The Bucky Vault

"Time for bed now," Bucky soothed.

"Just one more time, Daddy." Natalia pulled at the book again, knocking the trinkets and treasures she'd collected off her shelf.

"Sweetheart, it's late, Mommy said lights out before eight tonight, okay? You have kindy tomorrow."

"Eight?" She looked at the clock on her wall, each five minutes segment a different colour. "Then we have…five minutes!"

Grant stirred in his sleep, snuggling deeper into Bucky's side, and his chest squeezed at the feeling of his soft breath.

"I dunno little bookworm, five minutes isn't long and I have to get Grant to his bed."

"Please, daddy, please please please." She looked up at him with her big wide pleading eyes and he was powerless to resit.

"Okay, are you picking a new book? We need to be quick."

"Don't waste time, Daddy, this one, this one."

Bucky took the board book from her little hands and opened the first page.

"One Sunday morning, the warm sun came up and pop!" Bucky popped his finger in his mouth and Natalia giggled.

"Pop!"

Grant stirred, resettling himself, and Natalia did the same, grabbing at his shirt with her hand.

By the time the caterpillar had eaten "one nice green leaf" they were both fast asleep. Bucky turned the page anyway, he liked this one, liked the little face on the big fat caterpillar, liked the butterfly at the end and the way the children still loved him, even though he was different.

Carefully, he placed the book on the floor and slid Natalia onto her pillow. Grant squirmed, his face scrunching up, until Bucky lifted him up too and then he dropped his head onto Bucky's shoulder.

As he was heading for Grant's room, you appeared at the top of the stairs.

"There you are — oh!" You put your finger over your lips and started whispering instead. "I was worried you'd fallen asleep too."

"No chance." Bucky smiled, "they wanted extra stories, how could I say no."

He took Grant into his bed room and knelt slowly on the big planet Earth rug by his bed. He tucked him in, curled his fingers around his teddy and stepped back into your waiting arms.

"He's so cute." You hushed.

"They both are."

Across the hall you could just see Natalia's face relaxing into her dreams.

"I love you, Mr Barnes."

"Love you too, Mrs Barnes."

Every other weekend in Delacroix, somebody lights a grill, drags coolers out onto the dock, and pretends life has always been this simple.

Sam calls them “casual little cookouts,” which is a lie considering there’s always enough food to feed a football team, music echoing through the boatyard, at least one argument over who burned the burgers and about twenty people yelling over each other while the Louisiana sunset turns everything gold.

Bucky usually keeps to the edges of it all.

Not hiding exactly, just observing. Helping when someone asks. Nodding along to conversations. Holding a beer long enough that people stop offering him another one. And every single cookout for the last two months, somewhere around sunset, he notices you. Always near the water. Sometimes sitting on the edge of the dock with your sandals abandoned beside you, sometimes leaning against one of the old wooden posts near the boatyard. Always looking out toward the horizon like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.

The first time he saw you, he thought to himself how pretty you were, the way the reflected sun off the water glowed across your face. The second time he wondered if you were waiting for someone else to join you. By the fourth cookout, he started looking for you before he even got out of the truck.

Tonight is no different. Bucky stands near the cooler pretending to listen to Sam and Torres argue over seasoning while his eyes drift automatically toward the water, and there you are. Leaning against the fence near the boats, drink hanging loosely from your fingers while the sunset paints orange light across your skin.

Bucky stares too long. Again.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters beside him without even looking up from the grill. “Go talk to her before you wear a hole through the poor girl.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“And lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”

Bucky scowls while Sam grins into the smoke curling from the grill.

“You got exactly five minutes before somebody else gets the nerve first.”

“That’s not—”

“Five.”

Bucky hates that his stomach actually drops a little at the thought, because he hasn’t done this in a long time, not like this not when it matters. Across the yard, you laugh softly at something one of the Wilson kids says before drifting back toward the quieter end of the dock again. Alone.

Bucky exhales slowly.

Say something to her. Anything.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking. The wooden boards creak beneath his boots as he approaches. Closer now, he notices details he couldn’t from afar, the condensation sliding down your cup, your hair moving gently in the breeze off the water, the way your shoulders relax out here away from the noise. You glance over at the sound of his footsteps. And suddenly Bucky Barnes the former assassin, war veteran, and literal super soldier—completely forgets how conversations work.

“You uh—”

Brilliant start.

“You’ve been standing there a while.”

The second the words leave his mouth, Bucky wants to launch himself directly into the bay.

Nice going, Barnes.

But then you laugh, soft and surprised and warm enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh, yeah,” you admit, looking back toward the sunset. “Guess I have been.”

Then your eyes flick back to his.

“I didn’t think you’d notice me.”

And Bucky, the poor bastard, his brain short-circuits entirely. Because how is he supposed to answer that honestly?

I notice you every single time you walk into a room. I started showing up early hoping you’d be here. I know exactly what your laugh sounds like from across the yard.

Instead what comes out is something much clumsier.

“I’d have to be blind not to notice you.”

Your cheeks flush immediately and Bucky’s soul leaves his body.

“I mean—” he starts quickly, panic rising fast, “not like I’m staring at you or anything—I just meant like—”

You save him then, with that warm gentle smile of yours.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I know what you mean.”

The relief nearly takes his knees out. Then after a tiny pause, your voice gets quieter.

“I notice you too.”

Bucky stares at you, stares like he’s trying to process whether he imagined that.

