the point, counselor."

The attorney turned back to you. "You have a history of violence. Of killing. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And you approached my client—a man who had just lost his partner, who was clearly in distress—as someone trained to kill."

"I approached him as someone trying to prevent further violence."

"But you could have killed him if you'd wanted to."

"Before he took the serum? Maybe. After? No."

That got a reaction. Murmurs rippled through the gallery.

"Mr. Walker had taken the super soldier serum?" the attorney asked, feigning surprise even though this had been established in earlier testimony.

"Yes. That's why I couldn't defend myself effectively."

The attorney switched tactics. "Let's talk about the photographs."

Your stomach sank.

"What photographs?"

"The ones that surfaced online approximately two weeks ago. Showing two people in a car, kissing. People believe those individuals are you and Sergeant Barnes."

"I'm not confirming or denying that."

"But you are involved with Sergeant Barnes, are you not?"

Here it was.

"Yes," you said evenly.

"And when did this relationship begin?"

"After the events in Riga."

"After my client's alleged attack on you."

"After your client's attack on me," you corrected. "There's no 'alleged' about it. The footage is clear."

"But your relationship with Sergeant Barnes—a man who physically fought my client, who has every reason to want him convicted—doesn't that create a bias in your testimony?"

You'd prepared for this. But it still made your blood boil.

"No."

"No?" He looked skeptical. "You're asking this court to believe that your romantic feelings don't color your perception of events?"

"I'm asking this court to look at the evidence," you said. "The footage. The medical reports. The testimony of the EMTs who found me bleeding in an alley. My relationship with Sergeant Barnes doesn't change any of that."

"But it does give you a vested interest in seeing my client convicted—"

"I had a vested interest in seeing your client convicted the second he tried to kill me," you interrupted. "Whether or not I'm dating Bucky Barnes is irrelevant."

"Is it?" The attorney's voice sharpened. "You're romantically involved with someone who fought my client. Someone who might have influenced your recollection of events—"

"With all due respect," you cut in, voice cold, "I'm failing to see how my love life is relevant to a case about attempted murder."

The courtroom went silent.

The attorney blinked. "I'm suggesting your feelings for Sergeant Barnes might affect your testimony—"

"Then you'd be wrong." You leaned forward slightly. "I know what happened to me. I was there. I remember every second of it. And no amount of questioning my relationship is going to change the fact that John Walker broke three of my ribs, dislocated my shoulder, fractured my ankle, and left me to die in an alley."

You paused, letting that sink in.

"Those are facts. Medical facts. Documented facts. Not feelings." Your voice was steady now, certain. "The only person whose feelings should be on trial here is John Walker. Because he's the one who lost control. He's the one who decided murder was an appropriate response. Not me. Not Bucky. Him."

The defense attorney stared at you for a long moment. Then he turned to the judge. "No further questions."

---

You stepped down from the stand on shaking legs. The weight of what you'd just done—publicly identified yourself, confirmed your past, admitted to your relationship—settled over you like a blanket.

Sam gave you a subtle nod from the gallery. Bucky was waiting in the hallway—they hadn't let him in the courtroom during your testimony.

The second you were through the doors, you walked straight to him. He pulled you into his arms without a word.

"You did good," he murmured into your hair.

"I wanted to punch him."

"I know. But you didn't. You used your words instead." A pause. "Very proud."

You laughed, muffled against his chest. "Don't patronize me."

"Not patronizing. Genuinely proud." He pulled back just enough to look at you. "You okay?"

"I will be."

"The whole world knows who you are now."

"Yeah." You took a breath. "But at least they heard it from me first."

—

The verdict came three days later.

You weren't there—couldn't bring yourself to sit through closing arguments and jury deliberation. Sam called you the second it was announced.

"Guilty," he said. "On all counts except attempted murder."

Your stomach dropped. "What?"

"Aggravated assault. Excessive use of force. Manslaughter for the Flag Smasher. But the jury couldn't agree on attempted murder. Said there wasn't enough evidence of intent."

"He choked me unconscious."

"I know." Sam's voice was tight with barely controlled anger. "The defense argued he was in an altered mental state. That he didn't intend to kill you, just subdue you."

"That's bullshit."

"I know. The sentencing is in two weeks. He'll still do time, just—not as much as he should."

You sat down heavily on the couch. Bucky looked up from his book, immediately alert.

"How long?" you asked.

"Five to seven years, probably. With possibility of parole."

Five to seven years. For trying to kill you.

"Okay," you said numbly. "Okay."

