The wing of a butterfly brushed my cheek

You were staring down at the breakfast Bob had made that morning when Yelena snapped you out of it.

“Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You forced it out. “Just a headache.”

You stood up, walked away, and locked yourself in your room. You had work, or at least you were supposed to. It all felt out of reach. The new team, the missions, everything.

Bucky noticed. He always did.

“Have any of you asked her about what she saw?”

Yelena shrugged. “I tried, but she didn’t break.”

Ava nodded. “Do any of us even know what’s bothering her? She’s been so out of it lately.”

Alexei chimed in. “Maybe just a bad patch, eh? She is sad. Moping around like lost puppy.”

John sat quietly in the back before speaking. “If you narrow it down, it’s somewhere between Ultron and the Blip, right?”

Bucky sighed.

“It’s the Accords maybe,” he muttered, leaning against the far wall. He looked tired. “I saw her file once. There’s a whole section labeled ‘Asset 4-B.’ It’s mostly just blacked out.”

It was. And you still remembered the day

The sky was bruised purple, filled with the roar of Ultron’s sentries. She stood in the middle of a narrow street, but she was a ghost in her own memory. She watched herself straining to hold up the corner of a collapsing tenement building while civilians fled underneath.

The Void didn’t show her failing because she was weak. It showed her failing because she made a choice. A completely avoidable choice. It was all coming back to haunt her.

In the loop, Sokovia replayed again and again and again until Bucky dragged her out.

The sound made it worse. The screech of rebar snapping like dry twigs. The building collapsing. It didn’t just fall. It crushed a school beneath ten stories of stone. She tried. She ran toward the kids, desperate to reach them, but all she heard were their cries buried under the rubble.

Then it reset.

She was slammed back to the start of the street. The building stood whole again. The children again. And she had to watch herself make the same mistake, over and over, unable to warn herself, unable to change it

No one blamed her. She saved more people than anyone that day, The Avengers tried their best to protect her, But Tony’s words still echoed in her head.

“I tried to protect you. I told them you were just a kid, that it was an accident. But you wouldn’t sign. You don’t have to go with Rogers.”

“I didn’t want to be a weapon, Tony.”

“I put my neck on the line so they wouldn’t classify you as a weapon of mass destruction.”

She remembered what they said about her. How they saw her- A kid who dropped a city block on a dozen children.

“And if you don’t sign this, acknowledging that you are a threat under government jurisdiction, then I can’t stop them from putting you in a coma just to keep the world safe from you. Sign it. If you sign it you know Roger’s will have no choice but to sign it too.”

So it was simple. Accept that you’re a monster, and maybe you get a nice cage instead of a cold one.

And she wished she had just signed it. Maybe then Tony would still be alive. Maybe they would all still be together. Maybe the team would have never broken apart, Yelena would still have Natasha, Morgan would have her dad, Wanda would have vision, and the team wouldn’t have fallen apart like it it. Only if.

“You understand,” he says smoothly, “this is not a game.”

Out of all the villains you’ve met, this one manages to piss you off. Not an easy feat.

You nod solemnly. “Of course. Monopoly ruins friendships, families, and now apparently crime syndicates.”

Tony, the henchman who’d given Cobblepot your resume, snorts quietly before straightening when the Penguin shoots him a look.

When you asked Tony to get you into deep shit, the kind only a vigilante could pull you out of, you’d been thinking Killer Croc, Poison Ivy, maybe even someone new like Catwoman. You always thought she was cool.

You’d completely forgotten Tony worked for the Penguin. Figures. The loyal bastard had to get you involved with the pettiest bird-themed criminal in Gotham. He is so not getting homemade pastries anymore.

“So,” you say, rolling the dice, “just to be clear. If I win—”

“You get your penguin,” Cobblepot cuts in.

“And if I lose?”

His smile curls cruelly. “Then you work for me as a spy.”

Tony coughs from the side, his face screwing up like he’s trying not to burst out laughing. He probably thinks you’d be a shit spy.

Focusing back on Cobblepot, you put on your fakest smile. “High stakes for fake money.”

The door behind you creaks. You don’t need to turn to know it was Red Hood. His presence presses into the room.

“Why,” his voice growls, distorted by the helmet, “are you playing Monopoly with Penguin?”