“You do?”

Smooth. Very cool.

You laugh again, ducking your head slightly.

“Kind of hard not to.”

Something warm unfolds slowly in Bucky’s chest. Shock first, then confusion, then happiness so sudden it almost feels dangerous. And when you smile at him again, all shy and sunlight-soft in the fading evening glow, he thinks distantly to himself.

This is good, right? Yeah. Okay. Time to send it home.

Bucky clears his throat.

“I uh—”

God. Why is he suddenly sixteen years old again?

“I notice,” he says carefully, glancing toward your cup, “your drink is empty.”

You look down at it like you forgot you were holding it.

“Would you maybe wanna get another,” Bucky asks, trying very hard not to sound like this is the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, “with me?”

There’s half a second where he’s convinced he ruined it somehow. Then you smile bright enough to rival the sunset behind you.

“Yeah,” you answer softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Bucky tries to play it cool, he really does, but as the two of you start walking back toward the lights and laughter of the cookout together, he can’t stop the small smile pulling at his mouth. And behind the grill, Sam Wilson watches the whole thing happen before immediately shouting aloud for everyone to hear.

“IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

Bucky flips him off without hesitation which makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink again as he shakes his head and mutters something about this being a setup.

"A setup?"

"You and Sam."

"We've never discussed you."

"That's exactly what somebody discussing me would say."

The two of you reach the cooler then, and Bucky bends down to grab fresh drinks before you can.

"What are you having?"

"Lemonade."

He already knows, you've had lemonade at every cookout. Still, hearing you say it feels oddly satisfying. Bucky twists the cap loose before handing the bottle over, and your fingers brush his. It's brief, barely there, the kind of touch most people wouldn't even notice. But Bucky does.

The warmth of it lingers embarrassingly long.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Neither of you pull away quite as quickly as you probably should and it makes Bucky's heart do something deeply inconvenient.

You seem completely unaware or maybe you're pretending to be, he honestly can't tell. The realization gives him a strange burst of courage. Because you've been smiling at him for the last half hour, because you noticed him too. Because if he leaves tonight without asking, Sam will probably never let him live it down. Mostly because he doesn't want to wait another two weeks to talk to you again.

Bucky clears his throat and immediately, you glance toward him and suddenly the nerves return full force.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Very smooth, professional even, he thinks.

You bite back a smile and Bucky points at you.

"Don't."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are."

"I haven't said a word."

"You're thinking things."

That finally earns a laugh and the sound settles some of his nerves, just a little, just enough. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. Then, before he can overthink it.

"Would you maybe wanna come to the next cookout with me?"

Your eyebrows lift slightly.

His stomach drops, so he rushes onward.

"I mean—not that you aren't already coming. Obviously you're already coming."

Fantastic.

"God."

You laugh again.

Bucky closes his eyes briefly.

"Let me start over."

"Okay."

He's smiling now despite himself.

"So. Next cookout."

"Next cookout."

"Would you wanna come with me?"

The teasing fades from your expression and something softer takes its place. Your smile becomes smaller, warmer, the kind that twinkles across your eyes.

"I'd like that."

Relief crashes through him so quickly he almost laughs.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You nudge your shoulder lightly against his, this time definitely on purpose.

"I've kind of been hoping you'd ask."

The door clicks behind him and a moment later, a thin stream of light from the hallway appears on the wall opposite. Bucky watches as it widens and Y/N’s silhouette appears, the disappears, along with the light.

“Hey,” she says, her voice quiet and tentative. It still feels too loud. “We ordered takeout tonight—fried chicken? I didn’t know what you’d want so I grabbed a little of everything, plus a water bottle… It’s not cold,” she adds. “I know you like it room temperature."

Bucky swallows something akin to a mouthful of sand. He keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the wall and waits, his muscles tensed as Y/N carefully approaches and sets the loaded plate and the bottle on his nightstand.

“Bucky?”

The words are stuck in his throat. Does he even want to say them? Or is he just too weak? His eyes feel too big, too focused on the dark wall.

When the bed dips beside him, Bucky inhales sharply, drawn back into himself. He glances over at the food. Steam is no longer rising from the chicken. Had it been hot to begin with?

“Bucky, are you okay? Can you hear me?” Y/N is asking, and Bucky manages a single nod. She lets out a sigh of relief so quiet he shouldn’t have been able to hear it. “Do you want me to go?”

Does he? It feels good, her presence beside him and her thigh almost touching his. It’s the first human he’s had in a while. It should bother him.

Slowly, Bucky shakes his head from side to side. It’s exhausting to move this much, to stay present. It’s easier to disassociate.

“Okay, I’ll stay. Are you hungry?”

Another head shake.

“Thirsty?”

It’s too many questions. But, he manages a slow nod, and then the water bottle is being tapped against his fingers, which are still gripping the mattress. He sluggishly tilts his head down to look at them when there’s no reaction. He can’t make them work, and after a minute that must be clear because the bottle moves away and Bucky hears the plastic cap snap off. The rim is pressed against his lips a moment later and he opens them, allowing her to tip some of the water into his mouth. Bucky swallows, and the water feels like heaven.

His fingers unclench then, instinct taking over as he shudders, grabbing the bottle from her with an unsteady hand, then drinking the rest in quick succession. Y/N takes the crushed, empty bottle when he’s finished.

“I’ve been worried about you,” she admits as he eyes the food.