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I know it's not—"

"It's fine." You didn't believe it, but you said it anyway. "Thanks for calling."

After you hung up, Bucky set his book aside.

"What happened?"

"Guilty on everything except attempted murder." Your voice sounded distant to your own ears. "Five to seven years."

His jaw tightened. "That's not justice."

"No." You stared at your hands. "But it's something."

He moved to sit beside you, pulling you against his chest. You let yourself lean into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

"I thought I'd feel better," you admitted quietly. "When it was over. But I just feel... tired."

"You're allowed to feel tired."

"He's going to get out eventually. And then what?"

"Then we deal with it." His hand moved in slow circles on your back. "Together."

You closed your eyes. 

—

"I'm thinking about moving," you said one night, two weeks after the sentencing.

Bucky looked up from his book. "Moving?"

"To Brooklyn."

He went very still. "Why?"

"Because my lease is up in two months. Because Dallas feels..." You gestured vaguely. "I don't know. Like I'm hiding."

"You're not hiding. Everyone knows who you are now."

"That's not what I mean." You sat beside him on the couch. "I came here to disappear. To rebuild. But I think I've done that. And now I'm just... stuck."

"So you want to move to Brooklyn," he said carefully. "Not because of me."

"Partially because of you," you admitted. "But also because I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of running. I want to—" You stopped, searching for the words. "I want to be somewhere that feels like home."

"And Brooklyn feels like home?"

"You feel like home."

His expression softened. "Y/N—"

"I'm not asking to move in with you," you clarified quickly. "I know that's too fast. I just—I want to be in the same city. I want to be able to see you without someone having to book a flight. I want—"

"Move in with me."

You blinked. "What?"

"Move in with me," he repeated. "To Brooklyn. To my apartment."

"Bucky, I just said—"

"I know what you said. But I'm saying it anyway." He set his book down, turning to face you fully. "I have a spare room. You can take it, make it yours. No pressure. No expectations. But if you're moving to Brooklyn anyway..."

"That's a huge step."

"I know."

"We've been dating for five weeks."

"I know."

"People are going to have opinions—"

"When don't people have opinions about us?" He took your hand. "Look, I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm asking you to take the spare room in my apartment so you're not alone in a new city. If it's too much, we can find you your own place. But I want you close. I want—" He stopped. "I don't want to do the long distance thing. Not after everything."

You studied his face. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

—

The moving process was surprisingly smooth. You didn't have much—a year in Dallas had taught you to travel light. Most of your things fit in boxes that Bucky helped you pack while making fun of your organizational system (or lack thereof).

"Why do you have three half-empty bottles of the same shampoo?" he asked, holding them up.

"Because I kept forgetting I had one and buying another."

"That's not how shampoo works."

"I was injured and traumatized, give me a break."

"You're using this as an excuse for everything now."

"It's a very versatile excuse."

He'd laughed, kissing the top of your head, and kept packing.

His apartment was smaller than you expected. One bedroom, one spare room that he'd been using for storage, a kitchen that barely fit two people. But it was lived-in and comfortable and unmistakably Bucky.

Books everywhere. A ridiculous number of throw blankets. A single plant on the windowsill that was somehow still alive.

"This is Steve's," he'd said, gesturing to the plant. "He gave it to me before—" He stopped. "Before. I've managed to keep it alive out of spite."

"That's the most Bucky thing I've ever heard."

The spare room was bigger than you expected. Empty except for a few boxes and a guitar case in the corner.

"Is that—" You moved toward it.

"I bought it," he admitted. "After Latvia. Thought maybe you'd want to teach me properly this time."

Your throat went tight. "Bucky—"

"Too much?"

"No." You turned to him. "Perfect. It's perfect."

—

Your life was a mess. A big, amazing mess.

Bucky was terrible at guitar, and you could never make it more than 10 minutes into a “lesson” without collapsing into uncontrollable laughter. Then he’d kiss you senseless and tell you to stop making fun of him.

You got papped. A lot. Walking home from the grocery store, getting coffee, in the park. Neither of you had social media, so the internet feasted on whatever crumbs they could get. Neither of you cared.

You both had nightmares. You’d wake with phantom pain in your ribs, around your neck, or shooting through your shoulder. Bucky would pull you into his arms and suggest you both go watch Hairspray, and you would laugh.

It went on like that. 

Just over a month after your move, it was 2am, and neither of you could sleep. You stood in the dimly-lit kitchen, eating handfuls of dry Frosted Flakes while Bucky made tea that he probably wouldn’t touch. 

