Adamantium 𖤓, Vibranium ⏾⋆.˚, Latveria ↑

When Bucky was told he had to go through government mandated therapy sessions, it might as well have felt like being put back into a sterile Hydra room.

He wanted to avoid it as best as he could—the mere idea of therapy didn’t sound pleasant at all. White walls and in an enclosed space, ostensibly designated to make him feel safe—a place to open up about his past and get “well” enough to prove to everyone that he was no longer a threat. No longer the Winter Soldier, but rather just a boy from Brooklyn. He almost laughed at the idea alone. As if therapy could help with that.

He had been trying to avoid several things lately. Text messages from Sam and these therapy sessions were at the top of the list. But if given the choice of which to face first, he’d actually choose the therapy.

Now, Bucky sat in the quiet waiting room, manspreading as his left knee bounced anxiously. He was hunched over, hands between his legs like a cat with its tail tucked.

He should get up and leave—go back to being a hermit in his small apartment on Union Street, and do his best to dodge these sessions until he got a call ordering him to try again. Then rinse and repeat.

The door in front of him clicked open, and you stepped out.

You wore a soft cardigan, and your hair was a little messy. Not totally unkempt, but he wouldn’t call it professional, either. You looked more like a regular, frazzled woman he’d bump into at a grocery store than a specialist meant to mend broken people and their emotions.

“James Barnes?” you called out, glancing around the small waiting room.

There were only two other people in the room—a man and a woman sitting just a few seats away—but you still looked right at the super soldier first.

Bucky lifted his head, meeting your eyes before pushing himself out of the chair with a huff. Here goes nothing.

“I’m here,” he said, raising a hand. He offered a tight-lipped smile meant to be friendly, but it fell flat.

You smiled warmly. It was inviting, but far too rehearsed for him to accept at face value.

Pushing the door open with your back pressed against the frame, you stepped aside to let him in. He gave another forced nod out of politeness as he entered the room.

Standing near the entryway, he paused and took in the surroundings. The room wasn’t what he expected at all. The walls were colorful, warm string lights hung across them. Several plants were arranged neatly around the space—more so near the windows. A large couch sat on one side while a simple lounge chair faced it. Against the wall stood a shelf lined with books tucked neatly inside— self-help, fiction, and biographies.

But what really caught his attention was the turntable sitting on top of it, with no record spinning.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you said, flipping the ‘THERAPY IN SESSION’ sign to face outward and shutting the door behind him. “Whether you want to take the couch, the chair, or even lie on the floor—it’s all fine by me!”

Bucky huffed out a short laugh, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “You have people who lie on the floor?”

You shrugged, removing your cardigan and draping it over the coat rack. “This is a judgment-free zone, James.”

You stood beside him with a smile, your hands folded neatly in front of you, and that’s when Bucky realized you were waiting for him to make a decision.

He eventually chose the couch, sinking into the cushions with a grunt, while you settled into the chair across from him.

“Have you ever been to therapy before?” you asked softly.

“No,” he replied—straightforward, honest, and flat.

You sifted through the papers attached to the clipboard in your lap, checking the records that were passed on by his psychiatrist. Bucky assumed the list of things wrong with him was longer than your weekly grocery list. You lifted your eyes back to him, noticing the obvious tension in his shoulders.

“It’s not as bad as they make it out to be,” you explained gently. “I won’t tire you out with the whole ‘what do you want to work on, why are you in therapy?’ nonsense,” you tried to say lightheartedly, waving your hand for emphasis. “I know that you’re only here out of a government mandate, but just know that I’m here to help you because there are people out there who care about you—”

A heavy, long sigh escaped Bucky’s nostrils before he could stop it.

You tilted your head with an innocent frown. “Is something the matter?”

Yes. There are a lot of things that matter—like how you’re saying your usual script for your other clients, claiming that you “care” when in reality, you care about dragging out the time until your pockets are full of green.

“No,” Bucky lied. “Nothing’s wrong. Go ahead.”

You knew he was lying, and you didn’t need to call him out on it to prove it.

After some awkward silence and being watched under your silent scrutiny, he eventually sighed and shifted awkwardly on the couch.

“It’s just… I doubt there are people out there who care about me, you know? Like…” he blew a raspberry, feeling like he was rambling now. “They couldn’t care less about what I do in a day.”

You set your clipboard aside. “And what did you do today?”

He blinked, not expecting that question at all.

“What did I do today?” he repeated with pinched brows. He shrugged. “I went for a walk at my nearby park, and then…”

He trailed off with a scrunch of his face.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t done much at all today.

“And then…?”

But for some reason, he didn’t want to seem as lame as he felt. So, he continued.

“I guess all my eventful stuff will be after this therapy session,” he explained. “I’m supposed to be having lunch with a friend.”

Your face lit up, and Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek. Your expectations for him were probably that low—you truly believed he didn’t have any friends to have lunch with.

“That’s great, James!”

Just wait until you find out that the person he was having lunch with is a man in his eighties with a son whom he had brutally murdered while he was the Winter Soldier.

“Yeah. His name’s Yori. We usually get sushi on Wednesdays.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m glad that you have a friend who’s close enough for you to find a routine with,” you said. Your eyes flickered to his gloved hand resting on his thigh. “Does he know?”

Bucky glanced down at his left glove. “I’m sorry?”

“Does he know about your arm, and about what you’ve done in your past?” you clarified in a gentle tone—well, as gentle as it could be given the subject.

Bucky flinched, and that action alone was enough to give you your answer. His eyes fell to the colorful patterns on your carpet, his left hand curling into a tight fist beneath his glove out of apprehension.

No. Of course Yori didn’t know.

He knew that being truthful to himself and to his therapist was the whole point of therapy—the whole point of getting better. But Bucky didn’t see the point in going into detail with the whole, “No, Yori doesn’t know, because then that’d mean I have to tell him I killed his son!” routine.

You frowned, leaning a bit closer. “If he doesn’t already know, you’re going to have to tell him.”

Bucky stayed quiet. The patterns on your carpet were stupid, but he couldn’t look away.

“Because if you don’t—if you continue to hide from someone who cares about you—you’re hiding a part of yourself,” you explained.

“It’s not that simple, doc.”

“Is it ever?” you asked with a small chuckle. “This is all about trust—not just for Yori, but for yourself, too. You have to trust yourself to find trust in others. And in order to trust yourself first, you can start with acceptance—accepting who you are and what you’ve done.”

“I can’t,” Bucky protested weakly. “If I tell him, everything will change. He’ll look at me differently and… and then we can’t have lunch—”

“—that’s the beauty of life, James. Change is a constant thing, and sometimes, it's completely outside of our control. Without change, there is no growth.”

Bucky stayed quiet.

You leaned back in your chair and suddenly asked, “Before everything that happened, what did you like to do?”

Bucky furrowed his brows. He had no idea where you were going with this, but he tagged along anyway—not like he had a choice in the matter, but just to get it over with.

“I liked listening to music.”

“Okay, okay,” you nodded, rubbing your chin. “What kind of music?”

“Forties music,” he replied.

“Has that ever changed?” you asked with genuine interest.

Bucky remembered the list of things Sam had told him to listen to before he ghosted him. Marvin Gaye was one of them. Had he listened to it at all?

“No,” Bucky answered.

It was like a light switch turned on in your head. You suddenly got up out of your chair, making him flinch, and walked over to where your record player sat. You crouched down, your fingers sifting through your large collection of records until they landed on one he didn’t recognize.

You pulled it out and revealed the record to him face-first with the brightest smile. It had four men walking across the street in flared jeans—and with hair too long for his liking.

“Abbey Road,” you announced, handing it to him. “The Beatles. Made thirty years after your time—but listen to it and tell me what you think.”

Bucky frowned, examining the cover. He wasn’t fond of your methods of getting accustomed to ‘change,’ but it could’ve been worse.

“Fine,” he sighed, pushing himself up from the couch as his session neared its end.

You led him out the door, holding it open for him. “I’ll see you again next week, and you can tell me what you think about it. And whether you like or don’t like it—just remember, change can be good, James.”

You pointed to the cover he held in his hands. “And personally, I think Abbey Road is very good,” you added with a grin.

Bucky, however, was surprisingly fond of how personal you were. He didn’t think that’d be possible with a therapist.

“Sure,” he said with a smile that felt just a tad less forced than the first one he had given you. “I’ll see you next week, doc.”

As he walked past your door and entered the waiting room, you also added with a shout that caught the other patient’s attention who were waiting, which could be seen as totally unprofessional:

“Oh, and if you’re grabbing sushi, order the fried tempura rolls!”

His back was already turned, and he made a face. Oddly enough, fried tempura rolls were something he’d never ordered before. Not only were you dictating his emotions, but now you were dictating his music choices and food as well?

He waved over his shoulder, letting you know he heard you, before disappearing around the corner with your vinyl in his hands.

Looking back down at it, he realized he didn’t even have a record player to put this on.

Shit.

Bucky had forced himself to do more things out of his comfort zone in the span of a week than he had ever since gaining his freedom in Wakanda.

Since his first session with you, he had gotten sushi with Yori and had tried the tempura roll. It was different from what he usually ordered—which was just nigiri and a beer—but surprisingly enough, he liked it. Even the waiter had raised an eyebrow when he pointed it out on the menu.

Then, after walking Yori home—who lived in the same complex, so it wasn’t much of a walk at all—he decided to stop by a music store just a couple of blocks away to listen to the vinyl you had given him.

The store had various music players that people could test, such as jukeboxes, CD players, radios, and record players.

Stepping inside, he was greeted by a friendly ding! from the door chimes. Bucky lifted Abbey Road in his hands. “Got any record players open?”

The boy behind the desk, who looked no older than twenty-two, pointed towards the back. “There’s one open, but it’s loud in here. Need headphones?”

Bucky furrowed his brows in confusion. “Headphones? For a turntable?”

The worker nodded with a shrug that was far too casual—it made Bucky feel stupid. “Yeah, we use headphone amplifiers for them.”

Bucky looked at the boy like he had grown a second head. The worker grabbed a pair of headphones from beneath the counter and nodded toward the other end of the store.

“Here, follow me.”

Bucky followed the boy’s lead to the turntable, which was far different than the ones he was used to back in the forties. Back then, turntables were usually in a small brown box, and the vinyls were never this size. The player in front of him was silver, sleek, and he didn’t even want to attempt to use it at the risk of making a fool of himself.

The boy, luckily, took charge. He grabbed Abbey Road from Bucky’s hands, popped it onto the platter, plugged in the headphones, and handed them to him.

“Enjoy,” he said, before walking back to his post behind the counter.

As Bucky slipped the headphones over his ears, he tried his best not to stare at the people around him. The customers in this store were young, with styles he couldn’t begin to comprehend. Piercings, colored hair, and tattoos.

It was different—but he liked it.

It was his next session with you.

Your hair was styled more neatly than it had been the last time he saw you, but your smile was still the same. Soft and welcoming.

“So,” you started with excitement. “What did you think of it?”

“It’s different from the music back in my day, but it was good,” Bucky said with a shrug that felt almost dismissive despite his honesty.

“What was your favorite song?” you pressed on.

His teeth caught his bottom lip as he tried to remember the one that stuck out to him the most. “The one with the sun, and how it’ll be alright?” he answered, though it sounded more like a question.

“Oh! Here Comes the Sun—that’s a popular one! One of my favorites, too!”

You sounded more excited over this than he felt. Your smile and enthusiastic energy were bouncing off the colorful walls and string lights—and Bucky couldn’t help but smile, too. It was contagious.

“Did you have a record player at home to play it on?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. I went to a music store down the block and played it on one of their players.”

Your smile grew wider and your eyes softened. You had planned for this to happen—for him to step out of his comfort zone and find a way to listen to the music.

“And how was it?” you asked.

“Not my kind of crowd, but it wasn’t terrible,” he explained. “It was loud in there. People were blaring all kinds of music I’ve never even heard of.” He made a face at the memory. “The kid who worked there had to give me headphones so I could listen.”

Your eyes widened in confusion. “Headphones? To listen to a turntable? That’s a thing?”

Bucky was caught off guard by your reaction. Even over something as small as headphones, he liked that he wasn’t the only one who felt out of the loop.

“Yeah, the kid was trying to explain it to me—something about disabling the phono preamp and using the input for an amp. I’ve got no clue. It’s all rocket science to me,” Bucky rambled.

You threw your head back with a laugh, and Bucky chuckled along. He hadn’t even realized he’d been smiling until then.

“I had no clue that was an option. I might have to try that one day.”

Bucky couldn’t stop staring at you.

Up until this point, he’d had to drag his feet just to get to your office. But now, sitting across from you, he felt like all the tension that had built up in his shoulders over the last week had finally eased. He was laughing and smiling more than he had in a long time—he probably looked stupid.

“Oh yeah, I also tried that thing you suggested I get for lunch yesterday,” he said, trying to remember the name. “The… fried tempura?”

You leaned closer, practically on the edge of your seat as you looked at him with wide-eyed anticipation.

“Did you now? How did you like it?”

He’d actually liked it a lot—but with the way you were looking at him, those sparkly irises fixed on him, he couldn’t help but want to tease you. Maybe it was just the playful instincts he had back in the forties kicking in again.

“Eh, it wasn’t really my cup of tea.” He shook his head, watching closely for your reaction.

Your expression shifted dramatically from delight to disappointment. The sparkles he loved seeing in your eyes dimmed just a little, and your lips pursed into a slight frown.

“Ouch,” you muttered, slumping in your chair. “Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”

Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. You were too easy, and he was having fun.

“I’m kidding. I did like it.”

You blinked at him. “Oh, so you’re playing with me now?” You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms and legs. “Whatever happened to my lesson about being truthful and honest?”

Bucky wore a boyish grin. He felt like he was talking to a friend rather than a therapist.

“Hey, I was being honest... eventually,” he added, which received an eye roll from you.

“Well, despite you pulling my leg, you did really well this week.” A proud smile spread across your face. “I’m so happy for you.”

His grin faltered for just a second. He knew that tone of yours. It meant this session was closing to an end, meaning he wouldn’t be able to talk to you again until another week. He hated how disappointed he suddenly felt about it.

You pushed yourself out of your chair and wandered over to your large collection of records. “Since we’re almost out of time, I want to send you home with another album to listen to.”

You pulled out another vinyl—a black and white cover featuring a woman who looked like a ballerina witch and a man with a beard and a ponytail.

“Rumours,” you said, handing it to him.

Your hands brushed over his just briefly, and his whole body shuddered. Despite wearing a leather jacket, he felt goosebumps prickling his skin after your touch.

“Fleetwood Mac. It’s lighthearted and catchy—kind of like Abbey Road, but… not really.”

You watched as Bucky took the record, examining the cover closely. A small smile lifting across your face.

“Let me know what you think about it next time.”

It was the first time in a long time that Bucky felt like he had something to look forward to.

Going to the same music store no longer felt like a chore. Rather, it had become another stepping stone that brought him a little closer to you. The kid behind the counter already knew why he was there, handing him the same pair of headphones and all.

He slipped on the headphones, put on Rumours, and let himself get lost in the music. There was something special about listening to your favorite albums. It felt like a closeness he wouldn’t ever get to experience any other way. Music said a lot about a person, and with every track, he felt like he was learning a little more about you.

Suddenly, a finger tapped his shoulder.

Bucky turned around, pulling the headphones down around his neck.

Standing behind him was a woman—and a remarkably pretty one at that—wearing a bright smile that instinctively put him on edge. She pointed to the silver turntable spinning in front of him.

“Fleetwood Mac?” she asked.

Bucky glanced from her to the album cover, his mind landing on the most logical conclusion. She must’ve been waiting for her turn.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping aside. “After this song, I’ll be right out of your way.”

The woman let out a soft laugh, taking a small step closer to him.

“No, no, you’re fine! Keep listening.” She smiled. “I just couldn’t help but notice, you know? A guy who looks like you listening to Rumours? That’s a rare find these days.”

Bucky frowned, looking down at his worn leather jacket.

What was wrong with the way he looked?

She leaned against the edge of the counter, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked at him. “And honestly,” she drawled with a honeyed tone, “I find it kind of hot.”

Now, Bucky was just confused.

His brows furrowed into a tight knot as the words failed him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hit on, and it was just another one of those moments where he had no idea what to say.

“The, uh…” He cleared his throat. “The record doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my therapist. I’m only listening to it out of recommendation.”

He figured mentioning the word therapist would be enough to lose her interest, but the woman only smiled wider, and somehow that scared him.

“And you care about your mental health?” she said. “Gosh, you’re like a man straight out of every girl’s dream!”

He had no idea what to make of that. If this random woman thought he was hot, he wondered what you would think of his appearance.

She ran a hand through her hair and looked him up and down, making Bucky stiffen. Did his hair look weird?

“But hey, if you’re looking for other recommendations… I know a really great bar that makes the greatest cocktails just down the street. They have an open-play turntable with fancy speakers on Thursdays. I’d love to show you sometime.”

He knew he should accept the offer. He was being given the opportunity to put himself out there and make friends. This was what you would want him to do. This was good for him.

“I can’t,” he mumbled weakly. You idiot. “Sorry. I usually have… a, uh, thing on Thursdays with a friend, so—”

He started to scratch the back of his head, and she took the hint to back off.

Well, not entirely.

She pulled a notepad and a pencil out from her tote bag. Bucky had assumed that everyone did everything electronically these days. She started to jot down something, then tore the page off and handed it to him with a grin.

“If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

She turned and walked away before he got another word, and Bucky stood there with the headphones wrapped loosely around his neck with a dumbfounded expression. He glanced down at the piece of paper.

It was her phone number.

“You managed to get her phone number? That’s incredible!” You beamed in your chair, clasping your hands together with excitement. “How does that make you feel?”

You were more excited over this than he was, and he found himself smiling. It wasn't because the memory of getting that girl’s number was a huge boost to his ego, but because he liked seeing you smile. He always missed it during his week away from you.

“I felt flattered,” he answered truthfully. “I was surprised that any woman in this day and age would be interested in a guy like me.” He leaned back on the couch. “Though, it’s usually the men who pursue the women… not the other way around.”

“Well, times are changing, Bucky!”

Earlier in the session, he had encouraged you to use the nickname he was fond of—the one he reserved for the people closest to him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t suggested it sooner, because he was already in love with the way it rolled off your pretty lips.

Bucky made a face that made you chuckle. “Is that why she gave me her number on a piece of paper instead of making me hand my phone over?”

You grinned. “I guess some ladies like to keep it old-fashioned.”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his words from spilling out—words that were far too inappropriate to say as a patient to a therapist who was only there to keep his emotions in check.

“Do you like to keep it old-fashioned, too?”

And yet, the words spilled out anyway. If he wasn’t staying silent, then he was always saying something stupid instead.

The way you looked at him made him want to open up the couch and let it swallow him whole. You went from smiling to a flustered, awkward mess. You chuckled—trying to save face—as you scratched lightly at your cheek to ease the tension.

“Probably just like any other woman,” you managed. “I like to get wined and dined. There’s nothing more romantic than keeping it classy.”

Bucky’s eyes studied the way you sat so neatly in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, your skirt draping softly over your knees. Your nails were neatly manicured, and your makeup was light enough to let your natural beauty shine through, doing nothing more than enhancing what was already there.

He couldn’t help but think that someone like you deserved nothing less than a classic kind of love.

The kind that received flowers for no reason at all. The kind of man that held doors open for you, or put his palm respectfully over your waist during a slow waltz, and remembered every little thing you ever mentioned. The kind of love from a man that made you feel cherished every single day.

Bucky silently wondered if he could be that kind of man.

You cleared your throat, sitting up straight and dusting off your skirt. “Anyway, enough about me. This is about you.”

Bucky’s frown lines deepened. He didn’t want to change the subject—he wanted nothing more than to hear about you and your interests. But even then, a dark feeling began to stir deep in his gut over the thought of you being wined and dined by someone else.

You tilted your head, trying to engage him back into the conversation. “Have you spoken to her since?”

“No,” he answered, his gaze drifting down to check for a ring on your left hand.

“Why not?”

There was no ring.

Letting out a subtle breath of relief, he met your eyes again. “I just don’t see the need to.”

“Then open your eyes, Bucky. There are a lot of opportunities you miss out on if you continue to keep them closed.”

There was a selfish part of him that didn’t like the fact that you were trying to encourage him to talk to another girl. If he were to find out that a man had given you his phone number, Bucky would be entirely against it.

Fuck. What was wrong with him? He tried to push those thoughts aside—those silly, inappropriate thoughts about his own therapist.

He knew the session was nearing its end, so he thought he’d change the subject—but that was just his excuse to get you to stop encouraging him to go on a date with this random woman.

“What’s the album for this week, doc?” He asked.

You smiled. “Marvin Gaye.”

Bucky remembered the list of things his old friend Sam had told him to check out—though Sam probably wouldn’t consider him a friend anymore, given how Bucky had ghosted him. It was a long list, a couple of items even carried over from the notes Sam had given Steve years ago. Aside from emphasizing how great Thai food was, Sam had insisted that he absolutely needed to listen to Marvin Gaye.

Yet, despite all of Sam’s efforts, all it really took for Bucky to finally listen was a recommendation from you—the only woman he cared about.

Marvin Gaye’s voice filled his ears, and Bucky could finally understand why Sam had been so insistent about it.

If love was an emotion too complicated for him to grasp, the lyrics explained everything. The gentle beats danced in his ears, and sweet melodies about love, devotion, and longing wrapped around him. Before long, he found himself closing his eyes and picturing you.

He imagined the way you smiled, the way you laughed so easily around him, and the way you made him feel like living was a beautiful thing and not something you dread.

Whoever Marvin Gaye had been singing to in Let's Get It On must have been someone deeply cherished—someone longed for so intensely that the only way to express it was through music. It was everything Bucky wished he could say to you, if only he were allowed.

A soft smile tugged at his lips at the thought of you.

Of course you liked music like this. The kind you’d slow dance to in the middle of the living room, one hand intertwined with someone else’s. The kind that sounded like old-fashioned love brought to life.

His heart thrummed happily, his mind filled with giddy, hopeless thoughts.

He couldn’t wait until Wednesday morning, when he would see you again to talk all about it.

On Tuesday afternoon, his flip phone dinged with a notification from you.

Hi Bucky, I’m so sorry for the short notice, but something urgent has come up and I have to cancel our session tomorrow. I’ll reach out next week to reschedule. Take care!

Bucky stared at the message, his frown lines deepening.

Had something bad happened to you? Or had he scared you off with his question last week?

No. This is stupid, he told himself, trying to shake the sudden panic. There’s no point in dwelling on something like this. She’s just busy.

But as the hours ticked by, his mind began to spiral. He had nothing to look forward to for the rest of the week—just seven empty days without you. He stared at his phone, wondering how inappropriate it would be if he sent a simple, “Hey, how are you doing?” text to his own therapist.

He tried to push the thoughts away, but nothing he did could distract him. Frustrated and exhausted, Bucky decided to turn in early and end the day.

But as the sun went down and the moon rose, sleep brought him no peace. Instead of falling into a blissful rest, he was dragged straight back to his nightmares—except they weren’t like the ones before.

None of them were about his Hydra days or his past victims.

Every single nightmare was about you.

It was the most absolute terrifying fear of abandonment.

In the dream, he pushed open your office door, expecting to see the warm lights and your pretty smile. But the room was completely empty. The walls were cold, bare concrete, and your chair sat vacant in the center of the room. It didn’t look like the welcoming, colorful space with the warm string lights he knew—no, it looked more like the sterile Hydra rooms where he had been brainwashed over and over again.

He tried calling your name, but his words were stuck in his throat. He tried to scream, but it only strained his vocal cords, and nothing came out but a pathetic wheeze. He kept trying, over and over again, until he finally gasped hard enough to wake himself.

His eyes flew open as he bolted upright on the floor. His bare chest was drenched in sweat, his vibranium hand clutching the sheets so tightly the fabric threatened to tear.

He stared blindly into the dark corners of his empty apartment, his chest heaving. It took him a long time to realize it was just a dream, but the hollow feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away.

He just needed to see you.

“I think the saxophones were the best part,” Bucky praised Marvin Gaye with a gentle smile. “In Distant Lover, especially.”

“Excellent choice, Bucky. That one’s my favorite, too,” you returned the sentiment, leaning back in your chair. “So, tell me. Did you have any new, fun interactions at the music store again?”

Bucky shook his head. It hadn’t been interesting at all this past week—just seven days of solitude away from you.

“What about the girl who gave you her number?” You tilted your head. “Did you ever reach out to her?”

“God, no,” Bucky said with a huff of a laugh. “I actually ended up losing the paper. Pretty sure it went through the wash.”

You let out a soft gasp, placing a hand over your heart.

“Bucky! You threw away her phone number? Do you know how hard it is to get someone’s number the old-fashioned way these days?” A smile crept onto your face, matching the teasing look in your eyes. His favorite. “I’m guessing Marvin Gaye couldn’t convince you to be a little romantic, huh?”

Bucky looked down at his hands, both flesh and vibranium. He had stopped wearing gloves to his appointments. He fiddled with his fingers over his lap, looking almost sheepish.

“Guess I just haven’t found the right person,” he mumbled shyly.

“Sometimes it’s not about finding the right or wrong person. Just spending a few hours with someone can help you grow,” you explained. “If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.”

Bucky rose a brow.

You grinned. “A quote from Marvin Gaye.”

“What a sap,” he joked, and you chuckled.

You adjusted yourself in your chair, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

“You haven’t brought this up in recent sessions, but I’m curious to know—”

A ring. Nestled on your left ring finger.

“—are you still having nightmares?”

It was shiny. The diamond was a respectable size—as much as he hated to admit it.

“If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, we don’t have to.”

You had been proposed to?

Was that why you had to cancel on him?

“I just thought… as your therapist, it was important for me to ask, to see if you’re actually getting better—”

While he was having nightmares about losing you, you were out getting proposed to. He hadn’t even known you were being courted.

The warmth that he only felt inside your room turned to ice so fast it was hard to breathe.

Your lips were still moving, your voice as gentle and professional as could be as you continued to speak, but Bucky couldn’t hear a single word. There was a loud ringing in his ears, drowning out everything else.

His eyes were helplessly glued to your left hand. Every time you moved, the silver band caught the sunlight streaming through your office window, throwing a tiny, mocking rainbow light over his lap.