Oswald smiles, sharp teeth glinting. “Ah. Red Hood. Right on time.”

You beam. “My love!” You nearly fall out of your chair when you turn to face him.

Robin stands beside him, eyes flicking between the two of you, taking in your relaxed posture like it’s a sin. He looks about thirteen, his hair brushing the space between Hood’s shoulder and elbow.

Red Hood steps closer, fingers twitching toward his gun. Tension rolls off him in waves. “Whatever he promised you, it’s not worth getting tangled up in this mess.”

You scoff. “The only thing I plan to be tangled in is your shee—” You stop when Robin tilts his head.

“Um. Sheep.”

Robin stares at you, eyes narrowed.

“Not that this reunion isn’t delightful,” Oswald cuts in, his voice slick and oily, sliding over your skin and making you cringe, “but we have far more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Hush,” you mutter to Oswald as Red Hood raises his gun and aims it at the Penguin. “Shut the hell up.”

Cobblepot bristles, his beak-like nose twitching.

You swallow, heat creeping up your neck. How Red Hood doesn’t have more fans is beyond you. He’s hot when he’s annoyed.

“This is the imbecile who’s in love with you, then?” Robin asks, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

You smile, unfazed. If anything, the kid is cute.

Red Hood ignores him. He’s too busy watching you. “What’s he giving you if you win?”

“A penguin,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Then I’ll get you a fucking fish like a normal person.”

Robin tsks. “Let her have the penguin, Hood. If you are to be a good husband, you must submit to your wife’s whims.” He sounds far more interested now.

“That’s because you also want a penguin,” Red mutters.

“I admit nothing.”

You gesture at Robin. “If the kid wants a penguin, you get him a penguin.”

“I second that,” Tony pipes up.

Instinctively, Red Hood swings the gun toward Tony.

You grab his arm. “Hey, no. That’s my bitch, my side piece, my favorite lowlife, my—”

“Your nothing.”

Your grip tightens. “Don’t hurt him. Pretty please?” You look up at him.

He lets you move his arm away, the gun pointing back at the Penguin, who watches the scene with quiet, calculating interest.

“Can I shoot him?” you whisper to Red.

A sudden laugh pulls out of him. You’re close enough to feel his body shake, to feel his warmth through the armor.

“Maybe another day, sweetheart.”

Your eyes don’t meet his, not really. The white lenses cover them. Even so, you share a secretive look, one that feels heavier than words.

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⭑pt.2.ᐟ ...declarations of love?!

You and Jason can’t seem to keep the other out of their mind, and seemingly, out of each other’s presence. A book that leads to letters, a friendship to…declarations of love?!

⭑pt.3.ᐟ

(coming soon…)

⭑pt.4.ᐟ

(coming soon…)

⭑pt.5.ᐟ

(coming soon…)

⭑ series taglist .ᐟ @adv3rs1ty, @starfiremylove, @m-0ona, @athenxt, @wellidktbh, @starshinegrl, @bunnylr4er, @depressed-eternal, @drdeathifying, @isavibeee, @hepprine, @ayyisasra, @ariiiloves, @pjmgojo, @vanessa-1313, @eeeekshush, @duchesz, @nice-nice-dazey, @busenxr, @artsyfoot, @daddylokisqueen, @hanahanabiaxolotl , @marcspectorondeeznuts, @profoundgreenturtle, @pink-batgirl, @i-am-typing, @itachisrealm, @givemefinganame, @justyna4a, @cotton-eee, @elita1, @physlara, @itzmeme, @rainystrangerwasteland, @onlyfeng, @anne-chloe, @entenkinds, @baikuto, @biggetywitch, @reiofsuns2001, @itzmeme, @jellykuni. please let me know if you want to be added or removed!!

ᯓ★'s P.S. can you tell i struggle so much with names?

Could she have been at that press briefing, face buried in a notebook and he hadn’t noticed? Or sitting at the coffee shop he likes on 37th obscured behind a billow of steam? His mind runs with every permutation, every calculation. Had she been in the city when the Void took over? Was she safe? Maybe that had been the key to how he crossed over into a future that had angelic vignettes around the edges.