“Can I ask you a question?” you squeezed around a mouthful. 

“Depends on the question.”

“When did you know?”

“Know what?”

You gestured around vaguely with the cereal box. “That you…you know. Liked me. Wanted this.”

He pondered for a second. “Munich.”

You choked on your cereal. “Munich? We met in Munich. You didn’t even know me.”

He made a grabby gesture at the Frosted Flakes and you slid them over to him.

“There was a moment, when we landed in that field-“ 

“When you crushed me.”

“I did not crush you.”

“You absolutely crushed me,” you laughed. “I couldn’t breathe, and your face was like,” you gestured to your neck, “right there.”

His cheeks got slightly pink, but he was laughing too. “Okay, okay. Let me explain. You were under me and you were out of breath and you had blood on your face, and-” He stopped.

“And?”

"And for a second I forgot we were on a mission. I just—" He cleared his throat. "You told me to get off like you were about to rip my throat out. And I thought, 'Oh. I'm in trouble.'"

A beat of silence. “You got turned on because I was pissed?”

“I didn’t say turned on.” 

“You implied turned on,” you taunted.

"I'm saying I was attracted to you even though you looked like you wanted to kill me. That's different."

"That's the same thing." But you were grinning now. "Okay. So Munich. Then what?"

"Then Walker happened."

"Walker?"

He set down the box of Frosted Flakes. “Yeah, when he was trying to make us get in the car, when he was being-” He paused, jaw tightening. “The way he was being. Saying all that ‘female empowerment’ shit.”

“I forgot about that,” you mused.

“I didn’t. And he kept saying all this stuff to you and I wanted to throttle him and then I was asking myself why I cared so much. But then you just shut him down completely and it made everything worse.”

“Worse?”

"Worse because you were making me laugh but I wanted to defend you anyway. I wanted to—" He stopped. "I was sitting right next to you and I could feel you tense up when he touched you. And I just—I wanted to make him stop."

"You were stiff," you said quietly. "I felt it. Your leg was pressed against mine and you were shaking with how angry you were."

"I know."

You were quiet for a moment. "That's kind of hot."

"Oh, now I'm hot?" he grinned.

"You were always hot. You were just also an asshole." You ate another handful of cereal. "Okay, so Munich and the Walker car ride. When else?"

“The car ride in Berlin,” he said thoughtfully.

“I was alone in the back seat. How was that a thing?”

“I just remember it as the first time I saw you without your walls up. Your hair was wet and you were in this massive sweatshirt and you looked exhausted. I don’t know-” he paused. “I guess I just saw some of you for a second. I wanted to know if I’d ever get to see behind those walls.”

Your throat felt tight. “Bucky-”

"Your turn," he said quickly. "When did you know?"

You thought about it. “Okay. Moments. There were several moments.”

“I’m listening.”

"Madripoor. The dress thing with Zemo." You set the cereal box down. "You defended me without making it about you. You just—you saw what was happening and you stopped it. No grandstanding. No 'let me save you' bullshit. Just... 'Find her another dress.'"

"That was nothing—"

"It wasn't nothing." You moved closer to him. "I'd spent the whole mission trying to prove I didn't need help. And you didn't try to save me. You just... stood up for me. Like it was obvious that I deserved better."

“You do deserve better.”

“Which brings me to moment number two,” you started. “The car ride to the club in Madripoor. When we did the whole—" You raised an eyebrow, mimicking the look you'd given him. "—nonverbal conversation about the music."

"I got that too."

"I looked at you and you were already looking at me, and I thought, 'Oh shit, he gets it.' Like we were on the same wavelength." You paused. "And then you did that thing with the AC."

"What thing?"

"You adjusted it. Without me asking. Because you noticed I had goosebumps." You pointed your spoon at him. "That's when I knew you were paying attention. Like, really paying attention."

"I'm always paying attention to you." he said softly, circling his arms around your waist.

"I know that now. But then? Then I thought you hated me." 

His expression dimmed. “There was another moment," you said, voice muffled against his chest. "In Latvia. When you came back and I was playing guitar."

You felt him tense. "Oh. That."

"I stopped playing the second you walked in. After you got weird and left."

"I didn't get weird—"

"It was after we got in that screaming match. You got so weird." You pulled back to look at him. "I remember thinking, 'Oh shit, I blew it. He knows I like him and now it's awkward.'"

"You didn't blow it. I blew it." He sighed. "I'd been standing outside the door listening to you play—"

"You WHAT?"