The water helped; he feels more like himself now and his stomach seems to have caught on. A loud grumble comes from its depth and Y/N reaches across him again to pass over the plate without complaint. He balances it on his lap and begins to eat as she continues,

“Mostly because you haven’t come out of your room in a while. FRIDAY would’ve alerted us if you were sick or hurt, but she hasn’t said a word.”

Y/N pauses and takes in the darkness of his room. It’s afternoon, or at least he thinks it is, but it’s dark enough to be the middle of the night.

He eats, practically shoveling the food into his mouth. She truly had piled a bit of everything onto his plate. Some of it he doesn’t even recognize, which isn’t an entirely unusual occurrence given his memory lapses, but he eats it all anyway. Every bite is delicious.

“You didn’t deserve to be treated the way you were,” Y/N murmurs as he nears the end of his meal. “They treated you like some kind of monster, but you’re not, and I’m going to figure out a way to get your arm back for you. I promise. We’re all so—”

Bucky stops, the fork screeching against the porcelain. “No.”

She falters. He can feel her frowning at him in the shadows. “No? You… don’t want your arm back?”

He shakes his head, not sure how to explain what he’s feeling. Does he want his arm back? Of course, but he also doesn’t trust himself. Half the time, Bucky’s not even sure if he is himself. He drifts in and out of sleep and his memories, and there have been times where he thought he was doing one thing until he blinked and found himself doing something completely different.

He is dangerous. He is untrustworthy. He is a weapon and a tool and the fist of HYDRA.

A shudder runs down his spine. Bucky can hear his old captors’ voices in his head, repeating those words over and over again, and he shoves the plate onto the nightstand as his stomach turns. The fork clatters to the floor but it goes ignored as he curls in on himself, fisting his right hand in his hair and clenching his eyes shut.

“Bucky?” The panic in Y/N’s voice is clear and it makes him feel worse. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to have your arm back, it’s alright. Plenty of people live their lives with only one arm. It’s totally fine.”

How can he explain this to her? How is he supposed to tell her his fears when he can’t even stand the voices in his head that aren’t supposed to be real anymore?

“It’s not mine!” he grinds out. “It’s not mine!”

She places a hand between his shoulder blades and though he tenses further under her touch at first, the soothing strokes she makes up and down his spine begin to help him relax.

“It’s okay,” she reassures him. “It’s okay, you’re safe here.”

“How do you know?” he asks, and the desperate way his voice cracks only adds to the shame that has begun to pool in his gut.

“Because this is real. I’m real, and you’re real, and they’ll have to go through all of us to get to you. They can’t win that fight even if they tried, Bucky.”

“I just—” His voice breaks again.

“When was the last time you slept?” she asks.

He doesn’t have an answer. He’s not sure. He’s not sure of a lot of things, he realizes.

“Come on, lay back for me.” Y/N’s hand slides up to his right shoulder, up over the bony ridge to the front of his body, where she pushes. He doesn’t budge. “Bucky, you need to sleep. You’re exhausted.”

“I— I can’t,” he chokes. “I can’t sleep. If I do…”

She watches him, her gentle eyes searching his face. “Do you have nightmares?”

His gaze flickers over to hers, and he nods. Her expression is sympathetic. It’s not the pity he expected to see.

“It’s okay. I can help you sleep.”

Bucky shakes his head this time. “I’ll hurt you. I’m not…”

He swallows the rest of his sentence, afraid to even voice the thoughts that have been brewing in his scattered mind ever since he’d woken up from the cryosleep they’d found him in during his rescue—the rescue that had only just preceded the government ruling that he was too much of a detriment to be allowed to keep his arm. A small part of him wonders if this is just another nightmare forced on him by modern-day HYDRA, or if he’s been woken up and put into a simulation.

“You’re very much here with me,” Y/N tells him after a beat, her voice soft. Somehow she always knows exactly what to say. Her hands slips from his shoulder to his hand, where she gathers up his fingers and squeezes. “You are here and you are in control. Not them.”

“I can’t believe that. This could all just be a dream, or a hallucination.”

“Would it be such a bad dream to have me here? With fried chicken, of all things?” Bucky shakes his head, and she replies, “You once told me you only had nightmares.”

He knows what’s she’s referencing. “I had memories too, when they didn’t wipe me soon enough,” he answers.

“Yeah?” Y/N shifts on the bed, moving to lay behind him. She lays on her side facing him with her head propped up on one hand, her elbow digging into the mattress. “Memories of what?”

Bucky has to turn to see her and he knows what she’s doing, but he won’t turn his back on her, no matter how much he trusts her. Good dreams can easily turn into nightmares.

“Dancing on my ma’s feet in the kitchen when I was a kid, or the first time Steve got into a fight.”

She snorts. “Yeah? How old was he?”

An unbidden smile tugs at Bucky’s face. “We were only ten.”

“Jesus, ten-year-old Steve? Sounds hardcore.” She chuckles. “What else do you remember?” Y/N moves again, this time dropping her arm and using it as a pillow. She stares up at him, clearly comfortable in his bed.

Bucky wets his lips as he thinks. The bottom one is chapped and rough from dehydration and biting down on it to try and ground himself.

“Books… and movies. But sometimes they got mixed in with everything else.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to borrow any of my books? Or my Netflix? Because you’re afraid that you’ll get things mixed up again?” she asks, though it seems to him that she’s already figured out the answer.