Some days, he thinks he sees her, somewhere passing in the crowd then disappearing like a puff of smoke. He becomes a tourist in his own city. He wanders the Met, and pays no attention to the painted faces. He pops into the shops at Chelsea Market and doesn’t even register what they sell. Sometimes he takes the subway between boroughs just to people-watch. To her credit, this was the kick he needed to stop isolating himself. Bucky is constantly surrounding himself with people, in hopes that just one might be right.

His patterns shift. His training changes. When he tugs his running shoes on in the common room, he gets stares.

“Where are you going?” Ava questioned.

“For a jog.”

“We have a treadmill, you know,” Walker points out matter-of-factly, earning a scowl.

“Just…prefer the fresh air.”

“This New York! There is no fresh air!” Yelena calls after him.

He runs anyway, up to Central Park and along the Reservoir, legs pumping and clearing his head enough to dissect every detail of their encounter like it will help him predict when she’ll materialize. The bedroom was wallpapered, he thinks, the barest hint of botanical pattern that bled warmth into the careful design. She must like flowers, with all the plants inside and out. There was a bouquet on the kitchen counter. Hollyhocks? No, gladiolus. He hopes that there’s always a fresh bouquet in that vase, and that she’s always delighted by what he brings home. And his daughter. Oh, his precious little girl. He’ll be sure to spoil her rotten, too. He thinks to call her Winnie, after his mother, give her the life that she tried to provide and wanted for him. But really, he would just be happy to have her.

When darkness blankets the city and his nightmares grip him like a vice, he presses his hand to his cheek and imagines that it were hers. On nights he can’t sleep at all, instead of staring at his ceiling Bucky goes up to the helipad and stares up at the sky, comforted by the fact that somewhere, she was under it too. His thoughts drift to picturing what his life will be like. In those few moments alone, he felt younger. Grounded. More at peace. Back to the cool concrete, he imagines how many stars he would see in their cottage outside the city. What was he going to say to her, anyway? “Hey, I saw the future this one time and you were my wife in it”?

Ew. Gross.

He’ll workshop it.

Seasons pass, fall, and spring, and fall again. To his horror, the more time that goes by her image starts to slip away, the slope of her nose and curl of her lashes fading, her silhouette falling through his fingers like sand. Bucky kicks himself for not asking more questions, for more to hold onto. Where did she grow up? Is she a morning person? What does she do for work? At least then, he would have some sort of direction to track her by. He almost asks Bob if he could try to send him back, but figures that would just be cruel for the both of them. He wouldn’t dare tell a soul, anyway.

So he stops looking.

Bucky has never been a patient man, but he waits. He lives day-by-day, comes to terms with the fact that some things cannot be forced. Instead, it leaves room for doubt to come creeping in. The dark parts of his brain starts to convince him it was a hoax. It was too good to be true. He should have known. Shouldn’t have thought anything otherwise or assumed he was worthy of anything more.

Like all good things, that is exactly when it happens.

The sun beams down on Manhattan, not that anyone can tell from the scaffolding and skyscrapers of Midtown shading the streets. Bucky looks like he hasn’t slept in days, because he hasn’t, too busy drowning in mission reports and beating himself up for being naive enough to want. To top off his joyous start to the morning, somebody has emptied the carafe without starting another and finished off the milk in the kitchen without any consideration for the consequences of caffeine deprivation.

So, after cursing under his breath, Bucky throws on the baggiest hoodie in his closet, rips the grocery list off of the fridge and grumbles all the way down to street-level.

The bell above the corner store door chimes as he pushes through and slips a basket over his elbow, relieved when the usually-chatty cashier ignores him for another patron. The dairy case is overwhelming as always. There used to just be milk, why did society have to go and make it complicated? He sighs and grabs the whole milk anyway. Bucky makes his way through his list. Bob and Yelena used up the last of the mac-and-cheese. Ava and Walker had fought over the last protein shake, so it was best if he picked some of those up, too. If they had the Wheaties back in stock, Alexei wanted another box.

Bucky is reaching for the package plastered with their faces when he hears it, from the next aisle.

“Yes, Mum, I’m settling in just fine…Yes, I know New York makes you nervous…”

His hand hovers in mid-air.

“No, I haven’t met any strange men! You’re being dramatic!”

His body moves on autopilot, basket abandoned on the linoleum in favour of fixing his hair in the reflection of a fridge door.