It was cruel. Someone else had asked you for forever, and you had given it to them. While he had spent his Tuesday night twisting in his sheets, choking on a nightmare about losing you, you were already out in the world, building a life that didn’t include him. A life where he was just an hour on your Wednesday schedule. A stupid, court-mandated file.

He wanted to pull his eyes away. His vibranium fingers were twitching to pull his gloves back on. He wanted to collect his things, and his feelings, and leave the room without looking back at you. But he knew he had no right.

All he was was your patient.

He was nothing to you.

“Bucky?” you asked softly, carrying such genuine worry that only made his feelings that much more complicated.

When he didn’t move, you leaned forward. Slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to, you reached across the small gap between your chair and the sofa and gently rested your hand over his. Your touch was light, full of professional respect, but the warmth of your skin seared right through him.

“Bucky? Are you okay?”

He flinched slightly, his eyes ripping away from the diamond to look up at your face. You looked so kind, so concerned for him. It nearly broke him right then and there.

He swallowed hard, forcing the massive lump down his throat as he tried to find his voice. He needed to lie. He needed to put the walls back up before he spilled every pathetic, selfish thought in his head.

“No,” he whispered, his voice rough and slightly cracked. He cleared his throat quickly, pulling his hand back just a little to break the contact, though his skin immediately missed your warmth.

“No. No nightmares, doc.”

Time had passed since he saw the ring, and every day felt like a countdown to the ticking time bomb in his heart, ready to explode.

The walls of his apartment felt lonelier and smaller than ever before. Night after night, he found himself sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands as he let himself drown in panic. He always had pent up grief and anger from his past to wrestle with. Now, he had to contend with something else entirely—the longing for you that clawed relentlessly at his heart.

It was the kind of emotional turmoil he was supposed to share with his therapist, but how the hell was he supposed to tell you everything when it was all about you?

He couldn’t go to his sessions and look at that ring anymore. He couldn’t sit there pretending to be the patient who was supposed to be honest about his feelings when he couldn’t even tell you a fraction of the truth.

Then came a bright Tuesday morning, the day before his weekly Wednesday session.

Bucky wandered aimlessly down a quiet street, his jacket collar pulled high against the breeze, when he saw you.

You were standing outside a local flower shop beneath a green awning, leaning over a vibrant display of fresh blooms. Your eyes were closed as you bent down to smell them, a soft, peaceful expression resting on your face.

You were probably looking for flowers for your wedding. The thought twisted painfully in his chest.

As if sensing his gaze, your eyes slowly fluttered open and found him across the sidewalk.

A warm, familiar smile spread across your face—the same smile he had grown to love, and the very one that haunted his dreams. But because you were his therapist, you kept your distance. You didn’t wave or approach him, preserving that professional boundary and leaving the choice entirely up to him: acknowledge you, or walk away.

He had every opportunity to turn around.

He should. He should walk away and never look back. But as he looked at you standing there among the flowers, so close yet completely out of his reach, he felt his resolve begin to crumble.

He couldn’t keep living like this.

If he was ever going to accept himself—if he was ever going to trust his own heart, just as you had spent these sessions trying to teach him—then he had to face the truth.

Sooner or later, his footsteps brought him closer to you.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, trying to force himself to sound cheerful, but the effort failed.

“Yeah,” you breathed with a smile, gesturing to the blooms. “I’m just looking at some flowers for the wedding.”

Another knife to his heart. He felt his face ache from how hard he was trying to maintain his smile.

“They’re beautiful,” he complimented the flowers, despite his eyes being stuck on you.

“I know! There’s so many to choose from. It’s kind of overwhelming,” you chuckled with a hand over your mouth.

Bucky’s heart was hurting so bad in his chest. The longer he stood in front of you, the less he trusted himself.

“Your fiancée is a lucky man,” he said. Fuck. “I’m happy for you.”

You blinked at him, processing his words. It confused you, but what confused you even more was the solemn expression he wore on his face despite saying he was happy.

He looked like a can of worms that were threatening to open and spill all over your hands, like a bomb that was ready to tick off with one wrong move or one wrong breath.

“Bucky,” you frowned, adjusting your bag strap. “Is everything okay—”

“I… I don’t know what to do,” he cut in, his voice trembling with pent up feelings he couldn’t contain for a single second longer. “I’m having the nightmares again. Every single night. But they aren’t about Hydra anymore. They’re about you.”

You stood there, stunned.

“Bucky, what—what are you saying?”

“I have… I have all these thoughts about you,” Bucky confessed, the words pouring out of him like a broken dam, his blue eyes left entirely vulnerable. “Stupid, selfish thoughts. It’s making me crazy. I know I’m your patient. I know I have no right to feel like this—”

He pressed his lips together. He should stop. No. He needs to stop—but he can’t.

“But you taught me to trust myself, and right now, the only truth I have is—”

“Bucky, slow down—”

“—that I’m in love with you.”

With the way you were looking at him, he might have believed he was in a nightmare already.

“I… I—” you stammered, clutching your bag so tightly.

You were usually so confident with your words, always knowing the right things to say in the perfect tone. But now, your words failed you completely.

A patient? Falling for his therapist?

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say—” you tried for a lighthearted laugh, but it came out painfully awkward. “I’m sorry—but you don’t love me. Y—you’re just confused—”

“I’ve had a lot of doubts in my life,” he insisted on adding salt to the wound, stepping closer in the small hopes of reaching you. “I struggle to navigate my feelings—I know that. But my feelings for you—that is the one thing I don't doubt.”

The look on your face was so solemn, so melancholy, yet you were still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

In no world would it ever be appropriate for a patient to fall in love with their therapist.

He knew what was coming next. He knew full well the consequences of confessing his feelings—of saying something stupid to the one woman he shouldn’t.

But he loved you so much, and as a result, he had to let you go.

“I’m so sorry, James.”

“Let’s hope you don’t fall in love with me next,” Dr. Raynor tried to joke in that flat, sarcastic tone of hers. Bucky didn’t even smile.

She jotted something down in her notebook, and the scratching of her pen made him deeply uncomfortable.

It was cruel, really. The moment the board found out he had fallen in love with his therapist, they stripped him away from the one person he actually cared about. Now, they had paired him up with a much older, entirely unenthusiastic replacement. It was a complete joke.

“Since then, have you tried reaching out to other people?” Dr. Raynor asked.

Bucky sat perfectly still on the sofa, his expression blank. “I… have.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “James, I’ve done this long enough to know when a person is lying. You hesitated.”

“You’re a cynic. I don’t know what you want me to do, doc—”

She clicked her pen with a sigh and started scribbling, making Bucky’s eyebrow twitch.

“Okay, fine. I haven’t reached out to anyone,” he admitted in defeat. “I know I should talk to Sam, but… I don’t know. It’s hard.”

“Have you tried reaching out to him?”

“No.”

“Has he tried reaching out to you?”

Bucky stayed quiet, and Dr. Raynor’s patience wore thin. “Let me see your phone.”

Bucky knew there was no point in fighting her on this. With a reluctant sigh, he shifted his weight to dig into the back pocket of his jeans and handed over his brick of a flip phone.

Dr. Raynor took it and began clicking through. “Several missed text messages from Sam, spanning back months. James, what are you doing?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he turned to stare out the window. Dr. Raynor’s office was completely different from yours. It lacked all the welcoming colors your walls had. There were no string lights, no carpet with silly designs he could get lost in, and most of all—there was no music.

Dr. Raynor tossed the flip phone back to him, and he caught it effortlessly.

“You’re punishing yourself,” she pointed out blatantly.

Bucky didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes down to his phone, his gloved thumb swiping over the screen. “I’m not punishing myself, doc. I’m doing myself a favor.”

“Bullshit, James,” she snapped, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees to force him into her line of sight. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, his gaze lifted up to her.

“I know what happened with your previous therapist. I read the file,” Dr. Raynor said, using that same tough love of a tone that only made Bucky feel like a child being lectured. “And I know it hurts. I know it feels like the universe threw you a bone, let you feel something real, and then ripped it away just to remind you of who you used to be. But isolating yourself in this empty apartment, cutting off Sam, drowning in your own head—that is the worst goddamn punishment you could possibly inflict on yourself.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened so hard, a muscle ached. “I cross lines when I feel things. I get confused. It feels safer like this.”

“No, you’re just a coward,” Raynor said, unfazed by the hardness in his eyes. “You allowed yourself to feel human for a minute, James. You fell in love. Was it appropriate given the circumstances? No. But it proved that the Winter Soldier didn’t kill the man inside. Now you're treating a normal, heartbreaking human experience like it’s a… a Hydra relapse.”

Bucky made a face.

For a therapist, Raynor was terrible with her allegories.

“Solitude isn’t keeping you safe. It’s just a slow suicide. You want to honor what she taught you? Stop. Hiding. In. The. Dark.”

Raynor checked her watch, clicked her pen one final time, and stood up.

“Our time is up. Call your friend.”

After his session, Bucky found himself walking through a nearby park just a few steps away from his apartment.

Children were running around together. Families were eating on picnic blankets. Couples walked hand in hand. And funny enough, there was even a couple getting engaged just a few feet away from him, surrounded by friends laughing and cheering.

He finally found an empty bench to sit on and pulled out his phone, desperate for a distraction.

Bucky couldn’t remember how many times he had brought Sam up to you in your previous sessions. Every single time, you had encouraged him to talk to him. At the time, Bucky had you—he hadn’t seen the need to reach out to anyone else for friendship when he already had you.

But now that you were gone…

With a sigh, he pressed the phone to his ear and let it ring.

“Sam Wilson. Who’s this?”

Bucky’s throat suddenly felt like it was coated in sand. “Sam.”

There was a dead silence on the other end. Bucky shut his eyes, waiting for Sam to hang up on him. He deserved it after having the audacity to call after nearly a year of silence.

“… Bucky?” Sam’s voice came out breathy and surprised. “Man, I—wow. Are you alright? Why are you calling?”

Bucky winced. He knew Sam probably didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory—or maybe he did. Either way, he had earned it.

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes drifting up to the sky. He inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air in. He thought of the warm string lights, the colorful walls, the beautiful laugh and the gentle advice of the woman he had been forced to leave behind.

Sam sounds like a wonderful person, you had told him once. You should talk to him. You need someone like that in your life.

He was going to try.

For you, he was going to try.

“Yeah. Uh. I just wanted to tell you, I finally listened to Marvin Gaye. Think you got some time this week to catch up?”

There was another pause, long enough to make Bucky’s anxiety spike. Until finally…

“Marvin Gaye, huh? You know, I thought you’d never ask.” Sam said with a light laugh that made Bucky feel a little less tense. “And I don’t want to hear a single thought about it unless we’re talking over a couple of beers. How does Friday sound?”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Bucky genuinely smiled.

“Yeah, okay. Sure.”

It still hurt, knowing that he didn’t have you to look forward to anymore. He had messed up the one good thing he’d had going for him since Hydra—but he had allowed himself to feel. To fall in love. To open his heart to someone else, even if it hadn’t been the right person.

He had to learn to move on. Marvin Gaye was a sap, a man who sang of fantasies entirely out of reach for someone like Bucky. But the man was right.

“It’s good to hear you again, Sam.”

If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.

“It’s good to hear you too, Buck.”

me when i might say something stupid (but the fic is actually buns so this entire fic is just me saying something stupid) i've always wanted to write a tfatws!bucky healing fic of some sort, and what better way to do that than by making the reader his therapist, someone he hopelessly falls in love with which actually plummets his mental health even further! thank you to @houseofhyde and @iamthatonefangirl for beta-reading ily guys

if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the rest of the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!

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You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @fruitypebsworld

beer. from the glass into bucky’s system it goes. great, now it’s gone. another, please! before he knew it, the bartender eyed bucky, horrified, with twelve pints of beer gone from their stock in less than thirty minutes. ‘maybe it’s time to leave.’ he swivels around on his barstool and holy shit.

BANG! is anyone gonna check on that sound? no, of course not, silly. because that was the sound of his heart falling out of his chest and thud-thud-thudding along the wooden planks. or at least that’s what it felt like, because bucky has never felt so enraptured by another, feeling more adrenaline in his system currently than during that awful, gruelling mission. that grin, those eyes, your lips. crap, are his hands sweaty? that’s new. bucky needs to catch himself before he falls irrevocably deeper into this hole…and before people notice the creepy staring. 

he forces the lump in his throat down, and he opens his mouth, “hi.” you turn. 

‘you stupid motherfucker. out of everything you could’ve said.’ 

“hello,” you reply, smiling. 

‘oh my. she’s smiling at me. okay, say something, smart guy.’ 

“um,” 

‘fuck’

he continues, delivering a painfully strained introduction. 

“could i buy you a drink? miss…” 

you say your name, and, oh. he repeats your name, and for a split second, he thinks about what it would be like to whisper a heavy sigh, your name, into the crook of your neck, before gently placing a kiss shortly after. he extends his hand, fingers toward you, “it’s lovely to meet you.” 

“likewise,” as your palm meets his, you slip into the barstool next to him, “i would love that drink.” 

conversation flows almost as well as the beer down his throat, and goodness, bucky doesn’t think he’s been so out of breath in forever. every word you say, the way each syllable rises from your larynx, slips off your tongue, and hits his ears sends shivers down his spine.

the drinks arrive as you ask for his number, to which he immediately grabs the closest napkin and begins scribbling. you glance at the napkin and smile. he adores that smile, doesn’t he? he realises that, with each second you spend with him—talking, smiling, laughing—the knots in his shoulders and neck dissipate, the burning behind his eyes replaced with a flurry in his stomach.

shit. he feels like a kid again. 

applause for the band’s last song floods the room, and they start the next tune. you jump up, excitedly, “this is my favourite song!” 

saying he would commit war crimes doesn’t mean much to bucky, given he’s been recognised as a war criminal in the past, but bucky would listen to marvin gaye’s soundtrack to troubleman for a decade straight if it meant getting to see the lights dance in your eyes. you drag (well, drag is a stretch; anywhere you go, he goes) him to the floor, and your scent envelops him: a mix of whatever alcohol you fancied and your sweet perfume. he could get used to that smell. all he can feel is you, see is you, smell is you. 

his head spins, the walls bending, blurring. maybe he’s had too much. not too much alcohol, but you. you, intoxicating you. you smile once more, and his vision tunnels. after all, the rest of the universe has no consequence when you’re in the room. 

your hand slips from his, a vague sound to the effect of “wait!” tumbles from his lips, and you’ve run away from him, lost in the crowd, dancing to your favourite song. 

he wonders about the dip in your lower back, where two halves of the same flesh meet the spine, how deep, how wide, how quickly his fingers could traverse the arch before reaching the other side of your waist, pulling you closer to his side. he allows his mind to drift to the curves of your shoulders, the way your feet slip into your shoes, the way you grip a steering wheel. 

he weaves, like a thread through the eye of a needle, through the crowd, searching for you, your eyes, your voice, your scent. he never got your number, did he? song after song passes, and the worrying feeling of anticipation grows, rising in his chest. maybe he’ll ask you out on a proper date. no, he will ask you out on a date; he swears that, as hopeless as he may be, you’re it for him. there’s no one else. your scent lingers back to him, your giggle grows as he reaches the far wall. 

there you are and…oh. oh. well, what else did he expect? he turns on his heel, looking, looking back at you. once, twice. she catches his figure through the crowd, glancing between the leather on his back and the lips of the man before you. once, twice. making his way to the doors of the bar, he steals one last look at your grin as she leads the man before you to a room at the back by the collar of his jacket. 

With new threats materializing around the world, the Avengers were looking for new recruits to help cover more ground.

Sam Wilson had vouched for you. “I’ve known her forever. I think she’ll be a great fit.”

Bucky Barnes had nearly rolled his eyes into the back of his head.

Great. He thought. Basically another Wilson. Just what I need.

When you arrived at the Avengers compound, Sam was there to welcome you in the parking garage. 

“Sam!” You cried, jumping out of the driver’s seat to give him a hug.

“You made it!” He returned your embrace. “How was the drive?”

“Not too bad. I listened to audiobooks the whole way. Pretty much knocked out my to-be-read list.” You clicked your keyfob to unlock the trunk and began unloading your belongings.

“Let me help,” Sam offered, taking your suitcase from you. “Steve would whoop my ass if he knew I let a lady carry her own luggage up the stairs.”

“Oh, give it back then,” You yanked your suitcase back with a mischievous grin. “I want to see you get your ass whooped by Captain America.” 

“Absolutely not!” Sam barked a laugh and shot his arms out to reclaim the suitcase. 

Just then, Steve and Bucky rounded the corner. Steve laughed at the sight of you two playing tug-of-war. Bucky simply cocked an eyebrow.

“Is this our newest recruit?” Steve called, his voice echoing through the garage.

You snapped your head up and immediately let go of the suitcase, causing Sam to stumble back. 

“Unfortunately, it is,” Sam jested, catching himself before he could eat the pavement. “Allow me to introduce you guys. This is Steve.”

Steve closed the distance first, with Bucky trailing reluctantly behind him. Admittedly starstruck, you thrust your hand forward, trying to make a strong first impression. “It’s great to meet you, Captain Rogers.”

“Likewise,” He grasped your hand and gave it a firm, respectful shake. “We’re excited to have you on the team. And please, just call me Steve.” 

“And this,” Sam gestured unenthusiastically as Bucky approached. “Is Bucky.”

“Gee, thanks,” Bucky glanced sidelong at Sam, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He turned his gaze to you, stone-faced and serious. “Hi.” 

Despite his prickly demeanor, your heart did a stupid little flip that you were not proud of.

Sam had described Bucky Barnes to you in great detail.

Grumpy.

Stubborn. 

Kind of reclusive. 

Painfully unreceptive to modern pop culture. 

He had not mentioned anything about how handsome he was. And those eyes.

Maybe Sam was being dramatic. You thought hopefully. Maybe he’s just a little socially awkward? I can work with socially awkward. 

Attempting to break the ice, you offered Bucky a smile. “Sam’s told me a lot about you. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” You reached out to shake his hand as well. 

“All good things, I’m sure.” He said, his tone bone-dry. He gave you one quick shake with his flesh hand before drawing it back to safety. His metal arm shifted uncomfortably, causing his leather jacket to squeak.

“Terrible things, actually,” You quipped, attempting to chip away at the wall he put up. He blinked and furrowed his brow, deep ridges forming in his forehead like cracks in the earth. He almost looked ashamed. 

“But anyone who gives Sam as much grief as you do is alright in my book.” 

The ridges faded as he let out a stilted, awkward laugh. His shoulders dropped as the tension bled out of them. “Right. Yeah. I try.”

“Please do not form an alliance with Barnes.” Sam groaned as he pulled a box labeled FRAGILE out of your trunk haphazardly. 

“No promises.” You shot Bucky another smile, then whipped your head over to Sam, who was stomping away with your precious cargo. “Hey, be careful with that!” 

Huh. Bucky thought. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

As part of the onboarding procedures, you were given a basic overview of your teammates. Their abilities. Their strengths. Their pasts. 

“Some of the details are… a little unsavory,” Steve explained solemnly, sliding several files across the conference room table to you. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. But we’re also trying to do better.”

“I get it,” You nodded. “It’s a matter of trust and respect.” 

Steve flipped through photos and bullet points on a hologram projector, tactfully introducing you to reformed assassins, an unassuming scientist who could punch through a brick wall when provoked, and one former weapons manufacturer turned clean energy connoisseur.

Then Bucky’s photo materialized on screen. Steve seemed to hesitate for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“I’m sure you remember Buck from earlier,” He said, his tone carefully neutral. “He used to be known as the Winter Soldier.”

He hesitated again. It was clear this was a tender subject for him. 

Enslaved by a terrorist organization called HYDRA. 

Experimented on. No anesthesia. No pain relief. 

Brainwashed. Abused. Coerced into gruesome murders. 

Shoved into cryostasis when not on active duty.

All over the course of nearly 70 years.

By the end of the explanation, your head was swimming. 

“He’s been reintegrating back into society for a while now,” Steve concluded. “Slowly but surely, anyway. Don’t take it personally if he seems standoffish. He really is a good guy.” 

Steve’s protectiveness touched your heart. Despite your soul-weary exhaustion, you found yourself smiling softly. 

“I believe you, Steve. Don't worry, I won’t terrorize him like Sam apparently does.” You joked, attempting to put him at ease. It seemed to work. 

“Thank you,” He sighed, his posture relaxing. “I practically have to separate them sometimes. Might have to call you in for backup at some point.” He rolled his eyes, but his tone was fond and light again. 

“Just give me a shout whenever you need me.” 

The meeting concluded and Steve dismissed you with another handshake. As you trekked back to your floor, you made a mental note.

Show extra kindness to Bucky Barnes. 

And keep this little crush under control. 

Over the next few days, Sam insisted on showing you the ropes. He gave you a tour of the compound, formally introduced you to the other Avengers, and volunteered to spar and train with you.

While you quickly warmed up to your new teammates, you noticed that Bucky mostly kept to himself, existing in the perimeter of the group. Kind of reclusive, just as Sam had said. 

However, his demeanor had improved since your first meeting. 

You chalked that up to the fact that he often overheard you trading verbal jabs with Sam. On a few occasions, he snorted out a laugh before going silent again. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed into your bubble.

You made a habit of giving him a smile and a small wave whenever you passed by each other. The first time you did it, he only nodded stiffly in acknowledgment. By interaction number three, he started waving back. On interaction number six, you got a lopsided grin in addition to the wave. It nearly knocked the air out of your chest.

Eventually, it became your shared ritual. You looked forward to these little exchanges more than you were willing to admit.

Be cool. He has enough to deal with. You reminded yourself. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Natasha drawled before taking a bite of her takeout during a team dinner. “You got any embarrassing Sam stories?”

“How much time you got?” You fired back with zero hesitation. That earned a laugh from the whole group, and a desperate plea from Sam to change the subject.  

At the far end of the table, Bucky’s lips pulled into a smile. You tried to sneak a glance at him, but your eyes locked instantly. Your heart did another embarrassing little flip.

Feeling brave, he smirked playfully at you. 

“Let’s hear one.” He called, then took a sip of his beer. Everyone turned to face him, expressions ranging from subtle encouragement to shock that he had spoken up at all. With all eyes suddenly on him, he shrunk back slightly in his chair and shot you a “help me” look. 

Sensing his nerves, you quickly brought the attention back to yourself. 

“Oh man, where to begin?” You tilted your head toward the ceiling, reaching into the well of memories you had with Sam. “One time he accidentally sent a girl into anaphylactic shock when he brought her tiger lilies on their first date. She was very allergic.” 

“What?!” Everyone gasped, turning sharply toward Sam with accusatory glares.

“The florist said I needed to impress her! I trusted her professional judgement!” He cried, trying to defend himself. “How was I supposed to know her face would swell up?!” 

“I take it there wasn’t a second date?” Tony quipped.

“No. There was, however, a trip to the ER.” 

More laughter erupted, much to Sam’s chagrin.

But in the middle of the chaos, Bucky wasn’t piling on Sam. He wasn’t joining in the uproarious laughter. He was looking at you. And his heart was starting to do embarrassing little flips too.

The next morning was your first pre-mission meeting. You stepped into the elevator, pressed the glossy button labeled “5”, and began your descent. Your skin was practically buzzing with nerves.

On floor 9, the elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors parted with a hiss. Bucky Barnes stood there, stubble and surprise grazing his face.

You blinked at each other for a single, stretching moment. Then, he presented his signature lopsided smile and wave. You returned the greeting and stepped aside, welcoming him in. You hoped he couldn’t hear your pulse picking up. 

He entered and pressed himself against the opposite wall, shoulders slightly hunched, hands shoved in his pockets as usual. 

“Uh… floor five,” He muttered. “Please.”

“You heading to the meeting too?” You asked, smiling expectantly at him. 

The doors slid closed and the elevator resumed its descent. 

“Yep.” He nodded mechanically, not quite meeting your eyes. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. 

“So… how’s it going?” 

That caught you off guard. You hadn’t pushed for more than passing glances since meeting Bucky. You now felt nervous for reasons that had nothing to do with the upcoming mission.

“Good,” You said, attempting to appear calm. “Everyone’s been really welcoming.”

“Good. That’s good,” He finally faced you, then grimaced. “You already said good. Sorry.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

Well, at least we’re both nervous. You thought. 

“No need to apologize,” You laughed light-heartedly. “I appreciate you asking.”

“No problem,” His shoulders seemed to loosen up. “First mission, huh? You ready?”

“I’m feeling pretty nervous, not gonna lie,” You admitted. “Everyone here is so experienced. I just want to do a good job.”

“Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t be here if Steve didn’t see something in you. You’ll do great.” Bucky’s gaze was steely and resolved, but his tone was certain and kind. It was a glimpse of the good man Steve Rogers believed he was.

Despite your nerves, you stood up a little straighter and offered him a watery smile. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That means a lot.” You said, your voice warm and grateful.

His expression softened. He gave you a reassuring nod in response.

The doors whooshed open once more, breaking the spell. You had arrived at floor five. 

“After you.” Bucky said, gesturing toward the exit. Once you stepped out, he followed and kept pace with you. You stared ahead, actively fighting the heat creeping up your neck. 

When you approached the conference room, you reached for the door handle absentmindedly. Without a word, Bucky lurched forward, grabbed the handle himself, and held the door open for you. 

It was a simple gesture. Polite. Gentlemanly. And it melted your heart into a puddle. 

“Thanks.” You said softly and entered the room on shaky legs. Steve was already there, organizing intel on the holographic touchscreen, completely absorbed in his work. 

You took the second-to-last seat at the end of the table, not-so-subtly leaving the one beside you open. 

“This seat taken?” Bucky asked, his voice low and casual. 

You’re killing me, Barnes. You thought.

“Yeah. By you.” You replied coyly. 

The corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that could only be described as endearing. He lowered himself down beside you quietly, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. He kept a respectful gap between you, but it still didn’t help your racing heart.

The other Avengers began to spill in and take their spots, the room filling with a low hum of conversation. Sam sat across from you, grim and displeased, his eyes flicking between you and Bucky suspiciously. You shot him a single warning glare and looked ahead, shutting him down before he could call you out on your conspicuous seating arrangement.

Mercifully, Steve began the meeting at that exact moment.

“Alright,” He clapped his hands once to focus the group. “Let’s talk weapons trafficking.” 