He nods and moves to sit against the headboard, his legs now fully on the bed. “Yes. That and… I couldn’t decide which book to read. You have so many.”

She hums and turns onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. Her hands are folded on top of her stomach. Bucky watches her trace the outline of the room with her eyes.

“I suppose it would be hard for me to make choices too, if I hadn’t made them in a long time,” she replies, her voice hushed again. “Does it take a lot of energy? For you to make choices and try to catch yourself up on everything you missed, and process everything that happened to you?”

“So much,” Bucky murmurs. No one has ever asked him that, or seems to have even considered it, and tears well up in his eyes as he answers.

“You can rest, if you want. We don’t have to sleep, but I can keep you company.”

He shakes his head. One of the tears rolls down his cheek with the movement. “I can’t, Y/N. I told you, if I sleep—”

“Bucky,” she begins, her hand sneaking across the covers to touch the outside of his leg with her pinky, “Do you remember what Steve told you I can do?” When he shakes his head again, she continues, “I can make people sleep. I can control dreams.”

When he shies away from her touch, he sees a heavy sadness flicker in her eyes.

“Please…”

“I would never use my powers on you or any of our friends without asking permission first. But Bucky, I can help. I can see how exhausted you are, how exhausted you have been since the moment we first met. I can help you have good dreams, and I can even help you learn to control them. It’s called lucid dreaming.”

“Y/N, please.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, then opens them again and grits his teeth. Memories of the handlers forcing him down for sedation flash through his head and then he’s up off the bed, right fist clenched hard enough that his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palm.

She sits up and braces her back against the headboard. She doesn’t say anything, just watches as he paces back and forth, covering the length of his room ten times over before the tension leaves his shoulders and his hand falls limp at his side again.

He’s so tired that the prospective of sleep—the good kind, where he doesn’t remember anything, he just wakes up and realizes that he’d actually fallen asleep—sounds like a myth. Bucky can’t remember the last time that had happened to him.

“Come to bed,” she murmurs.

“I can’t.”

A soft sigh, and he meets her gaze. She holds it, her voice steady as she tells him, “Yes, you can. You are capable of this, James Barnes.”

Something inside of him fractures and suddenly she’s blurry. He blinks and the image comes back into focus, and something warm rolls down his cheek. Another tear.

Slowly, Y/N moves away from the headboard to kneel in the center of the mattress. She sits on her heels and holds out a hand for him. After a moment, he comes closer and takes it.

“Sit down?”

He nods and lets her lead him to sit on the edge of the bed. Once he’s settled, she lets go of his hand, then moves to sit on his left, between him and the nightstand. He notices she’s careful not to bump into him or brush against his shoulder.

“I’m going to explain what I can do,” she tells him, “and then you can tell me to go away, or you can let me help you. Okay? I won’t touch you again unless you tell me to. I swear.”

He nods again.

“Bodies need rest. It’s an unavoidable necessity, and I can sense when someone is tired. I can make people sleep at will, even if they’re not tired, just with a snap of my fingers or a touch.

“For the longest time, it was something I only used to incapacitate someone during combat missions, but I can’t do it if we don’t have eye contact or if I’m not touching them, so it’s not ideal. But once they’re asleep, or if they’re already sleeping, I can manipulate their brain activity to keep them asleep. I can give them dreams too, or manipulate dreams they’re already having. I can only do that for so long, though. If I lose focus, they’ll start to wake up.

“It’s not the most useful power, but I realized after I met Steve that maybe it’s more useful outside of combat. Maybe I’m not meant to fight, you know?”

She looks down at her hands. Bucky can feel his pulse, but somehow he manages to speak.

“You shouldn’t have to fight. Not if you don’t want to.”

Y/N looks up and gives him a small smile. It’s tired, but it’s the kind of tired that runs soul-deep. He can tell—he sees it every time he looks in the mirror.

Wetting her lips, she goes on, “After he came out of the ice, Steve had trouble sleeping. He had… a lot of nightmares.” She pauses for a beat. “Fury was the one who approached me and asked if I could help, and at the time, I didn’t know if I’d be able to, but I wanted to at least try. We… experimented. Me and Steve, I mean.

“I learned that if someone is trying to sleep on their own and I use my powers, they can stay asleep without me there to keep them in that state. I also learned that I can do more than just conjure bad dreams. I can give people good dreams, too.”

She smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes.

“You mentioned lucid dreaming.”

Nodding, she continues, “After I met Banner, I realized that maybe I could help people control their own dreams. He and I talked a lot, and he was a willing participant. It took us a while, but we finally figured out certain cues and techniques that helped him control his dreams. He could even use them to alter dreams that I gave him.”

“And you think I could do that?” he asks. It’s hard to hide the hope in his voice.

Y/N shrugs. “Maybe. It’s worth a shot though, isn’t it?”

He inhales deeply, then lets it out with a sigh. It’s a risk, and a big one. It scares him down to his very core. He doesn’t trust himself enough to be in control of his own body sometimes, and yet she’s asking him to trust her with it.

“Okay,” he says, and then he blinks. Did he really say that?

“You sound… uncertain.”

“Surprised,” Bucky corrects. “I didn’t think… I don’t know.”

And it’s true. Suddenly, he realizes that he does trust Y/N. He trusted her enough to let her into his room earlier, and he trusted her with some of his darkest thoughts, some of which he’s never even told Steve. He’s not uncertain about this decision—he’s surprised that he’s capable of making it so quickly, and so assuredly.