“The apartment is fine. I’m just not used to all the noise. I’ll learn to sleep through it eventually, I guess…”

He rounds the endcap and his breath sucks out of his lungs like an airlock.

Because she’s real.

Standing in front of the candy display wearing kitten heels and the smile etched into his very being. Every detail comes flooding back into vivid clarity. Bucky would recognize her anywhere. She’s younger, sure, dressed differently with her hair shorter and styled, but in many ways, in all the ways that matter, she is much the same.

Her ear presses her phone to her shoulder as she juggles her conversation and scans the label on the back of a bag of chocolates. “Okay. I love you too, mum! Send my love to everyone! Mwah!”

Her manicured nail taps the screen of her smartphone and drops it into her purse before sensing the presence lurking at the end of the aisle.

“Oh, sorry! Am I in your way?”

Tongue-tied.

“N-no! No, you’re good. S’fine.”

He waited nearly two years to see that smile again. It was worth every second.

“That’s a relief. I came in trying to find this one kind of chocolate bar, or at least something similar because I was feeling homesick thinking it would make me feel better, and I just seem to keep getting in everyone’s way.”

Bucky must make some kind of face, because she shrinks.

“Sorry, I’ll stop rambling. I know New Yorkers aren’t ones for small-talk. I’ve got to get used to that too.”

“Don’t,” he blurts. “I mean, you don’t have to. It’s…nice. Change of pace.”

“You don’t have to lie. I’m catching dirty looks in the elevator at my place all the time.”

“M’not, I promise. This city will suck your soul out if you let it. Your first lesson in being a New Yorker, don’t care about what anyone else thinks of you. Still workin’ on that one, and I was born here.” He hopes the smile he offers puts her at ease.

“Well, thank you. It’s been quite the adjustment. I’m not really blunt like everyone else is here. Just keep doing my best trying not to take up too much space.”

“We do mean well.”

“Do you?”

“…Most of the time.”

“Say…didn’t I see your face on a cereal box back there?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny.”

Her laugh is sunshine and summer incarnate. “And what was your name, strange man from the cereal aisle?”

“…James. Yours?”

And he finally hears it. He repeats it back, forming the syllables carefully in his mouth. It tastes sweet. It suits her.

“Well, James, since you’re a local and I’m new to the area,”she begins, scrounging around in her purse for a scrap piece of paper and a pen, “I’d love it if you showed me around sometime…Or maybe just meeting up for coffee?”

His response tumbles out faster than he can quell it. “Yes. Yeah, I’d love that too. That’d be great. I know a good spot. All the good spots.”

She chuckles to herself and presses the torn-out sheet against the store shelf to scribble across it, then folds it crooked and holds it out in offer. “My number. So we can make a plan. My schedule is pretty open.”

He catches a waft of her perfume when she reaches out, and it’s like he steps back in time. Or forward, because it’s the exact same scent that ripples down his spine as all his muscles release tension. He doesn’t even look down to confirm what she handed him wasn’t just a used candy wrapper before responding.

“I’ll call you later. Today. When I get home. Did ya…find what you were looking for here?”

“Something better, I think.” Her eyes never break from his, her thoughts suddenly hard to decipher from the rise in her cheekbones and mysterious glint in her eyes, but he thinks he sees the upward shift at the corner of her lips and decides it means well. “It was really nice meeting you, James.”

She passes by him with a brush of shoulders, disappearing into the masses on Park Ave. A moment of panic washes over him in a chill once she’s out of sight, but when he looks down, the paper is still resting crumpled in his palm.

Tangible. Solid. Real.

Electricity thrums in his veins. Bucky all but floats back to the Tower, forgoing the elevator entirely to bound up 90 flights of stairs before he even realizes what he’s done. Chest heaving, he strides into the penthouse like he’s 22 again and just come back from a date at Coney Island with a grin he is unable to wipe.

Yelena comes to investigate the sound of the usually-unused stairwell door opening, brow quirked and chipped coffee mug in hand.

“Did you get the milk?”

…Crap.

A bedroom. The bed is made, more pillows than blankets. Piled on top of the blues and seafoam greens of the comforter, the fabric lays wrinkled like it knows it will just be mussed again in a handful of hours. Matching bedside tables flank the headboard, littered with personal effects and a novel each, one in near perfect condition, the other weathered and worn with its cover detaching at the spine.