Later that afternoon, still mentally kicking your feet over your earlier interaction with Bucky, you walked in on Sam’s latest attempt to drag him into the modern age. 

They sat at the kitchen table, plates with crumbs and half-eaten sandwiches long forgotten beside them. Clearly, this discussion warranted their undivided attention. 

“Come on, man! You haven’t even given it a chance!” Sam’s arms flew up above his head dramatically.

“I gave it a chance. I liked it just fine.” Bucky grumbled back unconvincingly. 

“Just fine? Just fine?! It’s a masterpiece!” Sam was wildly gesticulating at this point.

“What are you boys fighting about this time?” You chuckled as you poured yourself a cup of coffee at the counter.

“Bucky here listened to Trouble Man once and decided it was ‘just fine’.” Sam gestured disapprovingly to Bucky, who crossed his arms defensively. 

“I didn’t say it ‘was just fine’. I said I liked it just fine. There’s a difference.” Bucky shot back.

“There really isn’t.” Sam muttered. 

“Ah. The age-old debate.” You nodded sagely, stirring creamer into your mug. 

“Please help me out here.” Sam rubbed his face in exasperation, his voice muffled by his palms.

You thought for a moment about how best to respond. You knew from Sam’s stories (well, really, your gossip sessions) that he had painstakingly tried to introduce Bucky to new music and media, to no avail. 

It came from a good place. Despite his pushiness, Sam was just trying to help Bucky blend in with the world that had moved on without him. 

But it had to be overwhelming. 

Then, it occurred to you. When was the last time anyone had asked Bucky about what he liked? When had he last been allowed to gush about the things that mattered to him?

You decided to give him that chance.

“What kind of music do you like, Bucky?” You asked pointedly. 

He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though he began to fidget like he was being examined under a microscope. 

“I like forties music.” He mumbled, his eyes averted. 

“No shame in that,” You said matter-of-factly. “You know what you like and you stick to it. I respect that in a person.” 

“Oh, for the—” Sam rolled his eyes aggressively. “What did I say about forming an alliance with Barnes?”

“You told me not to. But, in my defense, I said no promises.” You smirked, then took a sip of your coffee. 

Bucky blinked up at you from his seat, mildly stunned, processing your words. Then, a grateful smile bloomed, the lines in his face creasing like leather. 

The noise around him—the hum of the kitchen appliances, Sam’s agitated rambling—all seemed to fade as if his head were underwater. His heart began to beat so forcefully behind his chest that he swore it rattled the plates in his arm. His vision narrowed to your laughing face. 

Bucky Barnes knew what he liked. 

Forties music. 

Black coffee. 

Cold beer. 

His growing collection of early edition fantasy novels. 

Long talks with his best friend.

And you. He liked you a great deal. 

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entiry able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead. Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after. He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air. "Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties. He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good." His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse." His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it. "Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast

Oonts. Oonts. Oonts.

It was the same wretched sound all over again.

From where you sat in the complex’s office, the bass emitting from Bucky’s room was thumping and vibrating the very walls around you. The ground shook, and you swore you could see dust and pebbles straying off the ceiling and landing right into your cup of coffee.

There was no one else in the office, so you screamed as loud as you could.

“Keep it down, Barnes!”

But of course, your angry voice was met with even more thumping bass and weird techno noises.

Mumbling curses to yourself, you angrily picked up the office phone—which barely worked—and dialed his number. You pressed the receiver hard to your ear, foot tapping impatiently as you heard it ring once, twice, three times, until finally…

“Hey, you reached Bucky. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number—”

He had left your phone calls unanswered so many times, you had already memorized his voice message word for word.

With another curse, you slammed the phone back down, pushed out of your rolling chair, and stomped your way up to his room.

It was peak summertime, meaning that vacationers were flooding the streets of Greece looking for accommodations, meaning that your rundown complex had available rooms for cheap rent, meaning you had to leave your one-man post just to take care of the obnoxious tenant you should’ve kicked out years ago.

Finally reaching his door, you knocked angrily with a strength that threatened to break the hinges.

“Barnes, open up!” you shouted.

I wanna dance to me, I wanna dance to A. G—

“Bucky! Don’t make me break down this door!”

I wanna dance with George, I wanna dance to SOPHIE.

Christ. What the hell was he playing? Whatever this noise slop was, it felt specifically designed by Bucky himself to give you a headache.

“God, this fucking… fucking asshole—” you cursed to yourself, fishing for your keys in your pocket.

You unlocked his door and pushed it open. Lo and behold, you found him seated in the exact same position you always found him in every time you barged into his room for a noise complaint. Bucky’s music was so loud he didn’t even hear you enter, his focus entirely on his fancy DJ setup and speakers that probably cost more than his rent.

“Bucky!” Your face scrunched as it took every vocal cord in your body to muster the shout.

Bucky whipped his head around to face you, looking very much like a boy who had been caught red-handed watching porn—except this music was much worse than mediocre sex-on-a-screen.

He finally lowered the volume, allowing you the ability to actually hear your own thoughts.

“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out as you glared at him with an unpleasant and as equally disappointed frown.

“I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I need you to turn this music down.”

Bucky didn’t react.

He had heard this exact complaint from you more times than he could count. It was always the same routine. You’d yell at him, your body hot from the lack of AC circulation this shitty complex provided, leaving you standing in his doorway in a tank top—no bra—and tiny daisy dukes that left little to his imagination. And once you were done yelling, you’d go back downstairs to your office, and he’d turn the music right back up.

But of course, he always had a knack for making your job much harder than it actually was, purely because he loved seeing you get riled up.

“Oh. Is Georgia from the third floor complaining?” He tilted his head like an innocent puppy, knowing damn well that Georgia was a senior citizen who was legally deaf.

You scrunched your nose, looking even more pissed—which only made Bucky’s smile widen.

“No, but I’m complaining, and that should be enough to get you to shut the hell up—considering I’m your landlord.”

“Aw, but I’m dedicating this song to you.”

You wanted to stomp over to his desk and slap him right across the face to shut him up for good—but dealing with a lawsuit and a restraining order was the last thing you needed when you were responsible for running this shitty complex during peak tourist season.

“I’m not going to argue with you today,” you said, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself rather than him. “Soon, this complex is going to be packed with tourists and I need you on your best behavior. That means no loud robot music that’ll scare potential tenants away.”

Bucky flinched, looking offended.

“Robot music?” he scoffed, spinning back in his chair to face his laptop. “And you say this shit every year. Summertime, tourists, rent... but you’re lucky if even one person books a room.”

Your brow twitched. You hated how right he was. “Regardless, I need you to give the music a rest. If I’m not the one complaining, someone else will.”

You were ready to leave it at that. You turned around, your hand gripping the doorknob, prepared to slam the door behind you so he wouldn’t have the space to argue back. But of course, Bucky just couldn’t help himself.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You spun around so fast your hair whipped across your face. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

Bucky kept his back turned to you. You didn’t even need to see his face to know he was wearing a smug, shit-eating grin.

“My music is harmless,” he muttered, clicking away at his screen. “And who knows? Maybe your future tenants will actually find it entertaining. I might even draw people in.”

“No, it won’t,” you hissed. “You’ll scare people away.”

Bucky shrugged. “Then what the hell am I paying you rent for if I can’t even listen to music in my own apartment?”

The way he said it was so casual, but you knew he had thrown those words out just to pull the pin right out of your heart.

Over the years, you had seen several tenants come and go, break their leases, or even scam you out of money. Taking over the building with little to no hope for business had been completely exhausting, and Bucky—along with Georgia—had been the only loyal tenants you had left.

In reality, the two of them were the ones keeping the place afloat.

You grimaced, facing the door again.

“Just… keep it down,” was all you said, because you no longer had it in you to keep up the fight.

Bucky had kept his promise to keep the music down—but that only lasted about a day. And Bucky being Bucky, if he didn’t have the ability to piss you off one way, he’d make sure to do it another.

You weren’t sure if it was entirely intentional or not, but regardless, it made your skin burn with irritation. While you were talking to a man seated across from your desk, the sound of a girl’s loud laughter echoed right above the office—and it certainly wasn’t the voice of any girl you recognized who lived in this complex.

You smiled through it. As long as you ignored it and didn’t address it, then maybe the man in front of you—who seemed to have every intention of staying here during his months long vacation—wouldn’t notice.

“But yes, as you can see, the building is very close to the beach—walking distance, actually!” You smiled, hands folding primly on the desk in front of you. “And the beaches in Greece are beautiful. I’m sure you’ve seen them while doing your research. You said you like to surf, right? This spot is very convenient for—”

“Haha—you’re so silly, Bucky!”

“I know. But you like it.”

The man in front of you glanced at the ceiling, frowning at the sound of the girl giggling, and you swallowed hard.

“—surfing….”

Instead of answering your question or addressing anything else you said, he kept his focus on the wooden ceiling above him and pointed up. “I take it this place is pretty busy—considering all the noise.”

You gripped your hands tighter.

If you weren’t able to secure this guest, you were going to make sure Bucky got an earful from you after this.

“That’s a good thing, right? Shows how lively Greece is during this time of the year.” You tried your best to salvage the situation, but your own words only gave you secondhand embarrassment.

The man chewed the inside of his cheek, his expression apprehensive. His eyes darted around the office, suddenly taking in the white plug-in wall fan that was making a suspicious whiiiirrr noise, along with the poorly painted window panels you hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.

“Look, you seem like a nice, responsible, and hardworking young lady, but—” He stood up and started grabbing his bags. “I don’t think this place is right for me.”

“W-wait!” You scrambled from your chair, nearly lunging across the desk just to get him to stop. “We have much quieter rooms on the second floor! Facing the courtyard! You won’t hear a single thing over there, I promise!”

Fuck. What were you even saying? Bucky’s room was on the second floor.

The guy was already heading for the exit, his heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He gave you a tight, sympathetic smile that felt more like a slap to the face before walking out.

“Sir, please! I can offer you a discount on the first month! Ten percent—no, fifteen!”

Your voice was pitching higher in distressed panic, but the bell above the office door gave you a cute and mocking ting! before he pushed it open and stepped out into the burning Greek heat. The door shut behind him, leaving you alone in silence with the stupid run down fan.

Well, almost silence.

Aside from the consistent whirring from the fan, another loud giggle squealed through the floorboards right above your head. Then came the thud of Bucky’s mattress hitting the bed frame.

Your eye twitched as your hands curled into tight fists. The payment that man would have given you had he settled in today—even with a fifteen percent discount—was supposed to be your grocery budget for the next three weeks.

Your sandals were already stomping up the stairs to Bucky’s floor. By the time you shoved the key into his lock, twisted it, and slammed the door open without so much as a knock, you were seeing red.

“Barnes!” you screeched, not even caring that the unknown woman lying in his bed was half-naked.

She squealed and yanked the blanket up to her chest, trying to cover herself, but you didn’t so much as glance at her.

“Bucky, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” she yelped, looking at Bucky with wide, terrified eyes.

Well, at least this one had some decency compared to the others. Most girls would look at you with swollen lips and a proud, “gotcha” smile to match. Bucky pushed himself up with a groan, giving you a glare that could have killed you right where you stood.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grumbled, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. “She’s my landlord.”

“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped in relief—and a part of you wished Bucky hadn’t clarified that, just so you could have kept the upper hand.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Bucky? You scared another potential renter away!”

Bucky didn’t look remotely remorseful. If anything, he looked mildly annoyed that his afternoon had been interrupted. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, getting up to meet you at the door.

You didn’t even care that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that hung low on his hips—you had walked in on him one too many times to even bother telling him to put on a pair of pants.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice gravelly from whatever he’d been doing earlier. “I was minding my own business.”

“I’m sorry, but your ‘business’ becomes everyone else’s when you’re being too fucking loud!” you shouted. “I was seconds away from closing a three-month lease, Bucky. Three months! Do you know what I could do with that kind of money right now? I could finally fix the plumbing so the water doesn’t smell like eggs!”

The girl in his bed looked back and forth between the two of you, awkwardly clutching the sheet to her collarbone. “Um… should I leave?”

“Yes!” you snapped.

“No,” Bucky countermanded, running a tired hand through his already tousled hair. “Stay, Eleni. My landlord was just leaving.”

“Like hell I am,” you hissed, crossing your arms. “I swear to God, Barnes. If you keep this up, I’m going to tear up your lease and evict you.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. That was new. He had pushed your buttons enough to unlock a brand new threat—even if it was one you both knew you probably wouldn’t follow through with.

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead and kick me out,” he challenged, stepping closer. “You need me more than I need you, anyway.”

You were seconds away from going ballistic—from grabbing his precious DJ setup and throwing it right off the balcony. Every hair on your body stood up like a threatened cat, and you were ready to tear Bucky Barnes apart in his own room.

You sucked in a deep breath to unleash a litany of curses, and Bucky stood up straighter, bracing himself to return the sentiment right back, until a familiar voice called out from the office downstairs.

“Honey? Are you here?”

Both of you froze. Your accusatory finger hung in midair as your head instinctively turned towards the open door.

Of course. Your boyfriend, John, always managed to show up at the absolute worst timing possible.

“Would you look at that,” Bucky sighed—though you couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or annoyance. “Your knight in shining armor, coming to save me yet again,” he said sarcastically.

You shot Bucky one last lethal glare— forgetting all about Eleni still laying in his bed—and turned on your heel, stomping back down the stairs to tend to your boyfriend. As you hurried down, you flattened your hair and adjusted your tank top, trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable, though it was a lost cause.

“Hi, John,” you said, sounding more tired than endeared as you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey, you,” he grinned before pulling back to look at you, his expression turning from a smile to displeasure.

“Wow, you look terrible.”

Your boyfriend always had such a way with words.

You sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. With John here, you felt like now was the great time to talk about your day, hoping that it’d relief just a tiny bit of stress.

“I look terrible because my day is going terrible. I feel like a hamster running on a wheel that leads nowhere. It’s barely afternoon, and the day is already kicking my butt—”

“Did you hear that I got promoted today?”

You blinked at his blatant interruption. “I’m… I’m sorry?”

“No worries,” he waved his hand with a guileless smile, as if you were actually offering him a sincere apology when, in fact, you were just giving him the opportunity to rethink his interruption. “I said I got promoted. Valentina finally saw how hard I’ve been working and decided to give me the next position up. I’m making double the amount I made before!”

You felt utterly and completely defeated.

Here you were, feeling like a dog that had been beaten to the ground, and the man you proclaimed as the love of your life was flaunting his success. You should have been happy for him, but every sentence that left his lips only felt like a slap to your face.

“I’m happy for you, John,” you said, your voice wavering. You were happy for him—you really were—but John didn’t buy it.

He frowned. “Well…?”

You blinked again, your brows furrowing in confusion. “Well, what?”

“Are you going to take me out to celebrate?”

“Celebrate?” You huffed a laugh, taking his words as a joke. But one look at John’s face told you he was entirely serious.

Your lips twisted right back into a frown, your brows furrowing as dread began to settle in your gut.

“John… look around you. I can barely afford to keep this place running, much less take you out to celebrate your promotion. And besides, you’re making so much more than me now. Wouldn’t it financially make more sense for you to take us out if you really wanted to celebrate?”

You knew the words were blunt and straightforward, but truthfully, you didn’t have it in you to beat around the bush to cushion John’s feelings. You were drowning, and you needed to be honest with your partner.

John sighed, stepping closer and resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Honey, if money was that important to me—then I wouldn’t be with you right now, would I?”

Before you even knew it, you were looking at your partner not with the eyes of a lover—but with the eyes of an enemy.

“Excuse me?” You ripped yourself away from his touch, his hand dropping as you stared at him in utter disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

John let out a long sigh, his classic way of telling you that you were blowing things out of proportion. “I’m just saying, I don’t care about your financial situation. I’m looking past it because I love you. You don’t have to get so defensive.”

You wanted to cry. Your body was so coiled with nothing but rage, and right now, the only person you wanted to take it out on was John.

“Look past it?” Your voice cracked as it began to rise. “You’re looking past the fact that I run myself dry trying to keep a roof over my head with zero support from you? I can’t afford groceries, and instead of asking how I am, you walk in here, cut me off, brag about your money, and insult my business!”

“Oh, here we go with the drama,” John scoffed, throwing his hands up as if he were the victim. “It’s a rundown complex in Greece, honey, not the Hilton. You’re overreacting like you always do—”

“I am not overreacting! You are being incredibly selfish—”

“What’s going on here?”

You were so caught up in the yelling match that you hadn’t even heard the footsteps creaking down the stairs and into the office.

Both you and John turned to find Bucky and Eleni standing by the archway that led to the stairs. Bucky was dressed appropriately this time. By the looks of it, he had no intention of eavesdropping—he was just politely leading Eleni out of the building.

You swallowed hard. What a funny predicament to be in—complaining about Bucky and his noise just minutes ago, only to end up doing the exact same thing.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, averting your attention back to John. But John was already looking elsewhere—more specifically, right at Eleni.

“You sure? Sounded like things were getting pretty heated in here,” Bucky said, trying to make a joke that landed flat. “I was just leading Eleni out. You can go right back to tearing at each other’s throats once I escort her out, thanks.”

Eleni had been following close behind Bucky like a lost puppy, looking a little flustered, until her eyes scanned the lobby and landed squarely on the man standing next to you—who was already staring at her.

She froze, her jaw dropping. “John?” she gasped.

The color drained from John’s face, his cocky posture instantly stiffening into a defensive stance. “…E-Eleni?”

You blinked, looking between your boyfriend and the woman who had just been in your tenant’s bed. “Wait. You two know each other?”

Eleni gave you the exact same treatment you had given her earlier. She zipped right past you, completely forgetting about you and Bucky, and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “John, you asshole! You ghosted me after Cabo! You blocked my number and never returned any of my calls!”

The office went dead silent. Aside from the whirring fan, of course.

You felt your heart drop into your stomach. Cabo? John had mentioned going on a ‘business conference’ to Cabo—but that was only two months ago.

No.

He couldn’t have…

You slowly turned your head to look at John, silently pleading to whatever cruel God that was currently tormenting you to just give you a break. You hoped John would deny it, that he would tell this interloper to get lost, even if you hadn’t had the guts to do it yourself when she was upstairs.

But he didn’t. All he did was dart his guilty blue eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at the two women he had wronged.

“John…?” you whimpered.

And under just a smidge of pressure, John folded.

“I’m sorry!” he barked out defensively. “Look—it was a one-time thing, okay? I got drunk with Lemar on the beach, and… we lost track of time, and Eleni came up to me and—”

“Get the hell out.”

John’s shoulders slumped. He reached out for you again. “Honey, you don’t mean that—”

“Get out of my fucking face, John!” you screamed, slapping his hand away.

“Please, just listen to me for one second!” John pleaded, taking another step closer despite your screaming.

“I know I messed up, okay? I know it was a mistake—but look at the bigger picture here! I just got promoted. I’m making double now! I can take care of you. I can fund this entire complex and even… even fix the plumbing smell you’re always complaining about! Whatever you want! You won’t have to worry about a single cent anymore. Just please, don’t throw us away over a stupid slip up.”

Slip up?

Was this what he thought this was?

Years of being together, and his infidelity was just a slip up? A stupid moment of weakness?

You had thought that having a boyfriend—someone who loved you unconditionally—was the one thing you could have to yourself in this cruel world. You and John had your ups and downs, sure, but the idea of being in love was what kept you going.

Now, you felt entirely sick to your stomach—humiliated, exhausted, and broken.

“Stop it,” you choked out, a tear finally spilling down your cheek. You stepped forward and weakly slammed your palms against his chest, trying to push him towards the exit. “Just stop talking. Get out!”

Your hands were trembling, completely devoid of the strength you had wielded against him and Bucky just minutes ago. John barely budged under your weak shove. He sighed, reaching out to grab your wrists to stop you.

“Honey, stop. You’re hysterical right now, just calm down and—”

Before his fingers could even brush your skin, Bucky’s broad frame wedged itself between the two of you. He clamped a heavy hand hard onto John’s shoulder, shoving him back as he used his own body as a shield to protect you.

“You heard the woman,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, glaring down at your now-ex-boyfriend. “She told you to get the hell out.”

John stumbled back a step, swallowing hard as he looked up at the much larger man.

He tried to reclaim some of his lost dignity, puffing out his chest. “Hey, man, back off. This is between me and my girlfriend. It’s none of your business.”

“When you’re being that loud, your business becomes everyone else’s,” Bucky hissed. “You have three seconds to pack up your pathetic excuses and get your feet off this property before I throw you off it myself.”

If you weren’t such a fragile mess, you might’ve laughed at the fact that Bucky had just used your exact words to throw right back at John.

John looked at Bucky’s tight fists, then glanced past his shoulder at you, where you were wiping away your tears. He huffed a bitter laugh—he knew he couldn’t win a physical fight against Bucky, but that didn’t mean his pride was going down without a fight.

“Wow. Blew one of your tenants so he could act as your security guard since you couldn’t afford one?” John’s face twisted into an ugly, resentful sneer. “Fine. Keep her. I’m leaving.”

You were too busy sniffling behind Bucky—of all people—to notice that his shoulders were shaking with anger.

Bucky knew he wasn’t a saint, especially towards you, but hearing you get degraded by a man like this—a man you had given your heart to—made him unfathomably angry.

If you weren’t in such a sensitive, vulnerable state, Bucky probably would’ve had this guy pinned to the floor by now.

“While you’re at it, go ahead and take Eleni out with you,” Bucky added, nodding toward the woman dismissively, as if he hadn’t been tongue deep in her mouth just minutes ago. “Sounds like you two have some catching up to do, anyway.”

John muttered curses under his breath as he pushed through the exit, a timid Eleni trailing quickly behind him.

When the door shut, leaving just you and Bucky in the office, he turned around to finally look at you—and his heart broke right there in his chest.

He knew he had said and done things to purposefully get under your skin in the past, but seeing you now, looking so small with your cheeks stained with tears, it made him feel like the worst kind of man, despite not being the one who broke your heart.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured gently, resting both hands on your shoulders and leaning down so he was at eye level. “Are you okay—”

He nearly stumbled back from the impact of you burying your face into his chest.

You gripped his shirt tightly as you broke into the most gut wrenching sob he had ever heard in his life.

Without another thought, his arms came up to wrap securely around your body, holding you close against him. One large palm rested at the back of your head, soothing you with a comforting caress.

Bucky didn’t know what to say.

There had been times when he had almost made you cry out of sheer frustration, yeah, but that was almost. Now with you breaking down in his arms, he hated the very idea of you crying, period.

“Hey, he’s gone, okay?” he murmured against your temple. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He didn’t know what else to offer other than a couple of “you’re okays” and the occasional “I’m here.”

“I—I don’t understand—” you whimpered into Bucky’s shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Guilt clawed at his heart while his teeth caught his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

He knew your words were also a partial reflection on him and how he’d been treating you—constantly making your job so much harder than it needed to be. He sighed, holding you a little closer.

“Nothing. You did nothing,” Bucky said, his tone gentler than you had ever heard it before. “You don’t deserve any of this. And I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” you sniffled. “For standing up for me. I… I didn’t know what to do. I’m just so tired.”

Bucky felt like the Grinch—his chest tight as his heart softened with each broken word you cried out.

For the first time since he had moved into your complex, he was hearing a thank you leave your lips. He might have expected it if he ever turned his music down on the first ask, or helped you take out the trash. But not once had you muttered those words to him until now, while you were weeping in his arms and holding onto him like he was the only person you could rely on.

He felt terrible.

He, of all people, didn’t deserve your gratitude.

“Hey, don’t get sappy on me now.” He sighed, caressing your hair again as he rested his chin on the top of your head.

“You’re a strong girl. You’ll be okay.”

As the day bled into the rest of the week, Bucky felt like he was getting whiplash.

One day, you were crying in his arms and seeking his comfort, and the next, it was like you slapped your cold mask back on and went right back to being his personal landlord from hell.

He had made a promise to himself to help you out in small ways—like keeping his mixer at a lower volume, or offering to help paint the window frames. He hadn’t even invited a single girl over since your breakdown. It was selfish of him to think you’d soften up just because he held you while you cried, but you didn’t. Instead, it was the same usual business from you.

“Bucky, turn down your music!”

“Your music is giving me a headache. Lower it.”

“I can’t believe people actually listen to this robot music.”

Today, he had his friends over—Steve and Sam—whom you seemed to detest just as much because of the volume they brought with them.

Sam was lounging in the beanbag chair, his legs sprawled out, while Steve found comfort on Bucky’s bed. All three of them had a cold Mythos beer in hand, taking slow swigs while Bucky focused on mixing a new track on his laptop.

“Turn the music up,” Steve said, gesturing to the monitor with his bottle. “I want to hear how the bass hits on that drop.”

Bucky’s hand hovered over the master volume knob, then hesitated. If he recalled correctly, you had a lot of important calls to make down in the office today. The last thing he wanted to do right now was add more to your plate.

Slowly, he pulled his hand back, leaving the volume exactly where it was. “Nah, it’s loud enough.”

“No way, man. The walls are usually shaking from how loud you play this stuff,” Sam said, furrowing his brows. “Come on. Turn it up.”

Bucky kept his attention glued to his laptop, his hands adjusting everything on his mixer but the volume.

“My landlord is making calls downstairs,” he muttered, trying to sound as dismissive and nonchalant as possible in the hopes his friends would just drop it.

But of course, they don’t.

Steve sat up on the bed, his arms resting on his knees while the green bottle dangled loosely in his fingers. “Hold on. Since when do you care about what your landlord thinks?”

“Especially when it comes to your music,” Sam egged on, that teasing grin spreading across his face.

Bucky felt like he was a cat being cornered. He chewed the inside of his cheek, attempting to play around with the BPM to distract himself, but ended up completely messing up the transition.

“I don’t care what she thinks,” Bucky said quickly, his voice a little too defensive as he clicked aggressively on his trackpad. “I just don’t feel like hearing her run her mouth today.”

“You know, speaking of running her mouth—” Sam pushed himself up on the beanbag chair with a groan. “How did she react when she walked in on you and Eleni? Surely she heard all the noise you two were making, right?”

Steve barked out a laugh, waiting to hear Bucky’s response.

Bucky grimaced at the memory.

Despite them bringing Eleni up, his mind wasn’t on her at all—it was entirely on you and everything that had unfolded that day.