“You don’t need to let me help you if you’re not one hundred percent comfortable with it, Bucky,” she’s saying, and he blinks, turning to face her and reaching over to put his hand on her leg. She stops talking immediately and looks at him with a slightly owlish expression on her face. He’s aware that it’s the first time he’s initiated any kind of contact with her since she first came looking for him. She is too.

“I am.” He pauses. “What do you need me to do?”

Y/N sucks in a deep breath, her chest rising and then falling when she exhales forcefully. She looks back at where they’d been sitting together on the bed.

“Get comfortable. However you normally sleep.”

Nodding, Bucky stands. She does too, but she frowns when he grabs a pillow and blanket from the bed and carries it over to the couch on the other side of the room.

“You don’t sleep on the bed?” she asks as she watches him.

“It’s too soft.”

He sits down on the couch and then slides himself under the blanket. The fabric feels like ants crawling over his skin and after a second, he pushes it onto the floor and stares up at the ceiling. He can feel her watching him.

“Close your eyes,” she says, but he doesn’t. He listens to the sound of her footsteps as she crosses the room to join him, and he turns his head to look at her when she stalls. She grabs a book from the bookshelf along the way. It’s one that Steve loaned him. He hasn’t read it yet. Smiling, she inspects the cover, wiping the thin coating of dust off the top with her free hand.

“Are you going to read me to sleep?”

She laughs a little and closes the distance between them. She sits down, her legs criss-cross and her back against the edge of the couch.

“This is for me. Once you’re asleep, I’ll stay here to make sure everything’s alright. If it seems like you’re having a nightmare, I’ll replace it with something better.”

“I thought you were going to teach me how to do that.”

“And I will,” she replies, her head turned to look at him. “But you’re exhausted, Bucky. Your body needs time to catch up to itself before you can try anything like that. Your brain needs time.”

He nods a little and looks back up at the ceiling, holding back a sigh. He doesn’t want her to think that he’s nervous about this, even though a small part of him still is. The voice in the back of his head, the one that’s been there since HYDRA, is telling him that a single slip-up is just what they need to force him back into that role.

“I’ll need to touch you. Is this okay?”

Y/N pivots, turning herself to the side until the couch is no longer behind her, but on her right. Bucky can see her easily now. She’s sitting beside his hip, and she rests one arm on the couch, enough that it brushes up against his wrist. She holds the book in that hand, the spine propped on the edge of the cushion, and she’s already poised to open it.

“That’s fine.” He clears his throat and looks back up at the ceiling.

“Good. Now close your eyes.” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice and, despite himself, Bucky smiles a little. He obeys this time, closing his eyes.

“Now what?”

“Now go to sleep.”

It’s a ridiculous instruction. It takes him hours to fall asleep if he’s lucky, and he spends that time tossing, turning, and generally ruminating on every bad decision he’s ever made in his life, including those that he was forced to make.

He opens his eyes again. “This is ridic—”

He stops.

Y/N looks up at him, her thumb holding her page in the book she’d borrowed. She’s halfway through. It’s in her lap now—she’d been bent over to read it, and she’s no longer touching him.

“Good morning,” she replies. There’s a sly glint in her eyes and she smiles as he sits up on the couch, suddenly blinking away grit and fighting back a deep yawn. “Well, good night, I guess.”

“Was I…?”

“Asleep? Yes.”

“For how long?” asks Bucky. He rolls his shoulders back, feeling the stiffness there from lying still.

“About five hours. I would’ve kept you under longer, but you had an entire water bottle so I decided I’d let you wake up naturally. Unfortunately, the only bodily function I can control is sleep.”

“You sat there for five hours?”

“I told you I would.”

“I don’t even remember falling asleep.”

She shrugs. “You were exhausted. Your body was ready to force you to sleep, even if I hadn’t been here to help. I’m not surprised you fell so quickly. You didn’t even dream.”

He frowns a little, looking over at the windows. The shades are still drawn, but he can tell that it’s significantly darker outside than it was before he’d closed his eyes.

“What time is it?”

Y/N squints at her watch. “A little after eleven.”

“You should be in bed right now,” he says, immediately guilty that he’s kept her up. “It’s late.”

“If I’d wanted to leave, I would’ve. I told you I was going to stay, and I intended to keep that promise, Bucky. Besides, I’m not even that tired. I stay up way later than this all time.”

She yawns as if on cue, then carefully pushes herself up onto her feet. She stretches her arms above her head with the book still in hand. Her index finger holds her spot. The sheepish smile she tries to hide tells him all he needs to know, and Bucky finds himself smiling back at her.

“Go to bed, Y/N.”

Without a word, she sits on the edge of his bed and starts to pull off her shoes. His smile falls and a spike of panic jolts through him.

“What are you doing?”

“Going to bed,” she replies. Her answer is nonchalant, and once her shoes are off, she uses one foot to nudge them into a neat line with the heels against the end of his bed frame before she scoots back to the headboard. She leaves his side of the bed open and sets the book on the empty nightstand closest to her.

Bucky swings his legs off the couch so he can stand. The blanket is still crumpled up on the floor beneath his feet. “You should go back to your room.”

She points at the open bathroom door with her chin as she pulls the flat sheet out from where he’d tucked it along the side of the mattress the last time he made the bed. “I’ll help you get back to sleep when you’re done.”