There are photographs. Some faces he knows, some he can’t identify. He finds himself in many. Candids he doesn’t remember being taken. Achievements he has yet to attain. In the centre of them all, wearing a tuxedo, holding a woman draped in white. Hair shorter, grayer, his beard more salt than pepper. His smile lines deeper.

The space is tidy, but lived in. A sock or two left on the rug from a missed toss to the hamper, the closet door left slightly ajar. The rocking chair in the corner with the handmade blanket draped over the back still smells of pine, a bassinet tucked close to the side of the bed. The top of a dresser pushed against the far wall has mostly been converted into a changing table, diapers and wipes stacked next to a jewelry box and some fragrances.

A perfume bottle sits next to his usual cologne.

Bucky tears open the drapes and recognizes nothing of what he sees. A backyard on a rolling hill that sweeps down to an inlet, water sparkling where it laps lazily against the rocky shore. Garden boxes overflowing with flowers, sweet potato vines spilling over the edges, their bright green heart-shaped foliage bringing the world outside further into technicolor. If he craned his neck, he could just see the arm of a porch swing, just hear the chains creaking in the gentle breeze and the wind-chimes hanging from the rafters.

Not a soul in sight. Just the silence of open land and old bones.

Until he hears a voice.

A soft humming coming from somewhere else in the house.

The words are muffled, the accent one he can’t quite place. It’s a voice he swears he’s never heard before, but it settles into his bones like it belongs there, his pounding heart rate slowing to near-resting.

The sound draws closer with the groan of the floorboards until it is right on the other side of the door and he freezes, head snapping to watch as the brass knob turns and the woman from the photographs materializes in front of him.

Bucky’s heart hasn’t skipped a beat like that since 1942.

She wears faded blue jeans and a ratty old t-shirt with a baby nestled into her hip, barefaced and hair messy. There are bags under her eyes, but she smiles brightly.

She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

“Oh, honey! You startled me! You must have snuck past, I didn’t even hear you come in!” She slips past him into the bedroom, and as she does, places a kiss on his stunned shoulder. “I had no idea you had a half-day today. I would have booked us a sitter…” She was talking more to herself than to him as she dug through one of the drawers of the dresser, paying no mind to the gaping hole in the drywall where he had crashed through, pulling out another old shirt that looked suspiciously like one in his wardrobe at home.

Her bare feet planted, Bucky follows with his eyes as she looks him over from head to toe and back again, then sets the baby in the cradle and rounds the bed to the ensuite bathroom. “Keep an eye on her for a minute, please? Just going to change, that girl’s spit-up is no joke.”

And she vanishes again behind the rumble of a barn door, like all of the skeletons he kept locked away so tightly hadn’t just been ripped from the closet moments before.

She reemerges in seconds, hair loose and…yup, that is definitely his shirt. “Well, this is a treat. You look weary, love. It’s good you’re taking a break. I just put a fresh pot of coffee on, so you have perfect timing. Isn’t that right, little one?” she coos, tracing her pointer finger down the bridge of the baby’s nose before scooping her up again and resting her against her clavicle.

Against his better judgement, Bucky follows her like a rip current down the picture-lined hall, through a door that leads, not into another nightmare, but further into the house.

“I hope Bob didn’t give you too much trouble trying to get here,” she rambles, rounding the kitchen island and pouring a cup of coffee onehanded. “He’s a really sweet boy. Still got some things to work through, I think, but he has a good heart. They all do.”

Bucky blanches. “…How do you know about that?”His fingernails bite into his palm, shoulders creeping up toward his ears.

Her mouth curls into a lowercase ‘o’ in a flash of panic. “It’s alright, James. You’re safe here. This isn’t one of your bad memories.”

“No, this…This isn’t my memory at all, it’s…”he breathes. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”

She just smiles expectantly. “You will someday. Not long now.” She presses the mug into his palms, prying open his clenched fingers and wrapping them one after the other over the porcelain. Bucky’s brow tightens. It was made just like he always drank it: a heap of sugar and just a dribble of cream.

Bucky looks down at his trembling hands for the first time since he got here. Really looks. The skin around his fingernails isn’t inflamed and peeling where he usually picks at them from the compounding stress. His knuckles aren’t bruised or cracking. Etched right into the vibranium is a wide gold band that’s new, tucked up against the joint of his fourth finger.