"—and you were laughing with Sam and playing guitar and you seemed so... light. Happy. And then I walked in and you just stopped. Like a switch flipped. And I thought, 'She doesn't want me here. She was fine until I showed up.'"

"Oh my god, we're both idiots."

"Catastrophically stupid," he agreed. "Because I left thinking I'd ruined it. That I'd made you uncomfortable."

"I stopped playing because I was embarrassed! Because I'd just told Sam I didn't have a crush on you and then you walked in and I was like 'oh fuck, did he hear that?'"

“I did hear it, actually.”

"WHAT?"

"I was listening outside the door. You very violently denied having a crush on me." He was grinning now. "It was extremely convincing."

"I'm going to kill you." you hid your face, cheeks burning.

"You were so adamant. 'I do NOT have a crush on your partner.' Very emphatic."

"Because I DID have a crush on you! That's what you do when you have a crush—you deny it!" You shoved his shoulder. "And you were listening outside the door like a creep?"

"I wanted to know if you liked me!"

“You could’ve just ASKED.”

“So could you!”

You stared at each other for a second, and burst into laughter.

"We really are stupid," you said.

"The absolute worst." He pulled you back against him. "But for the record, hearing you deny that you liked me made my whole week."

"Why?"

"Because it meant you were thinking about it. Thinking about me." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "And I was thinking about you too. Constantly. It was annoying."

"When was the worst of it?"

"The worst?"

"Like, when were you most annoyed that you liked me?"

He thought about it. "The club in Madripoor."

"Oh god."

"You walked in wearing that dress and I—" He stopped. "I had to physically remind myself we were on a mission. That I couldn't just stare at you."

"You were staring. I noticed."

"Everyone was staring. You looked—" He shook his head. "But that wasn't the moment."

"What was the moment?"

"After Nagel’s warehouse. When you were fighting on zero sleep but you were too stubborn to stop, even though you almost died, like, five times.”

“I still stand by the fact that I was fine.”

“You hadn’t slept a full night in days. You were not fine. And I was also mad that I’d just blown things up with you, and I wanted you to know that I still cared. I didn’t want you to get hurt. But then you had this look in your eyes and-”

“And I screamed at you?”

“And I screamed back, because I was scared that you’d see me and know that I was terrified of fucking it up with you.”

“I thought I had to prove to you that I deserved to be there. I thought you didn’t see me.”

"I did see you. I've always seen you."

"I know." You kissed him again. "That's why I fell in love with you."

You stood there in the kitchen, swaying slightly, until the tea went cold and the cereal box sat forgotten on the counter.

"Come on," he said eventually. "Let's try this sleep thing again."

"What if we can't sleep?"

"Then we'll stay up and I'll tell you about all the other moments I knew I was in trouble."

"There are more?"

"So many more." He pulled you toward the bedroom. "Like when you came back to Sharon’s hideout after the club, all disheveled and exhausted, and I wanted to—"

"Wanted to what?"

"That's a conversation for when we're in bed." he smirked.

"Bucky Barnes, are you trying to seduce me?"

"Is it working?"

"Extremely."

Minutes later, you were snug in bed.

"Okay," you said, curled against his chest. "Tell me the club moment."

"You walked in wearing that terrible dress. Makeup smeared. Feet probably killing you from those heels. And you just collapsed into that chair like you'd run a marathon."

"I basically had. Do you know how exhausting it is to pretend to be drunk for three hours?"

"And I wanted to—" He paused. "I wanted to take care of you. Get you water. Make sure you were okay. But I couldn't, because we weren't—we weren't anything yet, and you’d just seen me slip back into my past. So I just sat there like an idiot, trying not to stare."

"I thought you were mad at me."

"I was mad at myself. For caring that much about someone I'd just met." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Your turn. Tell me one I don't know."

You thought about it. "My house."

His whole body tensed. "Y/N—"

"Not the first part. The after part. When you watched Hairpsray with me and you made me toast." You traced patterns on his chest. "I was shocked that someone cared. You said 'I'm right here' and 'I'm not going anywhere.' And I thought—" You stopped.

"What?"

"I thought, 'Oh. He stayed.' Like I couldn't believe it. That you'd stayed, even though I was an avoidant mess who could barely walk." Your voice went thick. "That's when I knew it wasn't just a crush. That's when I knew I was in love with you."

He held you tighter. "I would've stayed forever if that's what it took."

"I know." You kissed his cheek "That's exactly why I love you."