He does have to pee, but he’s not about to admit it. Not when confusion is twisting his gut and his heart together somewhere in the center of his ribcage. He couldn’t describe this emotion if he tried.

“You’re still tired, Bucky,” she says. She curls up on her side and pulls the sheet up to her chin. “I can tell. Your body needs to rest.”

“I’m not.”

It’s a lie and they both know it, but the answer is a knee-jerk reaction he’s developed after years of denying his own needs, sometimes out of necessity, but usually out of fear. She doesn’t react, except to reply,

“Go pee.”

He stands by the couch and stares at her. Heat rises in his cheeks. She stares back, her expression gentle even though he knows from experience that she won’t budge until she gets her way. It’s almost endearing how stubborn she is, and as soon as he has that thought, Bucky forces himself to go into the bathroom and shut the door behind himself, if only so he can have an excuse not to look at her. He needs to sort his thoughts out before he does something he’ll regret.

With his right hand braced on the edge of the sink, he stares at his reflection in the mirror for the first time since the government had taken his prosthetic.

His eyes aren’t as bloodshot as he’d thought they’d be, most likely due to the sleep he’d just gotten, but there are still heavy bags under his eyes. His skin looks paler than normal, and his stubble has started to grow out. His hair, which was already getting long before they’d intercepted Tony’s plane and ambushed them on the runway, now brushes the front of his shoulders when he moves.

The sensation is irritating, even through his shirt. Frowning, he pulls open the mirror cabinet and grabs a comb. It only takes him a second to realize, however, that it’s too tangled for him to successfully wrangle with one hand.

Reluctantly, Bucky glances over at the closed door that leads to his bedroom. He knows that she’d help if he asked, but he’s not sure if he can manage that today. She’s already done so much for him, and he won’t take advantage of her generosity. He tosses the comb into the sink in defeat, then sighs and puts it back where it belongs a moment later.

After he’s finished in the bathroom, he turns off the light and opens the door. The bedroom is quiet, and he realizes that Y/N’s eyes are closed.

“Y/N?” he murmurs.

She doesn’t stir. She’s asleep, the pale gray flat sheet still pulled up to just below her chin. He presses his lips together. After a second, he grabs the blanket from where he’d left it on the floor beside the couch. He drapes it over her carefully, his pulse thrumming all the while. The voice in the back of his head, for the first time in months, is silent, though he can’t stop reminding himself not to wake her up.

He stands beside the bed for several moments, unsure of what to do next. Finally, he forces himself to sit down again. She was right—he is tired. He feels like he’s run a marathon, though less so than before, and he knows that he should sleep.

It occurs to him that without her awake beside him, he could have another nightmare. The last one he’d had, only two nights ago, had been brutal. He’d woken up drenched in sweat with his heart rate well above average. FRIDAY had almost initiated emergency medical protocol, but he’d stopped her before staggering into the shower. The ice cold water had helped, until he’d remembered that the dream wasn’t actually a dream. It had been a memory.

He’s standing again, this time with the pillow clenched in his hand. Bucky swallows and tries to keep his breathing steady, even as panic claws at the inside of his chest. He can’t have another nightmare, not with Y/N here. He could hurt her.

It’s a gamble, choosing where to sleep. If he sleeps on the bed with her, she could help him if she senses that he’s having a nightmare. On the other hand, if she doesn’t sense it in time, he could seriously injure her, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did that.

His legs move on their own, however, and he finds himself climbing into bed. He lays on his back on top of the sheet, because even though he’s too tired to function properly, he won’t impose on her like that.

Somehow, after only a few minutes, his heart has slowed. He can hear her breathing next to him, slow and even, every couple of seconds. He times his own breaths with hers, and when he opens an eye—he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them—to peer at her and make sure he hasn’t disturbed her, he’s amazed at how calm she looks. Even after everything he’d told her, after his outbursts of anger and panic, she’s unbothered.

He can feel his eyelids grow heavy again, and he doesn’t resist. When his mind wanders, he attempts to keep his thoughts on pleasant things, but he doesn’t try for very long. A single thought, one that he hasn’t had for a long time, jolts him awake. For a second, he’s ready to run. Phantom figures approach the compound, ready and willing to do anything to get him back in their clutches.

“Go back to sleep, Bucky,” Y/N mumbles. “I’ve got you.”

He turns his head to look at her, surprised to find that she hasn’t even opened her eyes, even though he’s sure he shouted. The sheet is twisted up at the end of the bed, near his feet, where it’s come untucked.

She scoots closer until her forehead is against his right shoulder. Her breath is warm through his t-shirt. His hand twitches on the sheet between them and he stares at her in the darkness.

A slow, syrupy sleepiness makes him yawn. He realizes that it’s her, that she’s using his powers on him, but there’s no panic. He knows it’s Y/N. He knows that she’s one of the few people he can trust. Contentment glows warm behind his breastbone and he lets his eyes fall closed.

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OK, the ring wasn’t really that simple to tell the truth. 

The band was from polished white gold, with a breathtaking emerald-cut diamond, easily ten carats, perhaps more, the kind of diamond that belonged behind museum glass.

Anything less had never been an option.

You deserved the finest things life had to offer, and Bucky Barnes had made it his mission to ensure you had them.

But that wasn't the point. The point was that the ring had a purpose, and Bucky Barnes probably for the first time in his life was afraid.

Tonight was supposed to be different, at least that's what he'd told himself.

The dinner had gone cold but Bucky had barely touched his food. 