“Those…The pictures…This can’t...”

A gust of wind in his general direction could have bowled him over as the pieces come together. Bucky braces himself on the closest chair back. His head swims, heartbeat in his ears and thoughts dying on his tongue. He shakes his head, drilling his eyes shut to make sense of what he is seeing, whether it would all disappear when he opens them.

It doesn’t.

A hand finds hold of his wrist. Featherlight. Steadying. He can feel her pulse hammering through her fingertips.

“Breathe, James,” she appeases. “Come sit down, alright? I’ll explain. Answer as many questions as you have.”

She manages to coax him into the open living room and places the infant into a baby swing, colourful rings and things dangling from the top bar. The little girl snuggles into the cushion beneath her without a fuss and shakes her soft toy contentedly, cooing to herself as it rattles in her miniature fist. The woman then settles at the far end of the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, inviting but granting him distance.

Bucky still hesitates.

The sofa looks like it will swallow him whole, the cushions plush and deep. Another blanket is bundled in a heap on the armrest (there were blankets everywhere in this house it seemed). He reaches out to run the fringed edge between his fingers.

“This is all very strange, I know,” she breaks the silence. “We’re not sure how this happened, just that it did. It took you a long time to believe even that much. I wish I had a more satisfying answer for you. Bob is still getting a handle on his powers, but even now he has no idea.”

Finally. The first thing she’s said that’s made any sense. Bucky tries to rationalize it, but he’s grasping at straws. Time travel is not a new concept to him. He knows the consequences, that the past can change the future. Knowing too much alters the course of history or leaves it shattered in its wake. One small deviation and the world shifts on its axis. His head spins instead.

“There’s probably nothing I can say that will prove it to you, but you are supposed to be here, James. I was starting to wonder when you’d come around, but time’s been a little relative to me these days. Jamie asked me not to spook you when you arrived, though I think I kind of failed at that. It took me a second to realize that you weren’t…you.”

Jamie. He’s hung up on that. Nobody has called him that name in decades, and he can’t help but like the way it sounds when she says it.

“You knew I was coming?”

“Eventually. You and I talked about it not long after we met; what you saw, what it changed for you. Could never pin down what the date was so it was always going to be a waiting game, but I’m glad you’re here now. You look like you could use something peaceful.”

He continues to tread carefully. “Where is this?”

“Our house. Upstate New York. We bought this old fixer-upper on the bay and did all the fixing ourselves. Well, mainly you. I picked paint colours, watched you tear down walls and told you when you screwed cabinet doors on upside-down.”

The room they occupy has a wide bay window that spans almost from floor to ceiling, flooding the space with light. Houseplants thrive in every corner, nook and cranny. A cat tree is set up overlooking the front yard, a fluffy white tail swishing over the edge of the highest perch, unfazed by whoever this strange visitor is in the feline’s house. Bookcases are built into one wall, filled with sci-fi and fantasy and romance novels. More photos are displayed in small frames dotted across the shelving, between alphabetized authors and mementos. His turntable, the only real luxury he owns in his bare-bones DC apartment, sits proud on its shelf, worn by years of use but otherwise exactly the same. A collection of vinyls he could only dream of occupies its own shelf below.

“You built those bookshelves from scratch. I always tell people that we were sold on the house when we saw that wall because it was the perfect place for them, where we could start our library. Felt like we looked at dozens of houses but this place just felt right. Perfectly imperfect.”

“I’m reading again?”

“When you have the time. Right over there,” she points with her sightline to an armchair with a floor lamp curving over it, “with a cup of tea and your little old man reading glasses.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh through the fog.

Oh, her smile. “It’s a good life. Quiet. Your favourite thing to do is take a nap on the couch in the sun with the baby scrunched up on your chest. I want to say that we sleep through the night, but that’s kind of changed as of late. We smile. Laugh a lot.” The list keeps growing. Going to farmers markets on the weekends. Board game nights. Beach days in the summertime. “We try a new recipe every week for dinner and dance in the kitchen. I still step on your toes sometimes. We’re working on finishing the nursery for when this big girl grows out of her bassinet.”

“What’s her name?” he nearly pleads, voice so soft.

“That would ruin the surprise, Bucky!”