Normally, he’d chug his beer with his track set to the highest volume, laughing alongside Sam and Steve about how you were constantly on his ass, pestering him like a mother. But this time, he recoiled at the way his friends were talking about you.

He didn’t even know how to begin explaining it.

How could he explain that he hadn’t actually slept with Eleni because he’d overheard you arguing with your boyfriend, John? The very same John who got outed for cheating on you with Eleni—the girl Bucky just so happened to have brought home that day.

“We didn’t even sleep together. We were just messing around on the bed, and she came in to complain about the noise,” Bucky muttered with a casual shrug. “That’s it.”

Sam hummed in thought, pausing in the middle of sipping his Mythos. “You know what it sounds like your landlord needs? She needs to loosen up.”

Bucky frowned.

They had no idea what you were going through at all.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Take her to one of your gigs tonight—show her how good your music actually is, and what keeps her rent money coming in.”

Bucky couldn’t picture it. You, loosening up in the middle of a crowded dance floor, actually enjoying the music you constantly complained was nothing but “robot noise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky scoffed. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”

Steve shrugged. “A girl like that wouldn’t be hard to impress. Who knows, maybe she’ll realize the nightlife she’s missing out on here in Greece, ditch her lame boyfriend, and give you a chance instead—”

“Alright, alright, enough.” Bucky waved his hand, spinning around in his chair to glare at Steve. He hated how obvious it was that he cared. “Can we just get back to working on my mix? I need it ready and sounding perfect by Friday night.”

Sam’s brows rose. “Oh, Friday night! That’s the perfect amount of time for you to convince her to come out—”

Bucky groaned, rubbing the space between his brows to soothe his impending headache. “Christ, Sammy. Would you just shut up—”

“Eeeeek!”

Bucky was cut off by a loud, piercing screech echoing from down the stairs—straight from your office. He immediately sat up straight in his chair, his eyes widening.

Steve grimaced. “Jesus. What’s wrong with her now—”

But before Steve could even finish his sentence, Bucky was already throwing himself out of his chair. He lunged out the door and raced down the stairs toward you. As his feet pounded against the creaky steps, his mind scrambled through every worst case scenario.

Had John returned to threaten you?

Was a potential tenant giving you a hard time?

Either way, he was ready to tear them apart. And he didn’t care if Steve or Sam were right behind him to witness it.

“Hey!” Bucky barked, breathless as he rounded the corner into the office. “Are you okay—”

“Oh my god, oh my god, get away! No! Don’t get any closer!” you squealed.

Bucky froze in the doorway, only to find you stranded on top of your desk chair, your legs wobbly as you tried to keep yourself from falling. Your eyes were wide with terror, staring down at the floor. Bucky tilted his head to get a better look at what was going on.

Sitting right at the base of your chair was a stray white cat. Her tail was swishing lazily against the floor, and she was proudly holding a very dead, very fat rat between her teeth.

Bucky’s shoulders instantly slumped as he realized he wouldn’t be throwing hands with John after all—and just how ridiculous this entire situation was.

“Bucky, help me!” you wailed, pointing a shaky finger at the feline. “Get it out! Get it out of here right now!”

“Which one?” Bucky crossed his arms, making absolutely no effort to rush to your rescue. “The rodent, or the cat?”

“The rat, Bucky! Oh my god—she’s getting closer, ew!” You whipped your head toward him, frazzled. “Do something!”

Bucky sighed heavily.

He was on a tight time crunch, needing his mix ready by Friday for a gig at a massive club here in Greece—and now his precious time was being spent trying to wrestle a stray cat.

Then again, he had made a silent promise to himself to start helping you out.

He stepped away from the doorframe and closer to you, making exaggerated shooing motions at the animal.

“Shoo! Go on, get out of here. And take your friend with you.”

The cat looked up at Bucky with big, round blue eyes that perfectly matched his own, let out a raspy mewl, and turned her head right back to you. Wanting to ensure her favorite human accepted the prize, the cat pushed herself up on her hind legs, stretching her paws onto the seat of the chair to drop the limp rodent right at your feet.

“Oh my god, no! Don’t do that! Ew, ew, ew! No!”

You could’ve sworn you saw the dead rat twitch.

Panic completely overrode your system. Without a single thought for your pride or your dignity, you launched yourself off the chair and jumped straight into Bucky’s arms.

Bucky looked up, his eyes widening as he realized what you were doing, but it was already too late to brace himself.

He let out a oomph! as your body collided with his, nearly knocking him right off his feet. With a huff, his arms hooked around your waist and thighs to catch you before you both could hit the floor. He stumbled back, struggling to find his balance as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder in panic.

He had never expected to find you in his arms again so soon—much less over a damn cat.

“You’re okay,” Bucky sighed, caressing your back. “Look! She’s already taking the rat away.” He reassured, despite the cat not moving a single paw.

You kept your face buried, your fingers tightly bunching the fabric of the back of his shirt. “Is she really? Promise me you’re not lying, Bucky.”

“Buck! We’re coming! Hold on—”

Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway as he and Sam burst through the office doorway in a sprint. Both of them had their shoulders squared and their fists clenched, ready to throw down in whatever fight Bucky had gotten himself into.

But they came to a halt, their eyes wide as they took in the view.

There was Bucky, holding the very woman he claimed to detest so much securely in his arms—bridal style, at that.

“Oh,” Sam chuckled, raising a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”

Bucky’s neck flushed a deep crimson. Even with your body tucked firmly against his, he was focused on the mortification of Steve and Sam drilling their stares directly into the side of his head.

“Get the rat out of the room!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

He tried to speak quietly so he wouldn’t startle you with the word rat, but the attempt obviously failed—because, well… you were right there, and you squealed in response.

Sam didn’t move, his grin only widening. “I don’t know, Buck. Pest control wasn’t really on the itinerary today. What’s the magic word?”

Bucky now understood why you hated his friends so much.

“Sam, I swear to God—”

Seeing that his best friend was about to combust from embarrassment, Steve finally took pity on him.

“Alright, alright, I’ve got it,” Steve reassured, stepping past them. He grabbed a plastic clipboard from your desk, using it like a makeshift shovel to carefully scoop the dead rodent off the chair.

“Ugh, that thing is huge,” Sam pointed out—eliciting another loud squeal from you—as he held the door open for Steve so they could dump it in the trash bins outside.

“Is it gone?” you whimpered into his chest.

Bucky looked down, his eyes softening as he took in the way your nose was pressed directly into his shirt. “It’s gone. I promise.”

With a relieved breath, you gently pushed yourself out of Bucky’s grasp until your feet hit the floor. He hated the sudden, empty space between the two of you.

Trying to bridge the gap you just created, Bucky stepped closer again, resting a warm palm on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He spoke so softly, with a gentleness that caught you off guard.

Heat tickled the back of your neck, your heart beating rapidly from the embarrassment of your outburst—and the fact that you had run straight into Bucky’s arms for comfort yet again.

“I-I’m fine,” you stammered, straightening yourself.

Steve and Sam were just about to walk back inside, but they stopped when they saw Bucky leaning down, his thumb now softly caressing your cheek.

They knew their friend had a long track record of being a blatant flirt and a playboy, but never once had they seen him soften up the way he was right now. Exchanging looks, the two of them played it smart and silently agreed to turn around, letting their friend have his chance.

You gently stepped away from Bucky’s touch, letting out a soft sigh at the cat still perched in the middle of the office floor. You hoped averting your attention elsewhere would soothe the awkwardness.

“Why’d you do that, Alpine? Are you trying to scare me to death?” you murmured, kneeling down to give her a gentle pat on her dusty head.

Bucky furrowed his brows. “She has a name?”

“She was a stray hiding near the trash bins a few weeks ago. I ran to the market next door to buy some food for her, and she’s been following me ever since. But I didn’t think she’d stick around long enough to gift me a…” You shuddered at the mere thought. “…a rat.”

He chuckled, kneeling down right next to you to offer the cat a few pets of his own.

“That’s cute,” he murmured. “Look at you, always on top of taking care of things—even the neighborhood strays.”

You let out a small laugh, the sound soft, warm, and genuine against his eardrums.

Bucky felt like his chest was going to explode. You were so close, smiling brightly in a way he almost never saw from you. As the last of your laughter trickled in the air, he realized this was his perfect opportunity.

The atmosphere between you two was soft. Your walls were down, and he could take this conversation exactly where he wanted it to go.

Are you free this Friday night?

Do you want to come see my set at the club? We could even dance together.

I actually named one of my tracks after you.

But you spoke up before he could. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to say thank you.”

Bucky shrugged casually. “The rat was no problem—”

“No, not just for the rat. I meant for everything else,” you clarified, sitting up straight and meeting him in the eye.

“These past few days, I’ve noticed you’ve been… well, on your best behavior.” You offered a sheepish smile as you struggled to find the right words. “You’ve been lowering your music whenever I ask you to, and I really appreciate it. So, thank you.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Here you were—showing gratitude just because he was finally giving you the bare minimum. He didn’t deserve you.

“Yeah, well, even if my music isn’t blasting at full volume, it still sounds good,” he joked, flashing you a confident grin.

You rolled your eyes, letting your hands gently pet down Alpine’s spine. She was purring.

“You keep telling yourself that,” you teased back. “I still don’t know how you can listen to music like that all day, much less produce it.”

“It’s not music you listen to all day,” Bucky adjusted his posture so he was a bit more relaxed as he sat on the floor. “It’s music you listen to when the stars are out while strobe lights are blinding you.”

Without even realizing it, he started rambling.

“It’s the kind of music that's meant to make you feel good. To push all the thoughts out of your head, drown out the noise of the rest of the world, and just let yourself loose for a little while.”

You hummed in thought.

For the entire time you’ve known Bucky, you had never bothered to ask about his DJing simply because you didn’t care to.

You’d always figured it was just a stupid hobby he did to piss you off and disrupt your peace—but the way he talked about it now, passionately getting lost in his own words, made you interested to say the least.

“You should come to one of my gigs one day and see what it’s like,” he murmured, his voice sounding far more vulnerable than his usual confidence. “It’ll be fun.”

You blew a raspberry, though you weren’t entirely put off by the idea.

“I appreciate the invite, but look around you, Bucky,” you huffed, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “This place is running on my bare hands alone. I can’t afford a night off.”

“Then let me help you,” Bucky interrupted, turning his body so he was giving you his undivided attention. “You need help painting the window frames and fixing the plumbing, right? I’ll take care of it.”

You blinked, your eyes widening in surprise.

Bucky… helping you?

This was completely out of character for him. You braced yourself for the catch, waiting for him to follow up with something like, “As long as I can bring home whoever I want, play my music as loud as I want, and get a discount on my monthly rent,” but nothing came.

“I don’t know, Bucky—”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he grinned, that taunting tone creeping back into his voice. “Let someone help you for once.”

You searched his eyes, trying to catch a punchline, but still, there was nothing.

You didn’t quite believe him. You figured this was just his way of tossing you sympathy points to get you to praise him some more, only for him to end up doing absolutely nothing.

So, you just sighed, rolled your eyes, and pushed yourself up off the floor.

“Whatever you say, Barnes.”

To your surprise, Bucky had actually made true to his promise and helped you around the complex.

He was already up most mornings before you even arrived, blasting his music from his speakers. Instead of just fixing the paint on the window panels, he reinstalled new ones and painted them over with the pretty blue you’ve been eyeing.

It made you feel giddy, seeing him in a tank top and jeans that were covered in both dirt and blue paint.

“Morning,” you shouted over the music, setting your cup of coffee down at your desk. Alpine was still here—curled up in your chair. Bucky must’ve let her in.

“You’re already working on the window panels?”

Bucky didn’t hear you at first, sweeping his paintbrush back and forth until he lifted his head in your direction. He reached over to his Bluetooth speaker, lowering his music to a much more appropriate volume for seven in the morning.

“Oh, yeah.” He pushed himself up with a groan. “Thought I’d get started on the easy stuff first.”

He crossed his arms, taking a step back to admire his work. Then, he looked at you for your reaction.

“How… how do you like it?”

You wanted to jump up and down in glee with how beautiful the windows looked. The bright blue color made everything much more welcoming and inviting, but you didn’t want to give Bucky the opportunity to gloat just yet.

“Hm,” you tilted your head. You could feel Bucky growing anxious beside you—though he tried his best not to show it. “I think I want it in a different shade of blue, actually.”

Bucky’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He raised his hands, about to protest, but you broke down in a laugh.

“I’m kidding,” you said, wiping a tear at his reaction. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

He let out a heavy sigh of relief, but you could still see the grump lines on his face. “Good. Otherwise I would’ve painted your face blue,” he muttered, motioning to the paintbrush.

“Oh? You mean like this?”

You quickly snatched the brush out of his hands, and before he could even process what was going on, you had already swiped a stripe of blue paint over his stubbled cheek.

Bucky stood there, wide eyed. He swiped his thumb over the paint and looked down at his fingers, appalled. But while you were busy laughing in his face, a slow smile cracked across his lips. He suddenly lunged for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body from behind. He hooked the paintbrush back out of your hands, smearing a streak of blue over your face as well.

“Bucky, stop!” you yelled, thrashing in his arms as you just barely dodged the bristles that were tickling your chin with paint. “Stop! I can’t be covered in paint—I have to work!” you argued, despite the breathless laughter breaking in between your words.

“Yeah, well. You should’ve thought about that before you attacked me first, sweetheart.”

From that day onward, your week with Bucky had been filled with more laughter than you’ve had in the entire course of previous months.

Each day was eventful—Bucky was always up early in the morning working on the complex, somehow always managing to find new things to fix, while you arrived with cups of coffee and a bag of treats for Alpine.

During break times, you and Bucky would eat lunch together in his apartment, and he introduced you to more and more of his music.

Every time you two worked, he always had his music playing. Slowly, you started to become fond of it. There were even a few tracks of his that you liked so much, you actually saved them to your own playlist. And every time you asked him for the track title, Bucky would laugh and say, “See? I told you my mixes are good.”

Now, you were sitting on his beanbag chair with your legs crossed, the two of you eating pitas with cold beers to wash them down.

“It’s all about the frequencies,” Bucky said, gesturing to the DJ controller sitting on his desk. He set his beer down, leaning forward as his fingers traced the knobs and sliders. “You’ve got your lows, mids, and highs. If I want to drop the bass out to create suspense before the hook hits, I twist this dial right here.”

He clicked a button, and the beat lost its thump thump, turning into an airy synth. Then, he slid a fader up, and the thumping beat came back in.

“That’s pretty cool. It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” You leaned your head back against the beanbag, looking up at him with a sheepish grin. “Honestly, I just thought guys up there would bop their heads to pre-made music and pretend like they’re doing something. I didn’t think they played it all live.”

Bucky chuckled, his shoulders shaking as he swiveled his chair to face you. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

He glanced at his desk, then back to you. “Come here,” he nodded his head toward the console. “Try playing something.”

“What?” you said, sitting up straight. “No. Knowing my luck, I’d touch something and it’d break.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Who would’ve thought that the very woman who had threatened to throw his entire DJ setup out the window was actually too scared to even touch it?

“Enough of that. Come here, I’ll show you.”

Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, you knew he wasn’t going to let this up. With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the beanbag chair and walked over to him. He scooted his chair back, giving you the space to step right up to his setup.

You felt your face warm up instantly when he swiveled right back around, locking you between his desk and his lap.

“Sit down,” Bucky instructed from behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder and swallowed hard. His lap was spread, and he was leaning as far back in his chair as possible to make space for you. You wanted to make an excuse, to say you were much better off standing, but you knew Bucky would just fight you on it.

Mustering up your courage, you sat down, pressing your bottom directly into his lap. Bucky didn’t seem to mind it at all—meanwhile, your face was burning like crazy.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching around you to grab your arm. He guided it toward one of the sliders and placed his hand firmly over yours, setting your fingers down gently on the control.

Bucky’s palm was rough and warm against the back of your hand.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing into your back, and you could feel the rumbly vibration of his chuckle against you.

“Relax,” he murmured right against your ear, his breath tickling your neck. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

You hated him. You really did.

“Bucky, I swear to God—”

Bucky nudged your hand forward, forcing your fingers to slowly push the slider upward. As the fader moved, the track playing through the monitors began to warp.

“That’s the high-pass filter,” Bucky explained softly. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his thighs under your bottom. “Hear how it cuts out the low end? Now, wait for the timer on the screen to hit zero, and slam it back down.”

You did exactly as instructed, yanking it down the second the timer hit zero, and a smile broke across your face at the bass.

“Wow, that sounds pretty good,” you breathed.

Curiosity got the best of you, and you started to play around with the different sliders on your own—creating a whole new funky and out of beat mix. You messed with the distortion and the reverb, and it sounded terrible enough to make you burst into laughter, with Bucky laughing right along beneath you.

You pressed a button, then a beep! noise came after. A red light started blinking at the soundboard.

“You’re recording now,” he said. “Want to sing something?”

“God, no.” You laughed.

Sooner or later, you felt his hands slowly drift from your arms down to your hips. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind his touch one bit. It felt entirely natural. Like his hands were always meant to be right there—guiding you, holding you…

“Come watch me play on Friday,” he murmured gently.

You looked down at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. Bucky had been staring up at you this entire time. His blue eyes bored right into yours the minute you made eye contact, with no intention to break it first.

“Bucky, I…”

“I can get you in for free—you can skip the line, or come whenever you want. Just take one night off for yourself. You deserve it.”

You chewed your lower lip, feeling apprehensive. You and Bucky had done enough hard work over the last few days to compensate for the rest of the week, essentially clearing your schedule.

Looking into Bucky’s eyes—seeing the blue glimmer with hope just like the Greek ocean does on a sunny day—made it so much harder to say no. He had done so much for you these past few weeks, and the very least you could do was watch him do something he was truly passionate about.

“Fine. But only if you play my favorite tracks,” you said with a teasing smile.

Bucky blinked, as if he hadn’t heard you right.

Then, his lips pulled into the biggest, brightest grin you’d ever seen from him. His grip on your hips tightened before trailing up to your waist. Hell, he’d delete this entire set he had been working on for months if it meant you’d come watch him.

He was so overjoyed with excitement that he didn’t offer any words to prove it.

Instead, he pulled your waist a little tighter, tilted his head up, and kissed you.

You froze, your eyes going wide as his warm lips connected with yours.

You?

Kissing Bucky?

You never thought you would see the day. But the second his slick lips began to dance with yours—the second his tongue pushed past your lips to taste you—it was like all the stress from before this, all the emotional drain from your breakup with John, disappeared in an instant.

“Mmm,” you moaned into the kiss. Your hands flew to the back of his neck, burying into his messy brown hair and giving it a firm tug that made him groan right back against your mouth.

Bucky’s hands slid up from your waist, his large palms smoothing against your ribs and moving to your back to pull you closer against him.

He tasted like the cold beer, but his mouth was intoxicating heat.

Bucky had his fair share of kisses with women—just as you had your fair share of makeout sessions with John. But neither of you had to say a single word to know that this was it. This kiss shared between you two was like no other.

His hands roamed under your tank top, his fingers tickling your lower back as he trailed upward.

Of course, you had no bra on. You never wore one in this suffocating summer heat. That was one of Bucky’s favorite things about you.

Bucky broke the kiss to catch his breath, his head leaning back against the chair to gaze up at you. His eyes flickered down, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal your smooth belly. He had seen your midriff from a distance whenever you bent over in your office—but never up close like this.

He groaned hungrily, then leaned in, pressing soft, warm kisses to your abdomen.

“A—ah, Bucky…” you mewled, squirming from the ticklish sensation.

He looked up at you with the softest eyes a boy could have, leaning his cheek right against your fluttering stomach. His stubble made you ticklish, but he didn’t pull away.

“I love it when you say my name like that,” he sighed dreamily. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your face warmed and you stammered, avoiding eye contact.

It was clear to Bucky that you weren’t used to receiving compliments, especially not from your no-good ex-boyfriend, John Walker.

But that was okay, because Bucky was here to change that.

“The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. You tried to shy away from his compliment again, but his fingers trailed up to your chin, tilting your head down so you were forced to look at him.

“The prettiest eyes, the prettiest smile,” his thumb traced patterns on your bare hip. “And the prettiest lips. God, those lips.”

He leaned in to press his lips against yours once more. Your tongues danced in a warm embrace as he slowly began to undress you, starting with your tank top. His hands eagerly lifted the fabric, breaking the kiss momentarily just so he could pull it over your head before his mouth crashed right back down onto yours.

In between kisses, he would murmur things like, “So beautiful,” and “Mine,” every soft word matching the steady blood flow pumping from his heart and straight to cock.

When his hands found the button of your shorts, you rolled your hips forward, grinding that hot, delicious heat right against the growing bulge in his jeans.

He chuckled raspily against your lips before pulling away, his lips swollen and his chin sheen with exchanged saliva.

“Eager little thing, are you?”

You groaned in annoyance, though it sounded incredibly sexy to his ears.

You worked at his belt, then moved to the button of his jeans. “Take these off.”

Bucky clicked his tongue. His hand caught your wrist, gently prying it away from his pants. “You’ve ought to learn how to say please.”

His arms wrapped securely around your body, lifting you up from the chair so suddenly that you yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively. He led you quickly over to the edge of his bed, setting your body down and tucking himself right between your thighs.

“Besides,” he breathed, eagerly pulling your shorts down along with your panties and throwing them over his shoulder. “I’m still not done with you. I want to take my time worshiping this fucking body.”

You lay there sprawled out and bare while Bucky was still fully clothed. It was overwhelming, but you didn’t have time to fully process it before Bucky’s head tucked between your thighs, his nose pressing to your base as he inhaled deeply.

“Fuck, you’re dripping already.”

You arched your back, letting out a shocked gasp. “B-Bucky—! What are you—!”

“Relax,” he murmured against your sensitive skin, his hands finding your outer thighs and prying them wider for him. “Just want to taste you, baby.”

Bucky’s tongue swiped flat against your dripping center, the tip of his tongue flicking your sensitive clit. He groaned, letting the taste of you linger on his mouth.

He glanced to look at you between your legs, and the sight of your face—brows pinching together with your bottom lip caught between your teeth—made his cock painfully hard. You lying bare in front of him was an invitation for him to sink his cock into you, but he wanted to savor this.

He tucked his head back down, lapping at your pussy sloppily. His warm tongue would tease your entrance with every flick, before slowly dragging up. He’d press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing his tongue deep against your clit and dragging his tongue up and down quickly to make you cry out in pleasure.

“Bucky—please, oh god, Bucky—!”

He swirled his tongue around the swollen peak of your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a light tug that had your toes curling around his head.

You were so deprived of intimate touches, never being ate out in a way that Bucky was eating you out, and you already felt like you were about to cum embarrassingly fast.

“Don’t stop, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered, hand coming up to your mouth to muffle your cries.

Bucky had no intention of stopping.

He doubled his efforts, the sound of his wet tongue squelching against your cunt, lapping at every drip your arousal gave him. He was eager to make you fall apart, to listen to you cry out his name as you came all over his face.

Bucky inhaled sharply as you began riding his tongue with abandon. You were being selfish—chasing your high. He knew you were that kind of woman, to take what you wanted, and fuck, did he love you for it. Especially when you’re riding his face for your own pleasure, not even caring if he could breathe or not.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, tossing your head. “Fuck me with your tongue, Bucky. I’m gonna cum—!”

Your eyes went wide when you realized you were about to let out more than you could handle. But you couldn’t stop—not when Bucky was pressing his tongue firmly against your clit and holding your thighs down with his strong hands.

“Bucky—wait, I…” before you could warn him, your back arched off the bed into a cry.

Your orgasm came hot and hard, pleasure suddenly flooding your senses as you felt yourself gush around his tongue. Bucky’s face was drowning with your juices, your puffy cunt clenching around his mouth. Your wet essence trickled down your thighs and stained his bedsheets vulgarly, leaving a wet spot beneath you.

“Oh my god,” you panted, face burning hot as you fought to catch your breath.

Bucky finally pulled away, a smug grin plastered on his face while his chin was dripping with your juice. You watched as he licked his lips, the gesture only making you want to sink deeper into his bed from embarrassment.

“Look at that,” he kneeled back, hand rubbing his hard cock through his jeans. “You made a real mess on my bed.”

Your eyes were shamelessly glued to the way his dick was printed against his pants. It was strained tight against the denim, and you could see the heavy outline of his tip, spurting pre-cum and dampening his thigh with his own juice.

“I’m… I’m sorry…”

Bucky chuckled—a deep, raspy sound that made you clench around nothing.

“God, baby. You’ve got my dick so hard, it hurts,” he rasped, finally pulling his cock out of his pants and kicking the article off the bed. “You already came so much. I don’t know if you can go another round.”

You weren’t sure, either. But with the way he was jerking himself off, that heavy string of pre-cum dangling from his tip, and the way his balls looked so full and desperate for relief, you were determined to go another.

He crawled over you, dragging his tip along your shaking inner thigh and against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness as he probed you.

You were so sensitive, your pussy puffy and aching, yet when he pushed his tip in to test you, your cunt parted for him so easily. You winced, your overworked pussy already fluttering around his tip despite yourself.

“Please, Bucky…” you whined, and it might’ve been the cutest thing Bucky had ever heard. “Put it in. It hurts…”

“It hurts? Aw, baby. But I bet you’re not hurting as much as I am.” He grabbed your hand, guiding it down to his cock. It was so hot, his skin smooth as it twitched under your fingertips. “Feel that? It’s aching for you, baby.”

Bucky grabbed your hips, aligning himself perfectly so he could sink in deeper, pushing his tip past your tight walls until half of his cock was embraced by your warmth.

“Fuck, you’re tight… even after cumming,” he hissed, his face tightening as he eagerly pushed his hips forward to stretch you out. “Like you were made for this.”

Already sensitive, the sudden fullness was overwhelming. A high-pitched gasp tore from your throat as your walls clamped down hard on him, tightening around the middle of his cock where he was thickest.

You whimpered and winced, trying to accommodate him, and Bucky felt his heart soar.

You were usually always so demanding, wound up so tight from constantly being overworked, and now you were wound up tight from his cock bottoming out in your pussy. Each moan and gasp of breath that left your lips made his cock twitch and his balls heavier.

“Those cute little noises—it makes my cock throb so hard,” he groaned.

Once his cock was fully sheathed inside, he started to pick up the pace, his balls slapping against you with wet and obscene smacks. His room—usually filled with the sounds of his music—was now filled with the sounds of your moans, and that was the greatest sound Bucky had ever produced.