His fingers tapped nervously against the edge of the table.

You tilted your head.

"Bucky?"

His hand froze, and a pair of sharp blue eyes raised to yours.

For a moment he looked almost trapped, then he swallowed. Actually swallowed, hard.

"Bucky, what's wrong?"

He reached inside his jacket.

The small velvet box appeared and was placed carefully on the table like it might explode.

Bucky stared at it. Half a year of trying to find the courage to offer it and he was still terrified like a little boy waiting outside the principal's office, convinced his entire future would be decided by what happened next. 

Finally, he spoke.

"I know what people think I am."

His voice was steady.

Mostly.

"I know what I've done."

Bucky finally looked up.

"I don't know if I'll ever get this right."

His large palm carefully crossed the table. You didn’t pull away and let it settle over yours.

"I'm still learning to love," Bucky let out a shaky breath. "But if you'll let me… I'd like to spend the rest of my life learning with you."

You reached for the box and Bucky's breath stopped midway. 

You opened it and let out a gasp of surprise that dissolved into a stifled sob.

It turns out, he never really understood the purpose of living in a modern world, until he met you. Who came crashing, quite literally, into his life on a random summer morning in Central Park.

Bucky, out for his daily run, choosing to take a different path today.

You, innocently getting an iced coffee at a cart just off said path.

The red string of fate that had been connecting your souls pulled taut when you turned, eyes trained down to avoid the glare of the sun, and didn't see Bucky. Your shoulder collided with his chest, causing your balance to vanish, but he was quicker. Stopping on a dime as his arm wrapped around your waist, saving you from collapsing onto the dirt path.

"Hi." you breathed, eyes blinking in shock.

"Hi," Bucky echoed, slowly bringing you up to standing again.

With your coffee becoming a casualty, now seeping into the ground, Bucky offered to get you a new one. And then, his usual morning run became a walk as you got to know each other, ending in him asking you on a date.

And after a year of dating, Bucky stopped at an antique jewelry store with only one thing in mind. That today is gonna be the day he asks you to spend the rest of your life with him.

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Drumming your fingers softly, you glanced over your shoulder at the large man sleeping under a single threadbare blanket. A permanent crease between his eyebrows forming as another nightmare likely took hold. You made a mental note to somehow get something thicker, worried the chill was making the nightmares worse.

"He's very charming," was your weak excuse for wanting to stay hidden away from the world. Call it selfish, or at the very least self sabotaging, falling for a man who wasn't the most mentally stable. Yet, something in your soul was drawn to him. In a way words couldn't begin to explain.

"And I thought you were professional enough to keep your feelings in check. At least tell me where you are," came his demand.

Your gaze was still fixed on Bucky, one of your hands outstretched, a faint golden glow emitted from your fingertips. The light washed over the exposed skin of his knee, his features softening almost instantly. At least your magic could provide some relief while he battled demons you couldn't extinguish.

You knew what would happen if you turned him in, like Steve wanted you to. Even if Bucky was Steve's oldest friend, you doubted even Captain America could save him from whatever fate the United States government surely had in store for the former Winter Soldier.

"I'm not going to do that," you answered finally.

You could almost see Steve's pinched expression now at your insubordination. "Can you at least tell me why?"

A small smile pulled at the edge of your mouth. "I'm afraid only those in love could know, Captain."

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But Bucky knew better than to argue with you. Especially when you were sprawled under the umbrella in your swimsuit, sunglasses slipping down your nose, one hand thrown over your forehead like a woman in a tragic period drama.

“Buckyyy,” you said weakly.

He looked over from where he was helping Jamie dig a sandcastle with the yellow shovel. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I’m dying.”

Jamie gasped. “Mommy?”

“She’s not dying,” Bucky said calmly.

“I am,” you insisted with a sigh, beads of sweat rolling down your skin that Bucky was really trying not to pay attention to, not while he was building sandcastles with your son. “The sun has chosen me as tribute.”

“Mmm,” Bucky’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” you frowned, “I need your arm.”

He glanced down at the vibranium arm, then back at you.

Jamie looked between the two of you, very interested. “Daddy’s cold arm?” 

“Daddy’s cold arm,” you confirmed. Jamie knew because when he sprained his ankle last month, Bucky used his arm to “ice” the bruise. 

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Then, without making a big deal out of it, he reached up and detached the arm.

Your eyes widened behind your sunglasses. “Wait. I was joking.”

“No, you weren’t.”

You considered you answer for a second. “I was joking a little.”

“No, you weren’t,” he repeated, because apparently being the love of your life meant that he knew you better than you knew yourself.

He walked over and gently set the vibranium arm beside you on the towel, cooling function already humming faintly through the vibranium.

You immediately wrapped your arm around it.

“Oh my God,” you sighed, pressing your cheek against the cool surface. “I love you.”

Bucky arched an eyebrow and chuckled. “Me or the arm?”

“At this exact moment,” You tilted your head, “I need you to be emotionally secure enough not to ask that.”

Jamie toddled over and patted the arm with both little hands. His eyes went huge. “Cold!”

“Very cold,” you said reverently at his adorable little face, blue eyes not unlike Bucky’s own. 

Jamie turned to Bucky, delighted. “Daddy, mommy has your arm.”

“I know, buddy.”

“You only have one hand now.”

Bucky looked down at himself, then at Jamie. “Yeah. Looks like I’m gonna need help with the castle.”

Oh. Daddy needs me! He seemed to think. 