“How old is she, then?”

The woman absolutely illuminates with pride. “Almost 3 months now. Runs this whole house. You cried when you held her for the first time. She’s had you wrapped around her finger from the day she was born.”

“…Wasn’t sure if…they did something to me. Never knew if I’d even be able to have kids.”

“Neither did I. She’s our little miracle.”

His daughter’s bright blue, undeniably-Barnes eyes peer up at him without an ounce of fear for the man crusted in dirt and dust. Bucky doesn’t need to know her name to know that he’ll adore her, can’t take his eyes off of her. Something so small, so fragile, yet trusts him completely. To his daughter, he isn’t a soldier or a vigilante. He’ll just be Dad, when the only thing he’ll have to fight is the monster under the bed.

Bucky swears he sees her smile at him, and his ribs cave in.

“She just started doing that last week. All gums, smiling up atcha like you’re her whole world. I hope she never grows out of that.”

Neither does he.

Bucky marvels in it, this place, this safe haven that he had supposedly helped build, helped make warm and comforting and whole. Someone wanted him. For all the hurdles he crossed, all the evils he fought, someone saw this shell of a man and chose him. Built a life with him. Had a child with him.

But the more he looks around, he sombers. Shrinks.

“Hey, I know that look. What is it, James?”

“…I feel like I don’t deserve this.”

“Hey, none of that. You’re wrong. You have earned this and so, so much more, but for now this is what makes you happy. I’ll remind you as many times as you need me to.”

Tears begins to leech into his five-o’clock shadow as his shoulders begin to quiver.

This woman, this incredible woman, had been trying to keep her distance not to spook him. He saw how her fingers twitched, how she wanted to reach out and stopped herself. This time she couldn’t. The couch cushion to his side sinks as she gathers him in her arms.

And he lets her.

Bucky lets out a whimper like a wounded animal into her neck, his hands finding solace loosely on her hips. “I want to stay,” he whispers, any louder and his voice would begin to crackle. “I want to hit fast-forward. It’s selfish, I know, but I’ve spent so many nights wishin’ for a life like this.”

Her hold tightens around him. “And I would let you stay here forever if I could. You’ll have the rest of your life to enjoy this, but I can’t keep you right now. Your ragtag team of hellions still needs you. Yelena would never forgive me.”

He turns away from her, cheek pressed into her shoulder so she can’t see the contorted expression he makes to prevent a sob from leeching out, nose scrunched and teeth gritted, his hair falling into his face.

“You have more memories to go through to get to the others. Be brave, just a little longer.”

Bucky wants to get on his knees, to beg, plead and pray to any god he could conjure that this would in fact be real someday, that his life would turn out just like this. That all the pain, suffering, blood and sweat wouldn’t have been for naught. “What do I have to do to see you again? To make it real?” he croaks.

“Look at me, James.” She is so tender as she guides him to meet her gaze, pressing her forehead to his. “It’s already real. It’s already set in motion, just be patient. Keep doing what you feel is right. Until then, you’ll dream. Of what you want to call her, what she’ll call you one day. Of what you want to plant in the spring and what new project you’ll tinker with. Of me,” she titters, “if you want. Whatever it takes. And when it’s time, we’ll find each other. Don’t forget about us, okay? About this.”

He takes deep cycled breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth to the rhythm of her hand skating between his shoulders. “…They really need me?” he murmurs.

“They do.”

Bucky flicks away the lingering tears with his thumb, pulling back enough to just…look at her. Memorize the curve of her lips and cheeks, the colour of her eyes, the texture of her hair. Taking the moment to lock it away where no one could ever take it from him. His wife.

“…Okay.”

“You will be,” she assures him.

It takes every ounce of strength he has left to pry himself from her steadiness, but the floor feels solid beneath his boots.

The front door remains the only obstacle.

She hugs her torso and trails a few steps behind as he stalks up to it, whatever horror that waits on the other side suddenly not as daunting. The oak is solid, but the doorknob threatens to crumble under the vibranium. Bucky turns back for one last glimpse and inhales with a shudder.

“Thank you.”

With glassy eyes, she blows him a kiss.

He rolls his shoulder. Readjusts his grip. Turns his wrist a beat after the exhale…and puts one foot in front of the other.

Find part 2 here!