He was fucking you so deep, each thrust met with curses and grunts. “So fucking beautiful,” “What a tight little pussy, fuck.” “You’re gonna make me cum so fast. M’already getting close…”

Each moan that left his lips made white spots dance around your vision. He was so deep, you could feel him in your gut. Pressure was building fast in your lower abdomen—a fullness that was equally agonizing and overwhelming.

Bucky’s big body was enveloping yours, his chest pressed into your sweaty one as he rocked his hips sensual and deep. He quickened his pace, in and out, in and out, until he felt his balls clench up.

“Shit, shit—” he gasped into your shoulder. “Not gonna last.”

Your pussy was like a drug. It was addicting, the way you would squeeze and flutter around him. Despite him making you squirt all over his sheets just minutes ago, you were already edging on your next orgasm. He felt every ripple and pulse your cunt had to offer—pumping him with your pussy before you cried out in pleasure so overwhelming, it made you see stars.

“Bucky!” you screamed, “oh my god—I’m cumming again—I can’t—”

Fuck, this was the fastest he had ever came.

“Please tell me you’re on the pill,” he pleaded with a broken voice.

That was essentially your warning that he was gonna cum inside. And when you nodded, that was his invitation to do it.

His entire body coiled up tight as he started pumping you full of his backed up seed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had sex before you. All that mattered now was that his balls were finally being drained inside the person he wanted to pump them in the most—his precious landlord.

“Shit. I’m cumming, fuck! You’re squeezing me so tight—” he gasped as his body collapsed over you, huffing angry groans as his body tensed—draining every drop of his cum into your overly fucked pussy.

The two of you lay tangled in each other’s sweaty limbs, melting under the shared, musky scent of sex.

While Bucky was catching his breath, he peppered you with wet kisses—to your collarbones, shoulders, neck, and chin.

“You’re so pretty. Could lay with you forever—just like this.”

Who knew that Bucky Barnes, of all people, was the one person you slept with who made you feel more pleasure and adored than John ever had?

Your heart felt too big for your chest, and you felt like you wanted to cry. The way he held you and murmured sweet things to soothe your heart—it all became too much.

A small sniffling sound escaped you before you could stop it, and Bucky caught it immediately. He tilted his head up and looked at you, wide eyed.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed so softly, his palms coming up to caress your cheeks so you would look at him. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Bucky was so soft, looking at you with wide, adoring eyes, like you were the only woman in the world and the only one he wanted to be with. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who always made sure to get a rise out of you just weeks ago.

“I’m… I’m okay,” you stammered. “I just… didn’t expect all this.”

Bucky frowned, his touch so delicate as if he were afraid of hurting you.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t apologize,” you interjected gently, your fingers running through his sweaty strands of dark hair so you could see his eyes. “I loved every bit of it.”

He searched your eyes, his brows furrowing with vulnerability as he tried to find the truth in your words. When you held his gaze, showing how sincere you were, his frown tilted back into a sheepish smile—a far cry from his usually smug grins that you always wanted to wipe off.

“Good. Because I don’t regret a single bit of it,” he leaned in, capturing your lips with a wet kiss. “You better come on Friday. Watch me play. Then, after my set, we’ll come back home and make love all over again.”

You grinned at how blatant he was. But lying here with him, soaked up in each other’s essence, it was hard for you to say no.

“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”

With how busy you were taking care of the complex, Friday night came in the blink of an eye.

Despite living in Greece, on an island notorious for its nightlife, you weren’t a fan of clubbing at all. You were always so busy, elbows deep in the run down housing complex just to keep it afloat—so naturally, you didn’t have anything to wear.

When you had asked Bucky for advice, he told you, “Whether you wear a short skimpy dress or a skirt that goes down to your ankles, I’ll be tearing it off later in bed.”

You had rolled your eyes at that before settling on a dress that was far too short and far too tight for your liking. But you couldn’t be bothered to care, considering the club would be dark and packed enough with bodies that no one would notice your outfit anyway.

You arrived later than you had anticipated, having been caught up with last minute paperwork and calls. By the time you got there, the club was already packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, with colorful neon strobe lights dancing across the crowd.

Your eyes naturally gravitated to the stage, where a familiar—if slightly fancier—DJ setup stood right in the center.

And of course, Bucky was right behind it.

He was manning the mixer, getting lost in his own music while the lights danced around him. One hand was resting on the mixer while the other rested on his headset. He kept his promise of playing your favorite tracks—and you couldn’t help but smile with the way he had everyone dancing in the center.

You felt out of place, standing awkwardly by the bar while everyone danced drunkenly around you. Unlike Bucky, this was not your element at all. But you took the night off, making a promise to yourself, and Bucky, that you would enjoy yourself.

Remembering Bucky’s instructions from earlier that day, “Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want,” you pushed your way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention for a drink.

A guy with a slammed expression who looked like he’d been dealing with unruly tourists all night finally looked at you.

“Hey,” you shouted over the music.

“What’ll it be, miss?”

“A double Tsipouro—I’m with Bucky,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the DJ who was currently mixing your favorite track.

The bartender paused, looking at Bucky on stage, then back at you with an irritated scoff.

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before,” he grabbed a double shot glass, filled it to the brim, and slid it towards you. “That’ll be €8.”

You frowned. You contemplated on arguing back, but the local girls next to you giggled after they eavesdropped on the interaction, and by then, the bartender was already tending to the next person.

With a sigh that felt almost self-deprecating, you downed the shot without a chaser, and tried to enjoy the rest of the night listening to Bucky’s set without letting that interaction get to you.

After a couple of shots—that you all paid for—you went from being buzzed to intoxicated. You were dancing by yourself in the crowd, relishing every bass and beat that Bucky was throwing up on stage. When an unexpected hand came to rest on your lower back, you instantly spun around to tell the guy off.

“Hey, get your hands off—!” but you stopped when you saw Steve standing right in front of you with Sam right next to him.

“If it isn’t Bucky’s landlord,” Sam teased with a tone that brought good intentions, “I didn’t think we’d ever see you here.”

“Did Bucky drag you out tonight?” Steve asked.

With the alcohol bubbling in your bloodstream, you weren’t sure if you hid your flustered expression well.

You had no clue how much Bucky had told his friends about you—how you two were technically a ‘thing’ now, despite not officially talking about it.

“Yeah,” you shouted back. “He wanted me to come out tonight to watch his set. He’s really good.”

“He definitely is,” Steve agreed, then grabbed your hand. “Well, if you’re out here to party, better make the most of it.”

You laughed as Sam and Steve pulled you further into a clearer pocket of the crowd. With the two guys next to you—warding off the other drunk men who tried getting close to you—you actually started to let loose. You were laughing, your chest feeling lighter than it had in months.

During a transition, you looked up at the stage to see if Bucky had noticed you in the crowd yet.

But then your smile faltered, and you realized you were no longer dancing.

A small group of girls—dressed in tight outfits and looking beautiful—had managed to bypass the side security and were now crowding his DJ setup. They were drunk, based on the way they were stumbling and trying to grind on Bucky—who you thought was just trying to focus on his music. But he smiled.

You didn’t know if that was him trying to save face because he was right there, in front of a whole crowd, but from where you were standing, it seemed like he enjoyed every bit of the attention they were giving him.

You looked down, suddenly feeling incredibly self conscious in your dress.

“Don’t worry about that,” Sam reassured you as he continued dancing. “People get on stage all the time, no matter who’s playing. His set is ending soon, anyway.”

Based on Sam and Steve’s expressions, they weren’t soothing your insecurities, but rather assuming you were just expressing concern for a friend’s safety. They didn’t know you and Bucky had a thing going on at all.

You tried to push those thoughts away for the rest of the night, but how could you? Not when every single time you looked up to see Bucky—the person you came out tonight for—he was being smothered by and dancing with half dressed girls.

You tried to get lost in the music, but instead, you were getting lost in your own thoughts.

It was a horrible, familiar feeling.

It was the exact same feeling you had felt with John, who had sworn he only had eyes for you while routinely crossing boundaries, making you feel like you were crazy for caring, and eventually cheating on you. You had promised yourself you would never let a man make you feel that way again.

And yet, here you were.

You thought about the night you and Bucky had just shared. But what was it to him? Just a fun distraction with his landlord? The woman he always swore he hated? Were you just another checkbox on his list—one he sought after simply because you were ‘playing hard to get’ in his eyes?

Bucky was a playboy. His friends knew it. You knew it. And hell, even the only other tenant in the complex—who was deaf, mind you—knew it.

You were the one who had to watch him constantly bring different girls back to his place week after week. You were the one always barging in on them with noise complaints. He was charming, hot, and clearly popular in clubs, and he knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted.

“Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want.”

And on top of it all, you remembered what the bartender had said.

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before.”

He had heard it before because Bucky had probably used that exact same line on a dozen other girls.

You weren’t special.

You were just the latest girl on his list, foolish enough to believe his sweet compliments after he ravished you in bed—the very same bed he had shared with countless other women.

Tears stung the backs of your eyes, blurring the flashing strobe lights into a messy smear of color. Your throat choked up, your chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.

“Hey,” Steve leaned down, noticing your expression. “You okay?”

You couldn’t even answer him. If you opened your mouth, a sob would escape.

You tried to give Bucky the benefit of the doubt—that this was just his job, that he had to put on a pretty smile and perform. But as you looked up and saw him with a drunk smile, leaning closer to a woman who had her hand on his chest and was shouting something in his ear, that was it for you.

“Sorry, I—I… um, I forgot to finish some paperwork that’s due tomorrow morning,” you lied, trying your best to sound steady. “Have fun tonight.”

Steve and Sam offered to take you home, but you couldn’t let them. You needed to be alone.

And that’s exactly what you did.

You took a cab back by yourself, drunkenly stumbling into the complex’s office with only one thing on your mind. It wasn’t because of stupid paperwork or bills. It was to tear up Bucky’s lease.

You shoved the key into the lock with a clumsy hand. Bursting inside the small office, you slammed the door shut behind you.

The office was dark, but sitting right there in the very center was Alpine. The white cat lifted her head from her food bowl, kibble crumbs decorating her white, fuzzy chin as she blinked tiredly at you.

The sight of her made the tears spill over your cheeks. You were intoxicated, heartbroken, and your emotions were at an all time high— looking at the cat you two took care of together only made the anger burn hotter in your already fragile heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you choked out, pointing a shaky finger at the cat. “You and your stupid dad. Your stupid, lying, playboy dad!”

Alpine blinked before letting out a mighty yawn for such a small body. Then, she turned her attention back to her food, completely indifferent to your emotional breakdown.

“Yeah, go ahead and eat!” you cried, wiping furiously at your wet face. “Enjoy it, because both of you are packing your bags! He thinks he can just… smile and say the right things, and I’ll just let my guard down and let him in?”

You marched past the cat and stormed over to the filing cabinets. You grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer and yanked it open so hard that it rattled.

“Where is it…” you muttered, your vision blurred by tears as you began rummaging through the folders. You tossed utility bills, maintenance requests, and old plumbing receipts over your shoulder. “Where is that stupid piece of paper?”

You were going to find his lease.

You were going to tear it into a million pieces, throw it in his face, and kick Bucky Barnes out of your complex.

The office door suddenly pushed open, and you jumped at the unexpected intruder who just barged in.

Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving as the moonlight outlined his body from behind. Any other woman probably would’ve seen him as a god, but to you, he just looked like a man spawned from the very depths of hell.

He looked like he had run all the way from the club—but he couldn’t have, not with how fast he got here.

“Why did you come back here?” He panted.

“Get out of my sight,” you mumbled, so quietly that it was like a part of you didn’t want to mean it.

He ignored you, stepping closer as he caught his breath. “Steve told me you left before I could finish my set—said that you had paperwork to do, but that can’t be right. You told me you cleared your schedule just so you could go to the club tonight—”

“Yeah—well, plans change,” you muttered, finally pulling his folder out from the others. You sorted through it until you found his paperwork, gripping it firmly in your hands.

When Bucky stepped closer and realized what you were doing—your fingers positioned in a way that looked suspiciously like you were about to rip it—he stormed over and snatched the paper right out of your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with that?!”

You glared up at him, your head spinning so fast it hurt. “I’m tearing up your lease. I’m evicting you.”

Bucky blinked, his face a mixture of frustration and confusion.

“Are you trying to play with me right now?” He sighed, setting the paper safely on top of the filing cabinet before bending down to try and lift you up. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’re drunk right now—”

You slapped his hands away, pushing yourself up to stand on your own. “What? Get me in bed so you can add me to the long roster of women you fuck?”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes went wide, looking nearly as hurt as you felt just from that accusation alone. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t think I don’t know!” a sob ripped from your throat, and you hated how weak it made you sound. “You and your notorious record for being nothing but a player who plays stupid music. You know—it makes sense, actually!”

You hiccuped, slurring your words between tears.

“You being a DJ and playing in clubs and all. It’s such a classic tale, isn’t it? How easy it is for men like you to just… pick up women and bring them home in the middle of the night. And I’m always the one cleaning up your messes and kicking them out the next morning,” you laughed at yourself.

You probably looked insane in his eyes, but you didn’t care.

“Now, look at me. I’m the mess, and no one is there to clean me up. I was stupid to think I was different.”

What the hell were you saying?

None of it even made sense to you anymore. All you felt was an overwhelming wave of anger and hurt. Your head was pounding so bad that you just wanted to lie down and sob until there were no more tears left.

Despite every cruel word you hurled at him, Bucky didn’t get angry. How could he? When almost every word you said was nothing but the truth. All the talk about him being a player, blasting his stupid music loud enough to hurt your eardrums—he couldn’t deny any of it.

Except for one thing, and that was you thinking you weren’t different.

With a soft sigh, his shoulders slumped. He stepped closer, moving quietly so as to not startle you like a cat. When he was finally within reach, he wrapped his arms tightly around your body, pulling you close against his chest in a comforting hug.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered gently against your temple, his voice rough. “You saw all those girls huddled around me at the club, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I made you feel like this.”

You jammed your fists against his chest, weak and uncoordinated. But the alcohol had drained all your strength, leaving you hollowed out and drowning in your own tears.

Bucky took every pathetic blow you gave him, and instead of pulling away, he just tightened his arms around you. With a broken sob, you collapsed into his chest, burying your wet face in his shirt.

You hated this. You hated how every time you were upset, Bucky was always right there, comforting you in this very office. And you especially hated that, despite him being the cause of your current distress, you were still seeking his comfort.

One of his large hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers caressing through your hair, while his other arm held you around your waist.

“I’ve got you, baby. Just breathe.”

You were a weeping, hiccuping mess, your shoulders shaking violently as months of built up insecurity and old, unhealed wounds from John came pouring out all at once. You stained his shirt with your tears and ruined makeup, but Bucky didn’t seem to care at all.

He just held you, swaying you slightly from side to side in the quiet, dark office.

“I know what you’re scared of,” Bucky started with a gentle murmur. “You’ve gotten your heart broken, and you’re scared of opening up and getting hurt again.”

He rested his chin on your head with a sigh, looking blankly at the wall with eyes full of regret.

“And I don’t blame you for feeling that way towards me. I’ve been an awful guy to you from the start, and even now, I failed to make you feel secure with me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, hoping it would help.

“There was no woman that came before you, and I have no intentions of anyone coming after.”

You wanted to believe him, but everything that left his mouth was just noise. Even drunk and vulnerable, you could feel your heart closing on him to shut him out.

You slowly pulled back, your hands pressing against his chest—not out of anger, but out of a desperate need for distance.

Bucky let you go reluctantly, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on your hips, his blue eyes searching your face with a fragile and heartbreaking hope that made it even harder for you to look away.

“I can’t do this, Bucky,” you whispered. “I like you. I like you so much, and I want to love you... but I can’t. I don’t want to get hurt again. I just want things to go back to the way it was before. Me as your landlord, and you as my tenant. That’s it.”

Bucky knew he deserved every ounce of your doubt, but he hadn’t braced himself for the hurt that came with it.

Still, he forced a pained, tight lipped smile, his eyes telling you just how much he was hurting. His hands twitched on your hips, a painful urge passing through him to pull you back, to hold you against his chest and never let you go.

The words I love you rushed to the tip of his tongue, burning to be said. He wanted to shout it, to promise you the world, to prove to you that he was entirely yours.

But as he looked down at your tear-stained face—at the exhaustion and fear written in your eyes, all because of him—he stopped himself.

Even drunk, you still had the strength to look out for yourself. And because he cared about you more than his own need to fix things, he respected your wishes. He wouldn’t use your vulnerability to force a confession on you. He had always been a selfish man, but he couldn’t afford to be one now.

Bucky swallowed hard, a visible lump forming in his throat as he forced the words back down. His shoulders slumped as he finally accepted defeat.

Slowly, his hands dropped from your hips. He took a single step backward, giving you the space you asked for.

“I get it. I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re ever ready to open your heart to someone again—please, let me be that person.”

Bucky kept his word and left you alone.

Yet, there were countless times when he found himself pacing in his room, or lingering just outside your office, waiting to see if you would open your heart to him again. He held onto the smallest bit of hope that the words you had shouted in a drunken blaze were words you didn’t truly mean—that they had simply come from a place of deeply unhealed hurt.

He stayed close, waiting for a knock on his door, hoping you would tell him you were ready to talk. But that knock never came.

Just like him, you also kept your word and went right back to treating him as if he were nothing more than the annoying tenant from the very beginning.

He still helped you around the complex whenever he had the time—entirely on his own insistence. But every time he found himself in the same room as you, you would make up some excuse just to get away from him.

“I need to stop by the store and buy litter for Alpine.”

“Georgia forgot to pick up her mail. I’m going to hand it to her.”

You were like a stone of indifference—not happy, but not angry either. It was starting to get frustrating.

He knew he should have respected your space, but the more you strayed away from him—not only emotionally, but physically—the more restless he grew. Maybe it was the immature side of him creeping in, but he started to take your pleas as a challenge. You wanted things to go back to normal? Back to how things were before his heart fell for you?

Fine. He would make sure to do exactly that.

The next afternoon, the entire building—which had been quiet for the past few days—began to shake.

It was that same, robotic warping noise that always rattled the ceiling of your office. It started with the usual thump, thump, thump, before the bass dropped into the most annoying sound nonsense you had ever heard in your life.

It was Bucky’s music. Except this was nothing like the tracks he knew you actually liked, and it was louder than it had been in months.

For the past few weeks, he had been playing his music through headphones or keeping the volume respectful. But right now, he was blasting it with a vengeance, the aggressive electronic beats making the light fixtures tremble.

You tried to ignore it for ten minutes. You tried to focus on your paperwork, but the relentless oonts oonts oonts was making your teeth rattle and your head pound. You knew exactly what he was playing at. He was trying to get your attention—but you wouldn’t give in. You refused to.

But then, a family of tourists walked past the front of your office. The daughter pointed up at the building, and the mother scrunched her nose, shaking her head in disapproval at the noise.

Shoving your chair back, you marched out of the office and stormed up the stairs.

You banged on Bucky’s door roughly. “Bucky! Turn that music down right now!”

You were furious, but for Bucky, this was the greatest moment of his week. He grinned, pretending not to hear you, and bumped the volume up just a tad louder.

You knocked again, but he ignored it. When you started cursing under your breath—which Bucky thought was the cutest thing he’d heard in what felt like forever, aside from Alpine’s meows—you finally fished out your master keys to unlock his door yourself.

“Do you mind?” you snapped, stepping into his apartment. “I have potential tenants walking past, and your absolute garbage music is running them off!”

Bucky was leaning back in his chair, lazily reaching over to slide a fader down.

“Garbage?” Bucky echoed, the cocky grin on his face not shrinking one bit. “You didn’t call it that when you were sitting on my lap and playing with my mixer, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widened—whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he had gotten a reaction out of you, and to him, that was like a man finally finding water in the desert.

“Just turn it down!” you demanded, already turning away and slamming the door shut behind you.

Throughout the rest of the week, Bucky realized he couldn’t hold your attention for more than five minutes with just his music blasting alone.

He was working on a mix—one that wasn’t meant for his club sets, but one that would definitely catch your attention. What was distracting him more, though, was the sound of your giggles echoing all the way from your office.

A tourist had been sitting in there with you. Initially, Bucky thought it was just a potential renter. But as the minutes dragged into over an hour, he realized that the man in question had absolutely no intention of signing a lease. He was trying to get with you.

With the floorboards being so thin, Bucky could hear everything. The guy was a blatant flirt, and you were laughing and giggling cutely at every single word he said, convinced you were just sealing the deal on an apartment.

Bucky, moved by petty retaliation, queued up special track he was working on.

The beat was slower than usual—the exact kind that would have people drunkenly grinding against each other at a club. He dialed a knob, weaving the explicit, unmistakable sound of a woman’s breathless moans right into the track, letting it echo loudly through the thin flooring.

Downstairs, your laugh died in your throat.

Your eyes widened slightly, your jaw hanging loose before a rush of heat flooded your cheeks. The tourist blinked, his charming smile faltering as the loud, provocative audio filled the small office space.

“What an interesting song,” he forced an awkward chuckle. “Didn’t know you had a DJ living in here.”

You sat stiffly in your chair, a storm of emotions thundering in your chest. Embarrassment came first, but right behind it was a wave of shock and a sickening twist of jealousy that nearly choked you.

He brought a girl over? While I'm down here working?

He actually had the audacity to do that after everything he said to you? After he said he’d be your person once you opened your heart again?

“So, anyway,” the tourist continued, oblivious. “Since you’re a local—do you think you could show me some cool spots around here? Maybe we could start with dinner?”

You didn’t even realize how jealous you actually were until that exact moment.

Knowing that another woman might be in his apartment, touching him, making those sounds, made your blood boil and your fists curl tightly under the desk. You thought you were protecting your heart by keeping him at a distance, but hearing this only proved your heart was still hopelessly tied to him.

And right now, those ties were threatening to snap and hit him right in the face.

“Excuse me,” you choked out to the man seated in front of you, abruptly stepping away from your desk.

Every step up the stairs was a stomp accentuated by your anger, the explicit moaning getting louder and more humiliating with every flight you climbed. By the time you reached his door, you were already drowning in an emotional cocktail of rage and heartbreak.

You threw the door open, ready to scream at him and whatever woman he had hidden away in his room.

“What the fuck is your problem, Bucky!”

The door banged hard against the wall as you stormed into the apartment, your chest heaving, your vision tunneling with pure rage. You were so flustered, so blindingly angry, that the words just started spilling out of you before you could even think to filter them. You were desperate to cover up the humiliating jealousy tearing through you, but it only made you sound more unhinged.

“I am trying to run a business downstairs! I just had a guy down there, a potential tenant, and then... then you had to go and bring some woman over and—and do this while—”

You paused, letting your eyes sweep across the room, only to find an empty bed.

“Where is she?” you hissed.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, leg crossing the other as he folded his arms over his chest, looking far too smug for his own good.

“Where’s who?”

Your brow twitched with annoyance. You huffed a stray hair out of your face, waving a hand around the room. “The girl.”

Bucky tilted his head, playing dumb. “What girl?”

“The girl!” you screeched out. “The girl you have over right now—that’s… that’s making all these vulgar and indecent moaning noises because you don’t know how to keep your dick, much less your promises, in your pants for more than a week!”

Bucky’s lips quirked up into a smile.

“I have been keeping both of those in my pants, thank you very much.” He turned back to his screen, his hands hovering over his mixer. “And you mean your vulgar and repulsive moaning noises?”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, defensive. “What?”

“Listen to it closely,” he said, slowly amping the volume up. Your soft and breathy moans of pleasure filled the room.

“That’s you.”

Your face twisted. With the heavy distortion overlaid by the beat, you couldn’t tell if he was just pulling your tail or being serious. You didn’t even remember recording anything like that when you played with his mixer.

“Stop playing in my face, Bucky.”

Bucky, still impassive as ever, simply shrugged. “You don’t recognize your own voice?”

Then, a breathy little whine came in that sounded much too familiar. “Bucky, Bucky, oh—”

Your eyes shot open so wide that your pupils stung. That was you, no doubt about it, just remixed in a way that an outsider couldn’t tell.

“That’s you moaning my name, sweetheart,” Bucky said, turning to you again with a smile.

He watched as your once angry posture began to deflate into a look of pure embarrassment. You started to stammer, your eyes darting everywhere in the room that wasn’t him. “I… I—I don’t even remember recording that.”

Bucky pushed himself off the chair with a light groan, sauntering over to you with confidence now that he knew he had the upper hand.

“You pressed the record button yourself when you were playing with my table a few weeks ago,” he explained casually.

Standing in front of you, he lifted his hand to gently caress your cheek. When his palm made contact with your soft skin without you pushing him away, his smile grew wider, and the prideful flames in his heart glowed hotter.

“What’s with that face?” he taunted, his voice low and gravelly in a way that did nothing but make your heart race faster. “After everything I said to you, did you really think I would bring a girl up here? Hm?”

Bucky tilted his head, trying to meet your eyes, which were currently glued to the ground—refusing to give him any attention.

“Don’t tell me—are you jealous?”

He knew the answer, and you did too—you just didn’t want to admit it. Despite you telling him, “No more relationship!” there was a part of you that didn’t want anyone else to have him, as selfish as it might be.

“No,” you lied.

“Okay,” he hummed in amusement. “But I am.”

You scoffed. “What are you on about?”

His eyes trailed the curves of your face—the very curves he had fallen in love with and peppered with kisses just a few weeks ago.

“I’m jealous over the fact that you have a guy downstairs making you laugh, when I haven’t seen a smile from you in days,” he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your lower lip. The sensation made you shudder.

You hated how much you were leaning into his touch. And you hated even more how much you liked the idea of him being jealous over you, just as you had been over the simple thought of him having another woman over.

“I’ve tried so hard to be patient,” he continued. “To wait and see if you’ll open your heart to me again. To see if you’ll finally let your walls down and believe the words I said. But I can’t be patient when there’s a guy down there capturing your attention so easily, when the only way I can get yours is by playing loud music.”

“And you playing a track with my moans in it makes you think you’ll win me over?” You furrowed your brows at him. “If anything, it only pisses me off. You’re distracting me and my customers, and I need you to stop.”

You tried to make yourself sound more furious than you actually felt, but it didn’t translate very well. Bucky simply licked his lower lip before catching it in a subtle bite, making your body tingle all over again.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “If you give me just one more chance to prove to you how much I care about you and how serious I am.”