Jamie straightened like he had just been promoted to general.

You watched the exact second your six-year-old became the most important construction worker on the beach.

“I can help,” Jamie said, very solemnly.

“I was hoping you would.”

Bucky went back to the sandcastle one-handed. To be fair, he could still do most things better than most people with one hand. 

He packed sand with his right palm, dragged the shovel toward him, smoothed down walls with his fingers. But every time one of Jamie’s little structures needed steadying, every time a bucket had to be tipped or a shell had to be placed or the moat needed “more water but not too much water,” he looked to Jamie.

“Can you hold this side for me?”

Jamie rushed in. “I got it, daddy!”

“Good job,” he smiled, “Don’t let it fall.”

Jamie’s little face went slightly pink with concentration. “I won’t.”

You hugged the cold arm closer, your heart melting for an entirely different reason.

Bucky could have done it faster on his own. You knew that. He knew that. But Jamie absolutely did not know that.

To Jamie, his father needed him.

To Jamie, he was not just watching the castle happen. He was making it happen.

He held the bucket while Bucky packed wet sand inside. He pressed both hands against one crooked wall while Bucky reinforced the other side. He selected shells with the concentration of a professional jeweller. He added one piece of seaweed to the top and declared it a flag.

Bucky squinted at it. “Looks like kelp.”

Jamie gave him a look.

“I mean,” Bucky corrected himself immediately. “Strong flag, buddy.”

Jamie nodded. “It means no bad guys.”

“Good rule.”

“And no stepping on mommy.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, curled shamelessly around his detached arm like a sun-drunk cat. “Definitely no stepping on your mom.”

You lifted one hand lazily. “This kingdom has great laws, baby.”

Jamie beamed.

The castle got bigger. As it got bigger, it got stranger. Then, Jamie insisted it had a garage, because Jamie insisted all castles needed garages, and Bucky, being a better father than anyone had any right to be, didn’t argue with the logic.

“For what kind of car?” Bucky asked.

Jamie frowned like the answer was obvious. “A fast one.”

“Right. Of course.”

“A blue one.”

“Blue fast car. Got it.”

“And it flies.”

Bucky paused. “A flying car?”

Jamie nodded.

So Bucky built the garage one handed. 

The left side collapsed twice, and Jamie gasped both times like there had been casualties.

“I need you,” Bucky said seriously. “This wall’s no good without you.”

Jamie dropped to his knees beside him. “I fix it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You hold it, Daddy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky held the wall while Jamie patted wet sand onto the side with tiny, clumsy, determined hands. Half of it stuck, and half of it slid down. But none of it mattered, because Bucky looked at your son like he had just watched him solve cold fusion.

“There,” Jamie said, sitting back on his heels. “I did it!”

Bucky smiled proudly. “You did.”

Jamie looked down at the castle, then back at him. “You needed me.”

Bucky went very still.

It was brief, but you saw that little pause he got sometimes when love hit a wound he forgot he still had.

Then he reached out and brushed sand from Jamie’s cheek with his thumb.

“Yeah,” Bucky said quietly. “I did.”

Jamie accepted that like it was simple. Because to him, it was.

His daddy needed help. He helped. Because of both their efforts, the castle stood.

The world was very easy at six years old.

By the time the tide started creeping closer, the castle had three towers, a moat, one flying-car garage, sixteen shells, a kelp flag, and Jamie’s full emotional investment.

When the first little wave reached the edge of the moat, Jamie gasped. “No!”

Bucky turned immediately. “You want me to move it?”

You lifted your head. “Bucky, you cannot move a sandcastle.”

He looked at you. You looked at him.

He looked back at the castle like he was genuinely considering whether he could get a big enough shovel to move a sandcastle.

“Don’t,” you warned.

Jamie, thankfully, solved the crisis by flinging himself into Bucky’s side.

“It’s okay,” he said, though he sounded heartbroken. “Ocean can have it.”

Bucky wrapped his one arm around him and pulled him close. “That’s generous.”

Jamie sniffed. “But not the garage.”

“No,” Bucky agreed. “That part’s between us and the ocean.”

You laughed into the vibranium arm.

Bucky glanced back at you, sun-flushed, hair messy from the wind, one arm missing and the other full of your son.

He looked perfect.

Eventually Jamie wore himself out completely. He crawled into Bucky’s lap, sandy and buzzing with sleep, mumbling something about blue flying cars against his father’s chest.

Bucky sat under the umbrella with him, broad shoulder curved protectively around Jamie’s small one.

You scooted closer, still holding the detached arm. “Do you want this back?” you asked.

Bucky looked at you, then at Jamie asleep against him, then at the arm tucked against your cheek.

“Keep it,” he said softly. 

You chuckled and kissed his cheek, “It was made for dangerous missions.”

“It’s on one.”

You smiled. “Taking care of me is a dangerous mission?”

“Keeping you comfortable is my life’s work.”

You laughed, and he only smiled wider. Jamie shifted in his sleep, one small hand fisting in Bucky’s sleeveless shirt.

Bucky looked down at him, and there it was again. That disbelief and gratitude all the same.

He had been made into a weapon once.

Now his metal arm was keeping his wife cool, his only hand was holding his sleeping son, and a crooked sandcastle with a flying-car garage was being swallowed by the sea in front of him.

Shuri’s desert-grade cooling system had probably not been built for this.

But it was hard to imagine a better use.

—