You fell asleep like that—tangled together, finally having said all the things you should've said months ago.

And if anyone had asked either of you the next morning when you knew, you both would've had the same answer:

Earlier than you admitted. Later than you should have. Exactly when you needed to.

epilogue

series masterlist

Summary (Buckynat, E, 0.8k): Bucky realises he has a kink for his partner in high heels.

A/N: It's Rare Kink Buffet reveals, yay! This was the third prompt I filled.

Contains: Mistress/Mommy Natasha, sub Bucky, shoe kink, oral sex (more on AO3)

Preview below:

Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

Natasha had surprised Bucky the day earlier, looking like a million bucks in that special red dress of hers, and a pair of new heels… 

She was a vision.

“What do you think, James?” Natasha had turned in place, eyeing him with a teasing, sultry smirk.

Bucky almost lost the ability to speak, she looked that incredible.

Crimson Tracks - A Winterwidow Fanfiction

They want him back - and her dead.

Breaking out of the Red Room was deemed impossible. And yet, together, they did it. But out in the icy Russian night, Natasha and Bucky realise that escaping those walls was only the beginning. They won't just let them have their freedom. For there may be more Black Widows, but there is only one Winter Soldier. And they will hunt him down. So both of them run, chasing the faint hope of a dawn on the other side of the night.

→ 🔗 Click here to read on AO3

↓ Tags below the cut ↓

normal people stuff

mcu | natasha/bucky; 5k; teen

Bucky and Natasha team up for their most intense mission yet: they’re moving into their very own house.

Summary: Natalia is questioning her own thoughts and it's a constant struggle. What is real, what isn't? Is it worth it? Should James really keep pushing her? With a simple name, the answer to the questions is clear- it will be worth it in the end.

Word Count: 3,633

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28 | Part 29 | Part 30 | Part 31 | Part 32 | Part 33 | Part 34

I See Red

Square filled: Y3

Pairing: Bucky/Natasha

Rating: Teen and Up

Warnings: some mild body horror/psychological thriller

Tags: mind control, mild body horror, unhappy ending

Summary: 

Every day is a perfect day.

He wakes up with her in his arms, a faceful of red hair, smooth skin under his fingertips. For a blissful, quiet moment, everything is red, red like her hair, red like the moment right before the sun slips below the horizon on a perfect night, red like a fire in the fireplace, warm down to his bones, defrosting some of his winter. She fits perfectly against him like a puzzle piece, their jagged edges smoothing out into a beautiful picture, a picture of fall leaves and crisp air, of cool mornings and warm afternoons, right before the world turns icy again.

e, 2k words

bucky and natasha have a habit of running into each other

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Bucky Barnes Includes: fluff, my old writing from 2019, nothing edited lol Word count: 468 (wow thats short)

A/N: written for @caitlin-b-cls ages ago

~~~~~~~~~~

the little bell on the door jingled, signalling that a customer had entered the small coffee shop. natasha gave a half smile as well as an eye roll when she looked up to see one of the shop’s regulars, james “bucky” barnes. he had a bad boy exterior, but nat knew better, from the drinks he ordered. he looks like he would drink the blackest coffee, but in truth he was a fan of light teas and pumpkin spice latte’s in the fall. he was also always sweet when he spoke to natasha and the rest of the employees. he seemed like the perfect guy, except he would always hit on nat. not in a rude way, just that she had recently gotten out of a pretty messy breakup, and wasn’t yet ready to go out on dates yet. she did have to admit though, that when she was ready she hoped her date would be james.

“one medium green tea please love.” james asked, stepping up to the counter. natasha nodded with a smile, punching the order into the register and quickly whipping up the tea for him.

“so, when can i get your number, hmm? i’ve been trying for a while you know, and i know it’s hard to resist my charm, i can’t figure out how you’re doing so well.” he smiled cockily as natasha laughed.

“patience james, patience.”

“its bucky, you know that.”

“sure i do, but i like james better, and if you ever want to go out on a date with me i think you’re going to have to accept that.” she smiled, handing over the tea and ringing him up. “3.99 please”

“here. keep the change.” he said, handing her a 10.

natasha shook her head as he went to sit down. as she helped the next customer she couldn’t help but glance over at james occasionally, almost entranced by him. she really did like him, and maybe it was time for a new start. as she saw him getting ready to leave, she grabbed a pastry she knew he liked and some napkins, handing them over to him as he was about to leave.

“raspberry. it’s on the house.” she whispered with a soft smile before rushing back behind the counter, a slight blush on her face.