You wanted to hold onto your anger, to keep that shield locked up with the key swallowed. But as you stared at him, hearing every sweet word that came out of his mouth, you realized how terribly you missed him.

God, you missed him.

You missed the moments when he would hold you in his arms after every problem, big or small. You missed the stupid afternoons down in the office, when you were supposed to be doing paperwork but ended up doing baseless chores with him instead—with Alpine inevitably scrambling up onto the desk and squeezing right between you two, demanding her own share of the attention. You missed hearing his music up close, sitting right on his lap while he guided your hand with his on the turntable.

You tried your best to keep your face stoic, to force down the screaming of longing in your chest so you wouldn’t cave. But Bucky saw right through you. He watched your shoulders ease up slightly, the way you chewed at your lower lip, and the way you were slowly unlocking that key in your heart.

Letting out a reluctant sigh that sounded like music to his ears, you mumbled, “Fine.”

Bucky’s smile widened.

“But you better not play this track anywhere. Not even to Steve or Sam,” you continued before he could speak, swatting weakly at his chest. “I’ll shoot you dead, Barnes—I mean it. That track is for your ears only.”

Rather than backing off, Bucky reached down and wrapped his arms firmly around your lower waist, pulling you close against him until your hips hit his, making you fluster at the proximity.

“Deal,” he whispered, leaning down even closer. “I’ll delete it if it makes you feel better, but only if I get to make you moan again like that for real—live and in person.”

Your breath hitched as his lips slid down to the line of your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. Even though you two had been together like this before, the sudden closeness after days of agonizing distance made everything feel brand new, yet exactly right.

It was a feeling that, despite everything, you missed all too much.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” you breathed out as a final and weak attempt at keeping your guard up.

Bucky’s lips hummed deliciously against your neck, his mind already filled with things more than just hope.

“I’ll try.”

if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!

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He hadn’t moved. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. His body had settled into the chair beside your bed with the same heaviness as the grief clawing through his chest. The posture of a man keeping vigil—not for a miracle, not for hope, but for permission. For breath. For proof that the worst had not already come to pass.

Your vitals had trended upward, but cautiously. Hesitant. Like your body was negotiating its way back toward the surface, one breath at a time. He’d watched the numbers climb. Had memorized the pattern of your pulse, the sluggish rise of your lungs. Not like a soldier analyzing a threat. Like a drowning man learning the shape of a lifeline.

He’d stopped blinking after hour ten. Couldn’t risk missing something.

The machines blinked and beeped in time with the tiny metronome of your life. A mechanical lullaby. He hated them. Hated that he needed them. Hated that every sound felt like a verdict.

He hadn’t left your side. Not for food. Not for water. He didn’t sleep. Didn’t really speak. The only movement he allowed was the flex of his vibranium fingers against the mattress, brushing your wrist when your hand lay close enough. Just to feel you. Just to prove you hadn’t turned cold.

Someone had tried to care over the course of the past two days, once. John, maybe. A water bottle. A granola bar. Left neatly on the chair in the corner like Bucky was some feral thing that might be coaxed into eating if no one looked at him too long. He hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t. His body didn’t register hunger anymore. Not while you were still trapped somewhere he couldn’t reach.

And the doctor, he was trying. Bucky would give him that much.

The man’s hands were steady. His tools precise. His voice gentle in a way that had nothing to do with pity. He moved through the room with the kind of patience usually reserved for open flame or grieving dogs. Like he understood the risk. Like he knew exactly how easily Bucky could break something that didn’t deserve it.

But even he was starting to crack.

“Barnes,” the doctor said now, adjusting a new IV bag, this one tinted the color of amber and dusk. Slower drip. “You need to move. Stretch. Eat something.”

Bucky didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes on the slight curve of your ribcage where it rose, then fell. Counted again. One, two, three…

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

The voice was more tired than sharp now. Less clinical, more human. Like the man had decided it was worth trying, even if he got nothing but silence in return.

“You’ve been in the same position for twelve hours. That arm of yours may be vibranium, but the rest of you’s still flesh and blood. You’re locking up.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. His throat felt like it was full of gravel. “Not really.”

A pause. Then the soft clink of metal on metal as the IV vial clicked into place.

The doctor exhaled. “She’s stable. There’s no sign of cardiac distress. And she’s not going to wake up in the next five minutes.”

“She might.”

“And if she does,” the man said, gently, “I’ll be here. You’ll be the first to know. You’ll be back in that chair before she knows she was alone.”

Still, Bucky didn’t move.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to rot in a chair.”

That landed.

The words didn’t hit like a punch. They hit like something quieter, something worse. Like guilt pressed into the hollows of his bones. Because of course you wouldn’t. You’d tease him for it, probably. Nudge your foot against his, call him dramatic, ask when the last time he slept was. But your eyes would soften. Your fingers would reach for his.

He could already see it. Hear it. And it was that, that finally pulled him upright.

The motion was sluggish. Weighted. The muscles in his legs screamed like they hadn’t moved in years. He didn’t remember sitting down in the first place.

He stretched once. Just enough to hear something crack in his lower back. The pain was dull, but grounding.

The doctor didn’t say anything else. Just stepped aside, letting Bucky pass without another plea.

He paused in the doorway.

“I’ll be gone ten minutes.”

The doctor’s reply was low. Certain.

“I’ll call you the second she so much as twitches.”

The hallway hit like a punch.

Too bright. Too white. Too clean.

Bucky squinted as he stepped into it, eyes burning from the shift in light, the harsh fluorescence striping the floor like surgical tape. His shoulders hunched automatically, spine curling slightly in on itself, like the walls were too narrow. Like the quiet itself might snap.

His left hand stayed curled, hovering near his ribs—tight, half-clenched. Not from pain. Not from injury. From instinct. From the way his body had learned to brace around things it didn’t know how to hold.

This wasn’t just grief. Not anymore.

This was grief wearing new skin. Fear carved into something more intimate.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it—couldn’t stop tracing back every moment, every silence, every goddamn detail that should’ve screamed at him and didn’t. Eight weeks. Eight fucking weeks. Through briefings. Through missions. Through nights where you’d fallen asleep half-curled into him, your fingers unconsciously resting just above your pelvis like your body already knew what your mouth wouldn’t say.

He still didn’t know how he’d missed it. 

He was trained to detect the minute. Micro-expressions. Breath patterns. A stagger in a step. He could spot a tell from a mile off. Could read body language like Morse. And yet this of all things, you’d hidden it from him so completely that it made his throat tighten with something far worse than anger.

He didn’t know what scared him more: the possibility that maybe you hadn’t known, or that you had.

His feet moved of their own accord, dragging him through the Tower like a shadow without purpose. No real destination. Just inertia. The need to move before the silence ate him alive.

He reached the kitchen before he realized that was where he’d been going.

It was too clean. Too quiet. Stainless steel countertops gleaming like bone under surgical light. He stood at the threshold for a long beat, staring at the fridge, the sink, the stack of unopened water bottles by the wall. The idea of food made his stomach twist. The thought of chewing, swallowing, breathing, felt absurd.

He took a step back.

Then his ears pricked.

A theme song, overacted and sickeningly catchy, filtered in through the far side of the floor. Something dramatic. Overly lit. Voices rising and falling in practiced drama. Probably another doomed marriage and a fake fight in a bridal shop. The kind of television that felt like being lobotomized slowly with a plastic spoon.

Bucky sighed—long, low—and followed the sound.

The lounge was exactly as he expected: half-lit chaos, a blanket half-draped over the floor, a busted remote wedged between two couch cushions, and snack wrappers forming a loose perimeter around a single, surviving water bottle. The air smelled like cheap sugar and stale skin balm.

Yelena was spread diagonally across the couch, all limbs and bruises and indifference. Her braid was halfway undone. Her face was peppered in healing scabs and yellowed bruises like war paint. Her left arm was in a sling. Her expression didn’t flicker when he entered.

“If you say one word about my taste in television,” she said, not looking up, “I will use the last of my upper body strength to throw you out of that window.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folding automatically. His voice rasped. “Pretty sure that’s Walker’s favorite window.”

“Even better.”

Silence stretched. Not awkward. Not empty. Just weighted.

She looked at him then. Really looked. One brow ticked up just barely.

“How is she?”

He swallowed. The question landed like a blade. Not because of what it was, but because of how she asked it. No fluff. No hope. Just truth, asked gently.

“She’s…holding on.”

Yelena turned off the TV with a flick of the remote. Static silence took its place.

He crossed the room and sat opposite her, careful to leave space between them. Close enough to talk. Not close enough to fall apart.

Yelena shifted upright, knees tucking under her, good arm slung over the back of the couch. She looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the stitches in her brow.

“No change?”

“She’s still stable. Breathing on her own now.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s something.”

He nodded too, but it was hollow. Mechanical. Like an echo of emotion he wasn’t sure he still had access to. 

He didn’t know what comfort was supposed to feel like anymore, and maybe he’d never really known. Not outside the tiny, quiet moments he stole when the world wasn’t looking. The curve of your spine when you slept. Your voice in the morning before coffee. The small, human nothings he’d convinced himself were enough.

His hand scrubbed over his jaw, slow. Deliberate. Then it dragged down his face—like maybe if he pulled hard enough, he could get it off. Peel the grief away with skin. It didn’t work, of course. 

He looked at Yelena for a long time before he spoke again. Looked at her like she might hold an answer he didn’t know how to name. Because if you had told anyone, if you’d shared even a sliver of the truth with someone, it would’ve been her. 

Not just because she was your typical partner in the field, but because you trusted her. The kind of trust that wasn’t performative or professional or born of trauma. It was earned. Forged in fire. The two of you had moved like pieces of the same machine, wordless, effortless. A kind of bond he hadn’t dared interrupt, let alone question.

Sisters. That’s what Yelena called you once, when she was half-asleep and bleeding and pissed off and didn’t want to go to the med bay.

So if you had told anyone, it would’ve been her. If anyone knew… if anyone had seen something—

“She, uh… She tell you anything?” he asked quietly.

He hated how uncertain it sounded. How thin.

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “About?”

He hesitated. “Before the mission. Did she seem… off?”

Yelena gave him a look. Flat. Blunt. “She was about to walk into an extraction site with me. We’d just gotten off a sixteen-hour flight and neither of us had eaten anything but trail mix without a wink of sleep. Sure, yeah, she was off. So was I.”

“Not like that.”

Bucky’s voice cracked a little on the tail end. His gaze stayed fixed on the far wall, but his hand twitched. That betrayed him.

Yelena narrowed her eyes slightly. Her body stilled. She studied him now, properly. Like she was peeling back something that hadn’t quite fit since he walked in.

He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help. His voice was rough when he tried again.

“Did she say anything… about being sick? Not feeling well?”

And there it was.

The silence shifted. Tilted. Not the kind that filled a room. The kind that pressed against it. Dense and dangerous. It made the space feel smaller somehow, like the walls were leaning in.

Yelena looked down at the bandage on her arm. Picked at the tape. Didn’t answer right away.

“You’re not asking what you really want to ask,” she said.

His chest felt like it had been hollowed out and packed with salt.

“No,” he admitted. “I’m not.”

She didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t look at him with pity. Just sat there for a moment, shoulders tense and jaw tight, trying to find the right words and clearly hating every second of it.

“There was a moment before everything went to hell,” she said, finally. “She stumbled—caught herself, but it looked wrong. Not like a trip. Like… something hit deep. She put a hand to her side. Right here—” She gestured across her abdomen. “Like she was trying to cover it.”

Bucky’s gut turned.

“I asked if she was hit. She said no. But her face—”

Yelena frowned, her brows pulling tight. She was still staring at the spot on her own abdomen where she’d gestured. Her good hand hovered there, fingers flexing like she was trying to summon a memory, something small she hadn’t wanted to let herself look too closely at until now.

“Her face said otherwise. Not pain. Not even fear. Just… panic.”

Bucky said nothing. Didn’t need to.

Yelena’s eyes flicked up to him, and something shifted behind them. A beat passed. Another.

Then: “Wait.”

He met her gaze.

“Did you not know?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Bucky blinked, slow. He felt it hit like a punch, despite already knowing the answer himself. It was the kind of question that didn’t need to be asked, only confirmed. Like grief knocking twice just to make sure it really hurt.

Yelena leaned forward, her expression sharper now, not incredulous, just trying to piece together something she thought she already understood. Her stare was forensic. Dissecting. Like he was a puzzle missing pieces she’d thought were obvious.

“You didn’t know,” she repeated, quieter this time.

He let out a breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth tightening—not with humor. Just restraint. “No.”

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That he could say it like that, flat and final. Like it was just a fact instead of something that had cored him out.

Yelena’s brow furrowed. “But I thought—I mean… you live with her. You’ve been together for what, four years?” Her hands flailed for a second, then dropped uselessly to her sides. “You do her laundry. You finish her sentences. You know when she’s in pain without even looking at her. And you didn’t notice she was…” She grimaced, rolled her eyes a little like the word physically pained her. “Pregnant?”

He didn’t flinch. Just let out a short breath that didn’t quite qualify as a laugh. “Yeah, well. Turns out knowing her better than anyone doesn’t mean I get to know when she’s…” His jaw tightened. He glanced away for half a second, like the words might knock the wind out of him if he looked it in the eye. “...carrying my kid.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Sobering. Like the air between them had been dragged through wet cement.

Yelena let it sit a beat longer than she had to, then dragged a hand over her face, groaning into her palm. “Fucking hell.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Because if he saw even a flicker of pity, something in him might fracture past the point of return. But Yelena wasn’t the type to pity. She was sharp where others softened. She watched people like she was measuring how they broke.

And he could feel it, her weighing him now. Calculating the depth of the wound he wasn’t bleeding visibly from.

After a moment: “So you two ever talk about it?”

His mind stuttered. Not at the question, but at how fast his body wanted to say yes. To conjure up something that looked like preparedness. Like this wasn’t a detonation that had left shrapnel buried in his chest.

“What?” he asked, but it wasn’t confusion. Just delay.

Yelena shrugged, more careful with her injured arm. “You know. Having a kid. Wanting one. Or is this more of a surprise than it looks?”

His eyes tracked a scuff on the floor like it might offer absolution. Something to tether to. Some scratch in the surface that made more sense than any of this.

“Last year,” he said slowly, “we talked about adopting one day. One of those half-hypothetical conversations, middle of the night, post-mission adrenaline still burning out. Neither of us said it outright, but…”

But he’d thought about it. Not obsessively. Not in detail. But enough to picture a softer kind of life. A quieter kitchen. Her hands guiding small ones through flour or paint or some messy, human thing. Enough to imagine something more than just survival.

“But it wasn’t off the table?”

He nodded once. “No. Not off the table.”

“And you—” she tilted her head—“thought you couldn’t…”

He gave a low, humorless laugh. The kind that didn’t even try to sound amused. “Didn’t think. Knew. Ran tests. Talked to a doctor off-record. After everything Hydra did, it wasn’t a mystery. They weren’t building soldiers with families in mind.”

His throat tightened. Not at the thought of it, but at how matter-of-fact it was. Like his own mutilation had been itemized on a lab sheet somewhere. Blood type. Bone density. Fertility: unnecessary.

Yelena winced. “Yeah. I figured.”

“So no. It wasn’t a plan. We didn’t think this was even a thing that could happen.” His voice thinned, like it was unraveling from somewhere below his ribs. “We never even talked about this as a possibility.”

That silence returned. Not sharp. Just… encompassing. Like he was slowly being pulled underwater again.

“I think she wanted to tell you,” Yelena said after a moment. “Not just because you deserved to know. But because she wanted you to know. I think she was just… scared.”

Scared.

He’d fought entire wars with less fear than what curled in his chest now.

He stared at the wall. “Of what?”

Yelena pursed her lips. She shifted her weight, glanced down, then back up like the words didn’t come easy. Her jaw worked once, twice, chewing through something she didn’t quite want to say. Not out loud. Not to him. But she said it anyway, voice low.

“Of it not being real. Of what it’d do to you.” A pause. “Of what it might mean if you lost it before it was even yours.”

The quiet that followed made something twist in Bucky’s chest. Not painfully. Just sharply. Like a rusted screw threading deeper.

He sat with it. Let the ache crawl around his ribs like it belonged there. Like it always had. You’d been trying to protect him. That much was obvious now. And he hated it. Hated that you thought he was fragile enough to splinter at the weight of a truth like this, or worse—that he might’ve tried to talk you out of it, out of this, if you had told him.

Maybe he would’ve. Maybe that was the worst part. He’d never wanted to cage you, never wanted to be the reason you sat out a mission or stepped back from something you believed in. But this hadn’t just been another secret. And it had been growing in your chest for weeks while he stood too close to see it.

He couldn’t even pretend it was some one-time accident. Some consequence of a moment that caught the two of you off-guard. Because it hadn’t been like that. It was never like that. You and Bucky had been together too long for carelessness to be novel. You knew each other’s rhythms. You'd learned, over the years, when to reach for restraint, and when not to. And lately...

Lately, things had shifted. Between missions. Between silences. Between the lines of things you hadn’t said. You’d both been coming apart at the edges, held together only by shared exhaustion and the kind of intimacy that blurred lines more easily than it should have. You still touched like the world might end before morning, like maybe if you pressed close enough you could keep it from doing so.

You hadn’t been careful. Not out of recklessness. Not out of neglect. But out of want. Out of love, maybe, twisted and quiet as it sometimes was. Out of that bruised, aching desperation to just feel something good for a moment longer.

He raked his fingers through his hair, exhaled through his teeth, leaned forward with his elbows braced on his knees again. The silence stretched. It wasn’t peaceful. It was just long enough to make everything echo. His thoughts. His regrets. The moment everything had shifted.

And then—unexpectedly, involuntarily—his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not anything close to joy. But a flicker of dark amusement, bitter at the edges, slipping free like muscle memory.

He huffed once, a dry, humorless chuckle under his breath. His head tipped slightly, like he couldn’t quite believe the words even as he said them.

“We certainly weren’t careful.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need details.”

“I’m not giving you any.” A beat. “Just… it was about eight weeks ago. After that snowstorm in Tallinn. We were stuck in that awful safehouse with the wood stove and the window that wouldn’t close.”

Yelena groaned. “Oh my God.”

He smirked faintly again, the first flicker of something close to life behind his eyes since he’d entered the lounge. “She made tea from the emergency rations. Burned it. Still drank it. We didn’t sleep much that night.”

“Stop talking.”

“I’m just saying, that might’ve been it.”

Yelena picked up a throw pillow and lightly tossed it at him with her good arm. It hit his shoulder, bounced to the floor.

“Don’t look so smug.”

“I’m not smug,” he said, quieter now. “I’m…” He trailed off, jaw tightening again.

There wasn’t a word for it. Not really. It wasn’t guilt, not exactly. And it wasn’t grief, maybe not anymore. Just a breathless pressure building behind the breastbone, a sinking realization that the past couldn’t be undone, and the future was now something sharp and breakable resting in a hospital bed he wasn’t allowed to touch.

Yelena didn’t press.

He raked his fingers through his hair, exhaled through his teeth, leaned forward with his elbows braced on his knees again. The posture was muscle memory now. He’d taken it in war rooms. In funerals. In places where grief didn’t look like tears, it looked like waiting.

“I just keep thinking,” he said, slowly, “about how I could’ve stopped her. If I’d known. If I’d even guessed. If she’d told me. She wouldn’t have gone into that op.”

“She would’ve.”

His head snapped up. Yelena was looking at him with something blunt and honest in her expression.

“She would’ve gone, Bucky. Maybe not for every mission. But that one? With me? Even with as simple as it was supposed to be.” She shook her head. “She wouldn’t have let me go in alone. Not even if you begged.”

He clenched his jaw, but didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Because she was right. You’d always run toward fire if it meant someone else didn’t burn.

“She made a choice,” Yelena added. “Might not have been the right one. Might not be one you like. But it was hers.”

“I get that,” he said. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t break something.”

Yelena looked at him. Long. Quiet.

Then: “She loves you, you know.”

His mouth pressed into a line.

“She loves you in that ugly, gut-deep way,” Yelena said. “The kind that makes you do stupid shit and keep secrets and hold everything too close because letting go feels like dying.”

“I know.”

She leaned back against the couch, sighing. “So what now?”

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, at his boots, at the ghost of his reflection in the dark glass of the powered-down TV.

Before he could open his mouth to speak again, a voice shattered the quiet.

“BARNES!”

It tore through the tower like a detonated charge—sharp, raw, wrong. John’s voice. Already too loud. Already too late. Not an alert. Not a call for backup. It was the kind of sound a man only made when something had gone to hell.

Bucky was moving before the echo had even finished. His body surged upward, heart already slamming against his ribs. The couch scraped behind him, forgotten. Yelena’s voice called after him, maybe. He didn’t hear her. Didn’t hear anything but the echo of that voice and the rush of blood in his ears. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to.

Something in him already knew.

The Tower blurred past in streaks of white and steel. Every hallway looked the same and he hated how he knew this route too well. Hated how his boots skidded on polished tile as he rounded the first corner too tight, one shoulder glancing off the wall like a ricochet. He caught himself and pushed harder. John’s boots were pounding up the corridor behind him, but Bucky didn’t wait for him to catch up. Didn’t wait for context. The dread in his chest had already cemented into certainty.

There was no version of reality where John Walker shouted his name like that and it wasn’t about you.

He hit the last hallway in a dead sprint, lungs burning. The medbay door was open. There were too many bodies moving inside—shadows crossing past glass, beeping monitors screaming their mechanical chorus. The sound was too fast. Too high-pitched.

Something was wrong.

He slammed a palm into the control panel and threw his weight into the door. It hissed open with a reluctant groan, and he was through before it finished retracting, shoulder nearly ripping the frame off the hinge.

And then he saw you.

Not unconscious.

Not still.

Not peaceful.

You were awake, but it wasn’t right. Your body was twisted upright, jerking as you fought the weight of everything wrapped around you, your hands clawing for purchase against the mattress as your chest heaved. Your leg was still caught in the brace, gauze peeking from beneath the sheets. Sweat slicked your skin. You looked like you were suffocating in your own body. Eyes wide, rimmed red, searching the room with a terror so raw it made something inside him break.

The doctor was there, trying to calm you, one hand bracing your shoulder, murmuring something useless. “You’re okay—just breathe—deep breaths, now—”

But you weren’t listening. You weren’t looking at him.

Your eyes were wide and wild, darting toward the door like they were searching for something, someone.

Bucky’s body moved on instinct, all thought stripped down to the bare need to get to you. In three long strides, he was there, by your side, dropping to his knees like he’d been shot.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice tearing out of him, low and cracked. “Hey, hey—baby—”

He reached for you, hands shaking, cradling your face without thinking. His left hand brushed the sweat from your forehead, careful not to catch the edge of the gauze, while the other steadied beneath your jaw. You flinched, just barely, and then your eyes locked with his.

“Bucky?” The sound of your voice scraped across the air like broken glass. Small. Shattered.

His breath hitched. His hands trembled harder. “Yeah,” he got out. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart.”

Your chest jerked again on the inhale—too sharp, too shallow—and your hand reached out, searching. He caught it instantly. Threaded his fingers through yours like it was the only thing keeping him from splintering. Pressed it to his chest. His heartbeat was wild. Disjointed. Loud enough that he was sure you could feel it against your palm.

The doctor’s presence receded. A rustle. A door. Bucky didn’t turn to watch him leave.

You were alive.

Awake.

And fuck, you looked so scared.

Your face was pinched tight, lip trembling, as if the effort of being conscious, of feeling, had finally caught up. He saw it crack behind your expression first. The kind of grief that didn’t make a sound, didn’t wail or scream. It leaked out. As if you didn’t think you were allowed.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, careful of the bruises. His voice cracked again. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You nodded, barely. A twitch more than a motion, like the muscles beneath your skin weren’t fully yours yet.

And then you started to cry.

Not the kind of sobbing that tore open the room. No gasps or wails. Just the slow, quiet kind. The kind that leaked out of the corners of your eyes before you could stop it, trailing down temples and into the fabric of the pillow like it didn’t want to be noticed. Like you didn’t want him to notice. You turned your face just slightly, almost instinctively, like the shame had arrived before the grief even had time to settle.

But he didn’t let you.

He shifted forward, the mattress dipping with the weight of him leaning in. His hand found yours again and lifted it to his mouth, thumb sliding across your knuckles before his lips pressed against them. Not romantic. Not desperate. Something quieter. Like grounding wire. Like prayer.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered, voice worn to the threadbare edge. “Don’t hide from me now.”

You shook your head weakly, a raw little hitch in your throat. “I’m sorry—”

“No.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t clench his jaw. But the word had weight behind it now, gravel scraped up from the deepest part of him and shoved out into the space between you. Firm. Final.

“No, sweetheart,” he said again, lower. “Don’t. You don’t have to apologize.”

There was nothing to apologize for. Nothing you could say that would absolve him of the guilt digging like rot beneath his ribs. He should’ve known. Should’ve seen. He hadn’t. And now you were here, crying through bruises and a trembling chest, flinching every time you breathed too deep. And somehow still trying to make him feel better.

You coughed suddenly—sharp and wet, torn from your lungs like broken glass—and he felt the jolt of it like a current to his spine. Your hand flew weakly to your side, fingers curling over your ribs.

He bolted upright, eyes scanning fast. The water bottle, John’s, still sitting untouched at the edge of the tray. He grabbed it in one motion, fingers slick with condensation, and twisted off the cap with a sharp snap.

“Here,” he said, hand slipping beneath your chin as he brought it to your lips. “Slow. Sip.”

Your mouth opened obediently, even as your eyes stayed fixed on him. You drank in small, trembling swallows, each one broken by a pause, a hitch, like your throat hadn’t quite remembered how to work yet.

He watched the whole thing. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Tracked the way your fingers twitched against the blanket, the way your gaze never strayed, like you weren’t entirely convinced he wasn’t just a hallucination pulled from the worst place your brain could go to keep itself calm.

And when you eased back, breath rasping but less jagged now, he didn’t let go. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, thumb moving in slow, steady arcs across your skin like it was the only thing keeping you both tethered to this version of reality.

You exhaled shakily, voice hoarse and small: “You’re really here?”

He swallowed once, hard. “Yeah. ’Course I am.”

There was something in your eyes then—dilated, dazed, but clearer than before. A little softer. Still exhausted, but not vacant. Something heavy, though. Something that clung to your lashes like the tears had left a residue behind. Guilt, maybe. Or grief. Or the bitter, awful cocktail of both.

Bucky could barely look at it.

He reached up again, hand ghosting over your skin, knuckles brushing softly down the side of your temple, just shy of the dressing. You still felt warm. Still felt too breakable. Like your bones hadn’t quite reassembled themselves yet. Like if he pressed too hard, you’d come undone.

His voice barely carried. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

It cracked halfway through, split open at the edges.

“I thought I already had.”

Your fingers twitched in his, then curled, faint but sure. A tiny squeeze. 

“I didn’t mean to—” you tried again.

“Shh.” He didn’t let you finish. Didn’t need you to. He bent lower, forehead pressing against yours with the barest touch. His breath was warm at your hairline. “It’s okay.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hollow anymore. It wasn’t panic or pain or grief. It was heavy, yes. But full. Saturated with everything neither of you had words for yet. The kind of silence that followed survival. That dragged behind it the reality that you were still here, but not without cost.

He could feel the shift in you before he saw it. Your hand never left his, but your eyes drifted somewhere past him, toward the far wall, toward the static haze that came in the aftermath. That place in the brain where the adrenaline ebbed, and all that remained was the cold cut of clarity. The damage assessment. The inventory of pain.

Your voice—faint, frayed, clinical—cut through the quiet.

“What’s the damage?”

He didn’t answer at first.

He couldn’t.

His eyes stayed on your face like they were the only thing still anchoring him, searching, scanning, cataloguing every microexpression, every flicker of pain or panic or vacancy that might mean you were slipping again. But you weren’t. You were still. Too still. Awake and alert in the way that wasn’t relief but calculation. That familiar, awful quiet of someone waiting to absorb bad news before it could punch them off the edge of the world.

Bucky swallowed hard. His throat was dry, like it had been scraped raw by the last two days.

“You want the short list,” he said, voice low, “or the one that makes me wanna tear the drywall off every room in this goddamn building?”

Your mouth twitched, barely. Just a ghost of movement. Not even a smile, really. But something lived in it. Something human. And in this room, right now, that felt like a fucking miracle.

“Short,” you whispered, voice sanded down to nothing.

He nodded, jaw working.

“Skull fracture. Minor.” He kept his voice steady, clinical, even when it cost him. “Caused your brain to swell. They’re monitoring it.”

You nodded once. Like it wasn’t news. Like you’d already suspected.

“Concussion,” he added. “A bad one.”

Another nod.

“Three fractured ribs. Bruising’s still showing up. And your leg…” His voice caught. The next words scraped out of him like gravel. “The tibia’s shattered. They had to pin it—metal plates, screws, the whole thing. There was muscle tearing up your thigh. Some tendons nearly severed.” He exhaled hard, jaw clenched. “Surgery went fine. But… you lost a lot of blood. They said it missed an artery by half an inch.”

You didn’t flinch. Just blinked slowly, lashes heavy. But he saw it. The way your gaze drifted upward, toward the ceiling, like it might help you count it all up, like if you lined the injuries up one by one, they’d feel smaller. Less catastrophic. He knew that ritual. He’d done it a hundred times. Probably more.

He kept going, quieter now. “They think you’ll walk again. No permanent damage. But it’s gonna take time. Therapy. A lot of it.”

You didn’t speak.

You just breathed, shallow and uneven, your hand still wrapped weakly in his.

And then, after a long pause, you asked: “Anything else?”

That was the one that hit him.

He didn’t let go of your hand. Just tightened his grip slightly, like the contact might hold the words in his chest a little longer. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to be the one to say it. But the longer he held it, the worse it twisted.

His chest tightened. Something old and brutal stirred beneath his ribs.

“There’s…” He hesitated. “There is something else.”

The words dragged, clumsy and raw-edged in his mouth. He didn’t want to hurt you with them. But not saying them felt worse. Felt like lying.

“The doctors—when they ran tests. There was something they saw. And I figured…”

He trailed off. Let it hang there, unspoken. Let the weight of it settle. Let it be.

“I figured if it’s true,” he said, softer now, “then maybe there’s something you need to tell me.”

Your breath hitched.

And that was it.

You didn’t even have to say a word, he felt it. The shift. The slow crumpling of your expression, like something inside you had finally, finally given way. Not a crack. Not a collapse. Just the quiet undoing of someone who’d held something too tightly for too long.

You looked away, jaw trembling, your fingers squeezing his with what little strength they had left.

And then your eyes went glassy. Again. Not like earlier, this time it was different. This time it was surrender. The kind that didn’t come with peace. Just exhaustion. And shame.

Bucky leaned in, closer now. Closer than before. Closer than breathing.

He already knew. Of course he knew. He felt it, like some part of him had already absorbed the truth from the doctor without needing to hear it from you. Like it had been living in his bones since the second he saw you on that hospital bed, trying to claw your way out of your own panic.

Still, he needed the words. Needed them like he needed air.

His voice broke open around them. “Is there something you wanna tell me?”

You gave the faintest nod.

But it wasn’t enough. Not now. Not after this. Not after everything that had nearly gone unsaid for too long.

“Hey,” he said, quick, his hand rising to your cheek again as you tried to turn away, fingers brushing away the heat, the dampness, the tremor in your jaw. “Sweetheart, don’t—don’t do that. Look at me, please.”

Your eyes flicked back to his. Dazed. Gutted.

“Can you use your words for me?” His voice cracked at the end, and he hated that it did. Hated how fucking wrecked he sounded. But it was real. All of it was real.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Just stared at him like you didn’t know how to say it out loud. Like it would hurt worse to give it breath.

So he leaned in more. Close enough that his forehead nearly brushed yours. Close enough to feel your breath stutter against his skin.

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to hear you say it.”

There was a beat, one long, unbearable second, and then your lips parted, dry and trembling.

“I’m… I’m pregnant.”

He closed his eyes.

It hit like the floor vanished beneath him again. Like the bottom dropped out of everything he’d been standing on and left him suspended in a place that was neither sky nor ground, just air and weight and the crushing realization of something true. Not a guess. Not a scan. Not a test. Not a stray look from the doctor that he'd pretended not to understand. This was different. This was you.

You had said it. And somehow that made it real in a way nothing else had. Because it wasn’t just a result of a test anymore. It wasn’t a what-if buried beneath bruises and lab results. It was something inside you, and you were still here, and you had said it.

When he opened his eyes again, they burned. Wet at the corners. Not from crying, at least, not yet. But from the pressure behind his ribs, the kind that didn’t let up, the kind that twisted inward like grief that hadn’t decided whether it was going to be joy or devastation yet. 

His gaze found you again, and it struck him—not for the first time, but harder now—that you were everything at once. A miracle. A mistake. A what-if. A why-now. A please, not like this. You were pain and tenderness and a future he never let himself imagine, all balled up in the ruined body of someone he couldn’t bear to lose.

“How long?” he asked, and his voice didn’t sound like his own. It was scraped raw, like it had been dragged over gravel. He hated the sound of it. Hated that it felt like something he’d earned.

You blinked, and the tears started falling again—no gasping, no shaking, just falling, like the moment had finally reached its limit. You didn’t try to stop them. You never did with him. And somehow that made it worse.

“I found out the day before you left,” you said, and your voice cracked halfway through the sentence like it didn’t want to carry the weight of it either.

He blinked, brow knitting. “My mission?”

You nodded. “You came home late. With takeout. You remember?”

He did. Of course he did. Chinese, half cold. You’d eaten at the counter and then curled on the couch in one of his sweatshirts, face unreadable, eyes tired. He remembered thinking it was strange how quiet you were, how long it took you to answer when he asked about your day. But he’d been in his own head, too. Getting ready to leave again. Trying not to show how much it gutted him to keep doing that.

You kept talking, and he couldn’t stop watching you. Couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“I hadn’t been feeling right the past few weeks. Sick in the mornings. Off in the field. I thought it was just… nerves. Burnout. But something felt wrong. Or right—I didn’t know.” You gave a breathy, broken laugh, and it punched right through him.

You looked at him, finally. Really looked. And it nearly leveled him.

“I bought a test. Took it that night. Then two more. I—I just needed to be sure.”

His hand moved without thinking, brushing your hair back again even though it didn’t need to be. He just needed to touch you. Needed to prove you were still warm beneath his fingers. 

You swallowed hard, voice barely audible now. “I was gonna tell you. I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.” It came out soft. Not an accusation. Just grief. Just ache.

“I was scared.”

He didn’t even nod, just sat there, still as a statue, except for the way his hands trembled where they touched you. You reached up, your fingers barely grazing the center of his chest like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to. Like maybe he’d pull away.

He didn’t.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” you said. “We talked about adoption. About maybe someday. But you were so sure it couldn’t—after everything. After Hydra.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. And it wasn’t even just knowing from a doctor that he was sterile. It was just because it felt right. That there’d be consequences for what they’d done to him. For what he’d survived. It made sense that something had been taken. That something had been broken so badly it couldn’t come back.

And now you were telling him maybe it hadn’t been. That something had come back. That something had grown anyway, in spite of all of it. In spite of him. He didn’t know how to handle that.

You looked at him, voice small. “That’s why I thought maybe it wasn’t real. Or wouldn’t stick. Or it’d be gone before I even told you and then I’d have to watch your heart break all over again and it’d be my fault—”

“Stop.” His voice cracked, rougher now as he leaned in and cradled your jaw in one hand, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. You hear me?”

You did, but it didn’t stop your face from twisting, eyes glassing up again, bottom lip trembling.

“I didn’t know if it was good news or bad,” you whispered. “Didn’t know if you’d feel… trapped. Or broken. Or—fuck, I don’t know—like it was a mistake. It’s been a long time since we talked about kids. I just—I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Your voice fractured under the weight of it, and the tears came again. This time openly. No attempt to hide them.

“I didn’t want to lose the version of us we already had just because something changed.”

And god, didn’t that cut him straight through.

Because he remembered all of it. Every version of you. The good years. The ugly ones. The grief you both carried like it was stitched into your skin. And somehow, through all of it, you’d stayed. You’d loved him without asking for anything back he wasn’t ready to give.

And now here you were, thinking this would be what ruined it. Thinking you would be the thing that made him run.

But Bucky had spent half his life running. From handlers. From shadows. From himself. And you were the only thing he’d ever run toward.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, the word cracking in his mouth like it didn’t quite know how to exist there. “No.”

You looked at him like you’d been expecting the end of something. Like you were already mourning it. Like this was the part where he recoiled, went cold, started folding in on himself like he always did when the world got too loud. And Christ, hadn’t he earned that kind of reaction? Hadn’t he spent years teaching people not to expect softness from him?

But not you. Never you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you’d be angry.”

“Stop.” He didn’t raise his voice, but something in it shifted—firmer now, less frayed, like he had to build a wall around the wreckage or it’d all come loose again. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But—”

“No.” His hands were already moving before he finished saying it, catching your face like you were something fragile and burning. His thumbs swept beneath your eyes, brushing away the tears as fast as they came, but it was a losing battle. Not because you were falling apart, but because he was. Because you’d been alone, carrying something too heavy for one person, and somehow you were still here.

“You were scared,” he said, voice low and rough. “And you were right to be. You’ve been through more than anyone should ever have to carry. And then you found this out—” His breath hitched. “And you were…alone.”

That was the part that gutted him.

Not the secrecy. Not even the fear. But the fact that you’d carried it without him. That he hadn’t seen it. That he hadn’t been there.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, slower now, like the words were costing him. “You are everything.”

You flinched at that. Like it hurt more than it helped. And maybe it did. Maybe it was too much to hear right now. Maybe it sounded like blind devotion when all you could feel was your own broken edges.

“I didn’t know if you were ready—”

“I’m not,” he said, and it surprised even him how quickly the words came out. “Not really.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours. There was no shame in the confession. No edge of defense. Just the raw, open thing that sat under his ribs now. “I didn’t think it was even possible.”

You opened your mouth, some instinct to explain, maybe. To shrink yourself down. To protect him from it.

But he stopped you with a gentle touch, thumb against your lips. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want this. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

His hand slipped to the side of your neck, the pad of his thumb resting over the fluttering pulse beneath your skin. Still beating. Still alive.

“That I wouldn’t have held you through every second of the fear,” he murmured, “every second of the unknown.”

You blinked like the words were too much. Like they didn’t fit inside your chest.

“I would’ve gone to every appointment,” he said, quieter now. “Bought every fucking prenatal vitamin they had. Picked fights with whole teams if it meant keeping you grounded, if it meant keeping you safe.”

That made you laugh, but it broke halfway through, tipping into a sob. You turned your face toward his hand like you didn’t want him to see it. He let you. He didn’t push.

“Bucky—”

“I would’ve stayed,” he said, leaning in. His lips found your temple, then your forehead, the bridge of your nose, every patch of skin he could find that wasn’t bruised or bloodied. He kissed you like he was trying to rebuild you from the outside in.

“I will stay.”

It came out steady. Sure. Not a promise, because promises were things that broke under pressure, and you didn’t need something fragile right now. You needed something that would hold.

“Whatever happens next,” he said, “I’m not letting you go through it alone.”

You didn’t answer. Not at first.

Your gaze dropped, eyes unfocused, like the words were caught somewhere in your throat and you had to chase them down. He watched the tension ripple through your shoulders, the way your fingers tightened in the blanket. The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. Not for him. He’d wait as long as it took.

Finally, your voice came, low and raw:  “…Did the doctors say anything about…” A pause. A thick swallow. “About the baby?”

The word sounded strange coming from you. Soft. Uncertain. Like it still didn’t feel real. Or like you were afraid saying it too loud would shatter it.

Bucky exhaled slowly, nodding once. “Yeah.”

Your eyes locked onto his like they were trying to read between the lines, like maybe you’d only believe the truth if you found it buried behind the seams of his expression. You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

His thumb moved over your knuckles in slow, steady sweeps. His other hand, the cold one, stayed braced against your waist, careful not to press too hard against the bruised ribs beneath. He hadn’t realized he was holding you like that until you shifted and his grip tightened automatically. Like letting go would mean starting over. Like the second he loosened his fingers, the nightmare would start again.

“They’re being careful,” he said, quieter now. Not soft, just real. “Real careful. You took a hit to the ribs. Abdomen too. Enough to scare them. But your oxygen’s been steady since you got here. Monitors haven’t spiked. No more signs of internal bleeding.”

You nodded, just barely. But the panic was still flickering behind your eyes like a match that wouldn’t go out.

“They want to do an ultrasound once your vitals stabilize. Maybe tonight since you’re awake now.”

Your breath hitched at that, shallow, shaky. And he saw the shift immediately. The fear latching on. That kind of fear didn’t announce itself. It crept in behind the words. Behind the hope.

“But,” he said, firm enough to make you meet his eyes again. “No one’s said anything bad. You hear me? Nothing.”

You nodded again, slower this time. Still watching him. Like you needed to be sure he wasn’t just saying it to keep you from unraveling. Like you didn’t quite believe you deserved that kind of reassurance.

Your grip on his hand tightened. He let you crush his fingers.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” you whispered. “That it… that they might not—”

“Don’t.” It came out sharper than he meant, cutting through the room like a snap of frost. You startled, just a little, but he was already softening, already leaning down, brushing his lips to the back of your hand.

“We’re not going there,” he said, voice rasped now. “We’re not grieving something that’s still here. Not when you’re alive. Not when they’re alive.”

You swallowed hard. Another tear slipped down your cheek. He watched it fall like it had weight. Like it mattered.

“I didn’t even know I wanted this,” you said. “Not really. Not now.”

Bucky’s hand found your face again, thumb catching that tear before it could disappear into the bandages. Your skin was warm. Too warm. But it grounded him.

“It’s okay if you didn’t,” he murmured. “It’s okay if you still don’t know what the hell to do with it. We’ve been crawling through the wreckage of wars and redacted missions for a long fucking time. This world’s never offered us softness without strings.”

You blinked at him, raw and blinking through the blur.

“But you know what?” he said, quieter now. Like the words were meant just for you.

“There’s never been anything more worth the chaos.”

You looked like he’d hit something in you. Something deep. Something you didn’t have the breath to argue with.

“And if this job makes it harder,” he added, “I’ll leave it.”

You stiffened, but he didn’t falter.

“I’ll walk. Burn the whole goddamn thing down if I have to. I don’t care what Val thinks. I don’t care what she threatens. You and this kid come first.”

Your face shifted, a flicker of disbelief bleeding in, like you wanted to argue, or maybe just needed to hear it again, slower this time. But he didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to.

Because he meant it.

“I’ll get us a place no one knows,” he said, his voice low, steady, dangerous in its conviction. “Back roads. Quiet. A garden if you want one. A porch swing. You wanna disappear? I’ll make us ghosts.”

Your lip quivered. You tried to push yourself up again and flinched. His hands were already there, bracing your back, cradling your shoulder, fingers spreading to support everything the rest of the world had shattered. 

“Hey—no, don’t push it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. Just stay with me.”

Your voice rasped against the stillness. “I am with you.”

It broke something in him. Clean.

Then your hand started to move, trembling and slow, dragging upward across his chest. He felt it like a brand. Your fingers curled around the fabric near his collar like you were searching for something to tether yourself to. Something to make this real.

He recognized the look in your eyes before you even moved.

That hunger. That urgency. That quiet desperation that came after surviving something you didn’t think you would. You were looking at him like maybe he was the only thing keeping the ground under you. 

“Hey—” he started, already moving to stop you, already thinking of your ribs, your head, your leg—thinking too much.

But you didn’t let him finish. You shut him up the only way that worked.

You kissed him.

It was shaky. Salt-slicked. Your lips trembled against his, but you didn’t stop. Not even when you let out a quiet sound in your throat and pulled him closer by the front of his shirt. Not even when your tears mixed with his on the seam of your mouths.

It was the kind of kiss that tasted like everything you were both still afraid to say. Like panic and relief. Like I love you and I thought I’d never get to again.

And Bucky gave into it like a drowning man breaking through the surface. He let the whole weight of it hit him, your lips, your hands, your body half-limp but still fighting to reach him.

He kissed you deeper, one hand cradling the side of your face, the other braced beneath your back, adjusting you just enough to take the pressure off your injuries without breaking the moment. Your tears soaked his cheek, his fell into your hair.

You broke the kiss slowly, like it cost you something to let it go. You didn’t lean back far. Just enough to speak. Your breathing was uneven, and your lashes were clumped with tears, and your voice cracked open like a wound.

“You’re sure?” Your fingers were still balled into his shirt like a lifeline. Like if you let go, the whole world would tilt sideways again. “You’re really sure you want this?”

He didn’t even blink.

“I want you,” he said, and his voice didn’t shake, it burned. “I want every version of you. The soft parts, the sharp ones. The days you don’t talk. The nights you curl away from me and think I don’t notice. I want every mile that brought you here—even the ones you had to crawl through.”

You stared at him, eyes shining like you weren’t sure how to hold that kind of devotion.

“I want this life if it means having it with you,” he continued, slower now. “Whatever it looks like. Whatever comes with it. The bleeding, the fear, the joy. The baby. All of it.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

You looked so small in that bed. So fucking fragile. But still you didn’t stop reaching.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered, and it was like watching someone confess to murder—like it cost you something to admit you were scared.

“I don’t either,” he murmured, brushing his lips along the curve of your cheek, then your jaw, then the shell of your ear. Each kiss a soft defiance. “But we learn. Together.”

Your nod was almost imperceptible. But he felt it. Forehead brushing his. Your body still trembling faintly from the fever, the shock, the aftermath of pain.

And then, for just a heartbeat, everything fell away.

There was no Valentina. No Black Site rendezvous. No tower briefings or encrypted channels or ghosts whispering orders from the grave. No guilt. No war. No Winter Soldier.

Just you.

The woman he had followed into hell a dozen times over.

The woman who had looked at his jagged edges and stayed.

The woman carrying his child.

The thought split through him again like a tectonic shift. He could feel it echo down to the soles of his feet. Like the floor of his world had cracked open and there was something alive growing in the center of it.

He was going to be a father.

The words didn’t feel real, not in the way other men said it. Not with joy or expectation or the giddy relief of an unburdened life. For Bucky Barnes, the thought came like a wound. Beautiful. Terrifying. Unthinkable. It carved through his ribcage with the same precision the Hydra medics once used to break him apart.

He was going to be a father.

He blinked hard. Swallowed against it. His body didn’t know how to carry that kind of truth. The part of him that had been made in a lab, broken in the field, and frozen between wars didn’t have the language for it.

How the fuck could a man like him build a life? What business did he have holding anything that soft?

He’d only ever been taught how to destroy.

But now you were lying in his arms, bruised and bleeding and still loving him. Still holding him like he could be something good. Something safe.

There was life inside you.

His blood. Your breath. Some fragile flicker of possibility already blooming beneath your skin. And you hadn’t told him because you thought he’d see it as a mistake. Because the world had made you believe this love came with a limit. A ceiling. A finish line you were always going to lose.

But Bucky wasn’t going to let it take this from you.

From them.

From him.

Not again.

He looked at you, really looked, and saw everything he needed to see. The way your lip trembled from the effort of staying upright. The bruises peeking beneath your collarbone. The scrapes along your knuckles. The tears still drying on your cheeks.

And all he could think was: I will give you peace even if it kills me.

Not just safety. Not just freedom.

Peace.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t come with a perimeter check. The kind of rest you don’t have to earn.

He’d give you the garden. The porch swing. A patch of earth without mines buried underneath it. Somewhere you could breathe.

Somewhere your child could grow up without hearing gunfire in the distance.

He kissed you again, slower this time, reverent, the way some people kiss rosaries or grave markers or names carved into stone. The vow wasn’t spoken, but it lived in the seam of his mouth.

And when you sighed against him—spine curving, fingers loosening, your body finally softening under his hands—he held you like you were the only thing on this side of the world that still made sense.

He was going to be a father.

And he was going to earn it.

It had been two months since the mission.

Sixty-one days since the world went sideways, since breath turned sharp in your throat and your body became something unrecognizable beneath you. Not broken all at once, but piece by piece. Trap. Shrapnel. The sound of your own voice ricocheting back into your skull as Yelena tried to keep you conscious. A dull roar behind your eyes. Pressure blooming behind your ribs until your vision narrowed to flickering static and the sickly-sweet taste of copper.

Sixty-one days since you’d hit the ground and thought that this might be it. That you’d die before ever telling Bucky. Not just that you were pregnant, but that you’d known. That you’d kept it. Carried it. Chosen silence.

Recovery hadn’t been kind. It was violent in its own way. Slow, humiliating, full of bruises that bloomed days after the worst of it, as if your cells couldn’t keep up with the trauma. You tibia had shattered clean through, bad enough that they warned you the pins might leave nerve damage. The ligament in your shoulder had to be stapled back to bone. Your ribs cracked every time you so much as rolled over wrong. And still, beneath all of it, something impossibly small and undefeated kept hanging on.

You spent the first three weeks flat on your back with wires in your veins and compression cuffs hissing against your legs. You couldn’t sit up without the room pitching. Couldn’t look at your own body without flinching. The swelling in your leg made it hard to see where skin ended and pain began. Physical therapy came next, slow, ritualistic, and absolutely maddening. You learned how to walk again with a leg that didn’t want to bear your weight. Learned how to trust your body again when it had let you down.

But the worst part wasn’t the pain.

It was the stillness.

It was waiting.

Every hour that passed without something going wrong felt like a miracle. Every flutter, every change in pressure, every pang of nausea sent lightning up your spine. You memorized your pulse. Learned how to breathe through the tightness. Tried not to spiral when the nurses adjusted the fetal monitor too slowly.

And Bucky didn’t leave. 

Not once. Not for rounds, not for food, not even when the doctors gave up on asking. He carved out a place beside your bed like it was his own personal foxhole—boots still on, dog tags twisted around one wrist like a tether, a half-eaten protein bar slowly fossilizing on the windowsill. He slept when your vitals stabilized and only then, slumped sideways in the chair with his arm stretched across the mattress like it was a tripwire. If anything had tried to take you, it would’ve had to go through him first.

You’d asked him once to maybe go home for the night. Just to sleep. Just to rest. You’d tried to phrase it like concern, not a plea. And he’d looked at you like you’d just asked him to leave you behind on a battlefield. His jaw had gone tight. He hadn’t answered.

You didn’t ask again.

The doctors stopped enforcing visiting hours after day three despite Bucky never following them in the first place. They knew a losing battle when they saw one. One of the surgeons muttered something about “liability” and “risk assessment” and then waved a hand like absolution. And after a week of watching Bucky drag his jacket over his lap and pass out upright in that cursed chair, John and Ava showed up with a cot they’d stolen from one of the lower floors. They didn’t ask for permission. Just wheeled it in under cover of night, Ava smuggling in a clean blanket under her coat while John sweet-talked the nurse on duty.

And for once, Bucky hadn’t argued.

He didn’t use it at first. Just stared at it like it was a trick. But eventually, somewhere around week two, he gave in. Lay down beside your bed in silence, metal arm tucked beneath his head, body curled on his side facing you like he couldn’t risk not seeing. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

He kept track of every single thing. How many steps it took to get from the bed to the sink. What time your meds were due. Which nurse was too rough with your IV. He packed a drawer full of electrolyte packs and nausea bands and ginger chews, refilled it when it ran low. He built a little fortress around your recovery and dared the world to breach it. You woke up once to find him reading the fetal development section of the Mayo Clinic handbook, his brow furrowed like he was decoding a bomb schematic.

And he touched you constantly. Not possessively, but reverently. Like he was making sure you were still real. His hand on your calf when you stretched. His palm cupped over your wrist when your oxygen dipped. The barest graze of metal fingers along your belly during the night, like he was afraid the baby might disappear if he didn’t keep them both grounded.

Even now, when the worst of it was technically behind you, he stayed close. Never looming. Never smothering. Just… there. A quiet presence, always just outside your peripheral vision. 

You were trying—really trying—not to let it make you weak. Not to slip into dependence. You weren’t fragile. You’d survived worse. But surviving wasn’t the same as healing. And healing meant you had to accept help. Which, to be honest, was never your strong suit. Still, you let him carry the things that hurt too much to hold. Let him kneel beside you when the pain gripped hard and fast, just so you had something steady to lean against. And he never flinched. Not once.

The day you were finally discharged, the air felt different. Brighter. Like it had cracked open into color again. No beeping monitors. No antiseptic sting in your nose. No hospital gown sticking to your back. Just you, dressed in soft clothes that didn’t feel like armor, your crutches under one arm, and Bucky’s hand firm on the small of your back as he walked beside you.

They didn’t send you home. Not all the way. You and Bucky had your own place. But this wasn’t that. This was the Tower. Your floor. A team necessity, they said. Close monitoring. Short travel time for follow-ups. But you knew what it really was: the closest thing to freedom the doctors would allow for the time being, and the only thing that let Bucky sleep at night.

The elevator ride up was almost sacred. Neither of you spoke. The soft hiss of the doors. The low hum of the lift. The shuffle of your weight shifting as you leaned too hard on your good leg. Bucky’s breathing, slow and deliberate beside you, like he was counting every second between here and the finish line.

You’d thought you’d go straight to the couch. Sink down. Sleep. Let your bones settle into something that wasn’t plastic or sterile or mechanical. Something that might remember comfort.

Instead, the moment the door opened—

“SURPRISE!”

You nearly went down again.

Not from pain this time. From shock.

Your body tensed before you could stop it, heart jumping into your throat, and your hands gripped the crutches too hard. The noise hit you first—loud, jarring, echoing down the hallway like gunfire. People clapping, someone cheering too loud. You blinked, stunned, and your vision went white again for half a second, panic-flash, pain memory. 

But you didn’t fall, because Bucky was already there, arm locking gently around your waist like he’d been waiting for it, like his body knew yours better than muscle memory ever could. You sagged into him with a strangled breath, eyes wide, chest heaving.

The room was a goddamn disaster.

Not in the catastrophic, world-ending way you'd gotten used to, but in the glittery, half-hearted chaos of people who meant well and had absolutely no business wielding craft supplies.

Streamers drooped from the ceiling like wounded bats, sagging under their own weight. Someone had clearly gone rogue with tape, probably John, if the duct-taped corners and crooked lines were anything to go by. A few were knotted in the light fixtures. One end trailed down the side of the TV, obscuring the remote sensor with a deflated puff of metallic purple.

Balloons littered the space like confetti after a storm. One floated lazily by, a silvery orb emblazoned with HAPPY RETIREMENT—the word RE aggressively scribbled out in thick Sharpie strokes, like someone had started to give up halfway through and then decided to lean in. Another was aggressively pink, with IT’S A GIRL? scrawled in sharp, trembling font, the question mark oversized and tilted.

Your eyes caught on a banner.

Far wall. Hung at a steep diagonal, taped within an inch of its life, like no one trusted it to stay put. The handwriting changed halfway through, first bold block letters, then loopy cursive, then all-caps at the end. CONGRATULATIONS ON THE SURVIVAL + BABY. The word baby had been outlined in glitter. Red glitter. Like blood. Or someone had run out of regular craft supplies and improvised.

There was a cake on the coffee table. Chocolate, judging by the rich, almost-too-sweet scent filling the air, thick enough to cut through the lingering echo of antiseptic that still lived behind your sinuses. The frosting had been roughly smoothed, fingerprints visible in some of the swirls, and tiny plastic dinosaurs stood like sentinels across the top, sunk haphazardly into the icing. One wore a party hat made of a folded gum wrapper. Another had sprinkles stuck to its snout like it’d been face-first in the cake before being posed.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Yelena leaned against the counter, arms crossed like she hadn’t just detonated your nervous system. The sling was gone now, her shoulder bare except for the collar of her tank top, the angry stitches that had once laced her bicep now faded into raised, ruddy scars. She looked better. Less breakable. Still bruised around the edges but standing easy, her weight shifted to one hip like she didn’t have a care in the world. 

“Ha! You should see your face,” she said, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth, sharp with satisfaction and something almost fond underneath.

“Oh my god,” you said, breath catching. Your eyes couldn’t stop scanning the room. “Is this real?”

It didn’t feel real. Your brain was still trying to catch up, still lagging behind your body like it hadn’t gotten the memo that you’d made it, that you were alive, upright, and standing in the middle of something that looked suspiciously like joy.

“It better be,” Alexei called from across the room, sprawled across the couch like a bear in hibernation, already forking an offensive amount of cake into his mouth.

You blinked again. Ava leaned against the dining table, phone in one hand, a Solo cup in the other, her boot resting on the edge of a toppled party hat like she’d claimed it in a fight. 

“You popped ten,” she said without glancing up.

“They were defective,” Alexei replied, mouth full, utterly unapologetic.

John was suddenly there too, stepping in from the hallway like he’d been waiting for the exact right moment, his hand landing on your shoulder so gently it almost didn’t register. “Welcome back to the land of the ambulatory,” he said, softer than you expected, like maybe he didn’t trust his voice to do more.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried to laugh. Maybe you even did laugh, but it got strangled somewhere in your throat. Your chest started to tighten, then kept tightening, like something invisible had wound a rope around your ribs and was slowly, slowly pulling.

You blinked, hard. It didn’t help.

That stupid-ass banner swam in your vision again—CONGRATULATIONS ON THE SURVIVAL + BABY—and something in you just… gave out.

Not all at once.

First, it was just your throat getting hot. Your face prickling. That subtle shift from I’m fine to something’s not right, and your brain trying to shove it back down like you could muscle through it.

Then came the ache behind your eyes.

Then your jaw clenched, hard enough to make your teeth hurt.

Then—fuck. Fuck.

You felt your face twist without your permission. You gasped for a breath and it hitched mid-way, came out sharp and wet.

The tears were already coming before you could stop them.

You barely had time to register it before Bucky’s hands found your elbows.

“Hey—hey. You alright?” Bucky’s voice was there instantly, soft but alert. “Look at me, baby. You okay?”

You shook your head, or tried to. It came out more like a twitch. Your throat squeezed again, another sob clawing its way out before you could bite it down.

“Shit, are you crying?” Yelena’s voice came from somewhere far off, clipped with concern.

“Oh god,” Ava murmured. “Should we leave?”

Everyone froze.

You could feel it in the air, the tension. The hesitation. Chairs scraping softly. Footsteps faltering. No one sure if they should come closer or back away.

Except Bucky.

He was steady. Still.

One hand stayed at your elbow, the other sliding to your back, his palm warm even through the fabric of your shirt. You leaned into it instinctively, breath stuttering, trying and failing to get your body under control. You felt wrecked, suddenly. Unglued.

And not in pain. Not physically.

But like your skin didn’t quite fit anymore. Like you were vibrating out of yourself. Like you’d been holding your breath for two months and your body had finally remembered how to exhale and the force of it was shattering.

“No—no, wait,” you gasped, words tripping over each other as you half-laughed, half-sobbed, your hands flailing up like that could somehow press it all back in. “Don’t leave. Please don’t—I’m not—I just—fuck, I love it. I love all of it. I’m just—God, I’m so hormonal or something—”

The shift was immediate. You could feel the tension melt out of the room like someone had opened a valve.

“Oh thank god,” Ava whispered.

“Jesus,” John muttered behind you, dragging a hand down his face.

Yelena was the first to move, always the first after Bucky, stepping in with a crumpled napkin and dabbing at your cheek with a gentleness that almost made it worse. “Could’ve warned us, mama,” she said, though her voice had softened. “Thought we broke you.”

“I’m okay,” you managed, voice raw and hoarse. “I’m okay. I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t mean to freak everyone out.”

You wiped at your face with the heels of your hands, even though it did absolutely nothing to stop the tears. The laugh that bubbled up was breathless and wrecked, and it tore through you like you were made of paper.

Alexei cleared his throat like he was preparing to deliver a eulogy. “Ah. Pregnant women. So emotional. Like swans in war time.”

There was a beat of silence. Then John elbowed him. Hard.

You laughed again, this time with your whole chest. Ugly and hiccupped and soaked in snot and saltwater, but real. You bent forward a little, still gripping Bucky’s hand like it was the only solid thing in the room, and pressed your other palm to your face.

And that was when you realized just how much tension you’d been living in. How your shoulders had never really dropped, even after discharge. How your lungs still tried to ration oxygen like survival was on a timer. Like you might blink and wake up alone again. Bleeding again.

But you weren’t.

You were here. In your quarters, albeit temporary. On your feet. In a room full of dangerous, ridiculous, stubborn people who gave a shit. Who made cake. Who put tiny party hats on plastic dinosaurs.

Bucky squeezed your hand once, firm and steady.

You squeezed back, twice.

“I’m okay,” you whispered again.

A soft shuffle sounded to your right, followed by the quiet scuff of boots—too careful to be casual, too deliberate to be anyone but someone who didn’t quite know how to interrupt. You glanced up through your lashes, still blinking away the last of the tears.

Bob.

He loomed there like he didn’t mean to be looming at all, holding out a plastic cup filled with something gold and cold. His grip was gentle. Hesitant. Like he’d been coached on exactly how to hand it to you and was terrified of getting it wrong.

“Apple juice,” he said, voice pitched low and uncertain. “Not from concentrate. And non-alcoholic.” A beat passed. Then: “Bucky threatened me.”

A sound scraped up from your throat, half-snort, half-sob, and caught hard on the edges. “Of course he did.”

Bob nodded solemnly, leaning in like he was about to share state secrets. “He also threw out half the fridge. Said he couldn’t take any chances with—” he lifted his hands, miming air quotes, “‘poison.’ The yogurt’s gone. So’s the mustard.”

Behind you, you could practically feel Bucky’s glare stare the back of your skull.

“Hydrogenated oils,” he muttered under his breath like a man reading a list of war crimes.

You took the juice from Bob with both hands, careful and slow, your fingers still trembling faintly with the aftershocks. The cup was cold. Real. Tangible in a way your body still wasn’t. You glanced up at Bucky.

He hadn’t moved. Still hovering within reach, close but not crowding anymore, like a tether that refused to snap. He looked calmer now that the sobs had stopped, but you could still see it in him, humming beneath the surface: the tension, the vigilance, the raw instinct to intervene. Always alert. Always tuned to you.

“I’m really okay,” you said softly.

“I know,” he replied, just as quiet. Then, even lower, as if the words themselves could break under the weight of them: “I’ve got you.”

And somehow, impossibly, you believed him.

You took a sip of the juice. Crisp. Tart. The sweetness bloomed across your tongue and grounded you fast, snapping the fog in your brain like a cable pulled taut. You exhaled shakily, chest hitching as Bob gave your arm a single awkward pat, then peeled off to find cake like his job was done.

And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the party moved on.

Not in a callous way, but in the way teams like yours always had: forward momentum as coping mechanism. You weren’t ready to be touched or questioned, not really, and they knew it without asking. So they moved around you instead, a choreography of casual care, plates swapped out, snacks replenished, John intercepting Alexei mid-toast when his speech about survival veered into a deeply confusing metaphor about Soviet winter training and womb strength.

It was chaos.

It was perfect.

You tried to help once. Reached for a bowl of popcorn. Your fingers barely brushed the rim before a shadow passed behind you, a heat at your back that was all too familiar.

“Uh-uh.”

Bucky’s voice landed low in your ear. His hand closed over yours, gently but with zero room for debate. He plucked the bowl away like you were handing him a live grenade. “Sit your ass down.”

You huffed. “I’m not useless.”

“Never said you were.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—brief, warm, unbearably soft—and guided you back toward the armchair like you were something breakable. Like he still saw the bruises beneath the surface, even when you pretended they were gone.

“I could’ve carried the popcorn,” you mumbled.

He set the bowl down in your lap anyway. “And you did. Now sit.”

You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t move again.

He crouched in front of you, arms resting on his knees, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing it all over again. “Any pain?”

“Only when I laugh too hard.”

Bucky huffed, a slight smile tugging at his face. “So we’ll keep Alexei quiet.”

You snorted. A little too hard. Winced. He caught the twitch in your expression and didn’t call you on it, just let it settle between you.

Your hand drifted to the edge of his sleeve, fingers brushing the worn fabric. “You doing okay?”

He blinked, almost like he hadn’t expected the question. “Me?”

You nodded. “It’s been a lot.”

He exhaled slowly, the sound more muscle memory than breath. One hand came up to your knee, thumb tracing absent circles against the cotton of your leggings. “It’s you who’s been through hell, sweetheart. Not me.”

You didn’t correct him.

Because you both knew the truth.

He had been through it too, just in the long, drawn-out way. In the days and nights where your room stank of antiseptic and machines screamed your vitals while your body fought like hell to hold onto life. In the waiting. In the helplessness. In every second where your breath had gone too quiet and his pulse had raced in panic. In the blood that had been on his hands when he hadn’t even been the one to bleed.

But he didn’t say any of that. Didn’t need to.

He just stayed there at your feet, a silent constant, until someone cranked the music too loud and Bob was convinced to sing karaoke using a salt shaker as a microphone.

You were still laughing when Yelena emerged from behind the cluttered dining table, tissue paper rustling like a warning. Her grin was already wicked, mischief and pride stitched into every step. She dragged a crumpled black gift bag across the counter with the same fanfare someone might use to unveil a cursed artifact.

“It’s not much,” she said. “Just… stupid team shit.”

You blinked at the bag. The tissue paper looked mauled, red and silver and mangled to hell, like Alexei had fought it to the death and lost.

You glanced at Bucky, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Then, carefully, you reached inside.

Your fingers brushed cotton. Soft. Small.

You pulled it out slowly, breath catching halfway through.

A onesie.

Pitch black. Newborn sized. The sleeves barely bigger than your palm.

Across the front, stenciled in bold, blocky white letters:

THUNDERBABY.

You stared at it for a beat, your mouth falling open.

It was absurd. Ridiculous. Completely over the top.

The onesie’s bold stencil lettering looked like someone had typed “military chic” into a baby shower Pinterest board and clicked print before thinking twice. The cotton was soft, clearly new, the tag still creased from being rushed out of packaging.

And it was perfect.

A sharp laugh broke out of your chest before you could stop it—sudden, breathless, too full of feeling to be graceful. It bounced off the kitchen tiles, rang loud against the cabinets, startled Bob enough to make his head pop up from behind the fridge like a meerkat on high alert. But the laugh twisted mid-breath, snagged somewhere deep, and turned sideways.

Your throat closed.

The burn behind your eyes came fast.

You pressed the onesie to your chest, clutching it with both hands like it might steady you. The fabric was so small. So impossibly small. It hit all at once, the absurd name across the front, the idea of your baby wearing something that had John Walker’s terrible sense of humor stitched into the seams, the fact that they’d thought to do this at all.

That they’d thought of you.

That they’d seen you. Known. Given a damn.

You didn’t sob. It wasn’t loud or dramatic like before. Just a quiet, wrecking ache that rolled over your ribcage like a wave and left your eyes glassy, your breath caught halfway between laughter and something far too big to name.

Bucky found yours without hesitation, like he always did. His palm was rough, warm, grounding. He didn’t say a word. Just curled his fingers through yours and anchored you there.

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, once. Twice. Slow and steady like he could map your heartbeat through skin and know it was still his to protect.

You leaned into him without thinking, your shoulder pressing to his, the onesie still clenched tight in your lap. He didn’t move away. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

“You like it?” Yelena’s voice cut gently into the quiet. Not smug. Not teasing this time. Just soft. Hopeful.

You nodded, voice catching. “It’s perfect.”

Behind the couch, John made a strangled noise that was somewhere between a snort and a half-swallowed chuckle. “I told you it should’ve had night-vision goggles on it.”

“Oh my god,” Ava muttered, voice flat with practiced tolerance.

“Tiny ones,” John added, undeterred. “For tactical situations.”

Yelena didn’t even spare him a glance. She bumped your shoulder with hers and said, “I had to beg the vendor to overnight it. Told him it was for an emergency tactical op baby situation.”

That pulled another laugh from you—wet, shaky, a little hoarse, but real.

You looked down again at the onesie, fingers smoothing over the bold white letters. It still felt a little unreal. But not in the foggy, detached way it had before.

No. This felt different.

For the first time since waking up in that medbay with your body broken and your mind drowning in what-if’s, it didn’t feel like everything was falling apart.

It felt like maybe, just maybe, you were allowed to want this.

This messy, ridiculous, duct-taped-together chaos of a team. This baby. This life.

And Bucky’s hand still held tight to yours, his grip unwavering. Like he wasn’t going anywhere. Like there wasn’t a force on earth strong enough to pull him loose.

You weren’t sure you could’ve pried him off even if you tried.

Not that you ever would.

You still remembered the moment Bucky told Valentina he was stepping back from the field.

He hadn’t asked.

He hadn’t negotiated or framed it like a compromise. There was no pacing. No restless silence. No edge-of-brooding self-doubt. He didn’t chew his cheek or weigh the risks out loud. He just said it. Quiet and even and absolute. The kind of quiet that made people stop talking.

“I’ll take the ops desk,” he said. “And I’m not leaving the Tower again. Not while she’s pregnant.”

Val had opened her mouth—probably to mock him, snarl something about duty or loyalty or pulling his clearance—but he didn’t give her the chance. He turned and walked away, back straight, steps even. Never looked back.

It should’ve been harder. The transition. You’d expected it to be. And in some ways, it was.

The field clung to him. It lived in his shoulders, coiled tight in his spine like he hadn’t figured out how to stop expecting gunfire around every corner. Even when his badge started reading Senior Liaison, even when his hands were on a comm panel instead of a rifle, Bucky still moved like a man who hadn’t learned how to stand down.

But then he’d hear your footsteps outside his office.

Just a shift of your weight, a soft scuff of your heel on the polished floor, the gentle cadence of your breathing with one hand cradling your swollen belly, and he’d melt.

You’d watch it happen in real time. His whole body softened. The tension bled from his shoulders. He’d drop whatever he was holding and rise immediately, meeting you halfway down the corridor like you might vanish if he let you go too long unseen.

You’d never seen him like that before.

Not even after the mission where he thought you’d died. Not even the day you told him you were pregnant.

This was different. It wasn’t just fear, it was something deeper, more instinctual. It lived behind his eyes, crept into the lines of his jaw every time you winced from the weight of your belly, every time your breath hitched or you forgot to eat or someone startled you with too loud a laugh.

And hovering didn’t even begin to cover it.

There was a solid month where you caught him on the Tower’s med floor, interviewing pediatric trauma nurses like he was building a task force. He spent hours Googling prenatal CPR protocols. He downloaded emergency birth apps on three different burner phones. He made a spreadsheet. A spreadsheet. For vitamins.

You weren’t allowed to take the stairs after week twenty. Not once. As if gravity itself had suddenly become hostile.

If you so much as tilted toward a cabinet shelf, he was already at your side—shadow-quick, impossibly steady, murmuring, “I’ve got it, sweetheart. Sit down.”

Once, you teased him. Something light. Something sitcom-worthy. You made a crack about helicopter dads and crib bumpers and babyproofing a hallway. He didn’t laugh.

He just looked at you. Really looked at you. Eyes serious. Steady.

“I used to be a weapon,” he said. “I can’t undo that. But I can control what comes near you now.”

And that was it. End of discussion.

So you let him be scared. You let him take the fear and turn it into something solid, something done. You let him carry your water bottle like it was a bomb about to go off. You let him turn down half the lighting in the Tower because the flickering fluorescents gave you migraines. You let him sleep sitting up for three straight weeks because lying down made you nauseous and he didn’t want you waking up alone. You let him research and talk through baby gates in a hypothetical house you didn’t even live in yet, because just in case.

Because when Bucky Barnes loved something, he loved it like a soldier. With his whole body. With his teeth and his spine and the parts of himself that once tore through cities without mercy. That fire didn’t die when he turned soft.

He just aimed it differently.

And he showed up.

To every appointment.

Every single one. Even the ones you waved off as routine. Even the ones you rescheduled three times because of backup in the parking garage. Even the one that was just a quick form signed for a prenatal massage. He was there. On time. Usually early. Holding your coat like it was his only job. Memorizing the parking level like it was a mission grid.

He sat beside you in every waiting room, his knee bouncing under one palm, his metal hand loosely wrapped around yours like he could will the world quiet just by being present enough.

And when they called your name?

He stood. Always.

He asked more questions than you did. Half the time, you were just trying to remember what snacks you still liked. He was already ten tabs deep in medical journals.

What were the signs of placental abruption? Could it happen without warning? What were the safest sleeping positions during the third trimester? Was the fetal heart rate slightly elevated at your last visit—and was that a concern? What kind of magnesium dosage was too high?

During your first intake appointment, the OB actually stopped mid-sentence. Her eyebrows climbed a full inch.

“Are you in medicine?” she asked, pen pausing on the clipboard.

Bucky didn’t blink.

“No,” he said. Deadpan.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

The doctor blinked. Paused. Then nodded slowly like she was deciding whether or not to question it further.

He had nightmares a few times during those nine months.

More than a few.

You never asked how many. You already knew he wouldn’t give you the real number.

Sometimes you’d wake to the sound of the bathroom fan running—soft, constant, a hum trying too hard to be innocuous. You’d find him curled on the tile floor, bare feet braced against the cold, elbows on his knees, metal hand cradling his forehead like it could hold the weight of whatever he was still seeing behind his eyes.

Other nights, it was pacing. Back and forth, barefoot in the hallway, dog tags swinging low in one hand like they might tether him back to the now if he just held on tightly enough. Sometimes you’d hear him muttering under his breath, trying to piece together a memory that wasn’t real. Trying to rewrite the ending before it devoured him.

They weren’t always about you anymore.

Sometimes, they were about the baby.

About tiny shoes lying crumpled and blood-soaked on a street he couldn’t name. About an empty crib across a gulf he couldn’t cross fast enough. About a scream that echoed long after he woke, still ringing in his ears even as his throat burned from yelling back.

About his hands not catching. Not saving. Failing.

You never tried to talk him out of the fear. You just found him every time, half-asleep and unsteady yourself, the weight of your belly making movement awkward. But you went anyway. Sat beside him on the cool tile or leaned against the wall at his side, your knee pressed to his, your hand sliding into his with quiet insistence.

You didn’t try to fix it. Just whispered steady truths, even through the hitch in your own breath.

You’re not alone. You don’t have to be perfect. You are already everything this child could ever need, because you never stop trying.

He listened. Most of the time, he believed you.

But he was still Bucky. Still the man who’d survived by never letting his guard drop. He didn’t know how to rest when it came to protecting something he loved. Not completely. Not yet.

So he channeled it.

The nursery became a mission. A full-scale, classified operation.

You found him one evening in the Tower’s common room, hunched over the coffee table with a schematic of HVAC systems spread out like a battle map, a measuring tape looped across his shoulder like a combat sling. There were three different notebooks open beside him and a laser level clamped to the back of a kitchen chair.

When you asked—tentatively—what exactly he was doing, he simply said, “Checking airflow safety metrics for crib placement.”

Apparently, he’d consulted John for help picking a paint color. Claimed John seemed like “a guy who’s spent time around boring domestic shit.” That conversation turned into a two-hour debate about whether beige promoted calming baby vibes or if navy was more tactical and timeless.

They compromised, under duress, on sage green. Yelena had stormed into the room mid-argument, called both of them idiots, and texted you a Pinterest board titled Nurseries That Don’t Suck. It had a surprisingly solid aesthetic.

Yelena also offered to babysit.

The first time, she was still breathing heavily from sparring with Alexei, hair plastered to her temple and one knuckle split open, saying she’d “punch any baby fear in the face.”

The second time, she was quieter. Sat beside the half-assembled stroller on the living room floor and muttered that she’d go get certified in infant CPR if you wanted. Added something under her breath about how American training is always shit anyway.

Ava was, unsurprisingly, more practical.

She sent a spreadsheet. Three, actually.

One with registry suggestions categorized by safety ratings. One tracking gear by function, size, and transportability. And one, ominously titled, EMERGENCY INFANT KITS. Inside it was a fully color-coded chart detailing tactical go-bags, and emergency exits.

Bob, sweet Bob, never made a fuss about it.

But the gifts started showing up anyway. Quietly. Without fanfare. A woven basket of baby booties left just outside your door one morning, none of them hand-knit by him, clearly, but chosen with care. A stack of parenting books with sticky notes marking sections he’d vetted, some with underlines, one flagged skip chapter 6, chapter 7 is better. And once, inexplicably, a bottle of the exact brand of stretch mark cream you’d mentioned once during a team debrief.

You never figured out how he got it. You didn’t ask.

Alexei, of course, took a more… declarative approach.

He marched in one afternoon, arms crossed over his chest like he was preparing to be knighted. “I have seen death,” he intoned gravely. “I have seen birth. I have wrestled a bear. I will be the protector of this tiny warrior!”

No one argued. He said it with such conviction that even Bucky, stone-faced and skeptical, just blinked at him and nodded once.

John, however, did elbow him in the ribs and mutter, “Maybe let’s get through one diaper change before we start bestowing titles.”

Still, no one took the godfather badge away from Alexei.

Not even Bucky.

But no matter the chaos—no matter the cracked jokes, the unsolicited opinions, or the never-ending shipments of baby wipes in bulk—Bucky was the constant.

The anchor.

The steady presence who never flinched, even when everything else cracked at the seams.

He was the one who held your hair back through the morning sickness, rubbed your lower back through the bone-deep fatigue, and massaged your swollen ankles with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache. He kissed your temple when you doubted yourself. Brushed your tears away when you spiraled. Touched your stomach like it was something holy.

Whispered to it at night like she was already listening.

And maybe… maybe she was.

Because by the time you felt that first real kick—sharp, certain, impossible to ignore—Bucky was already there.

He was always there.

Kneeling in front of you, both hands splayed across your belly, eyes wide with something too big to name. Like the whole sky had split open and poured straight into his chest. He didn’t speak for a moment. Just let his forehead rest against your skin, the soft rise and fall of your breath catching on the weight of it.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m your dad. And I love you already.”

The baby came in early spring.

A girl. Loud and furious. All lungs and fists and the softest downy dark hair you’d ever seen.

She wailed the moment the cold air hit her, but Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

He just stared, stunned silent as they laid her against your chest. His metal hand hovered inches above her back, trembling, like he wasn’t sure if touching her would make her vanish. Like maybe he’d break her just by getting too close.

You reached up—shaky, exhausted—and wrapped your fingers around his.

Guided his hand gently down, resting it against the tiny curve of her spine.

And that was the moment he broke.

Not loudly. Not with sobs or gasping breaths.

Just a quiet shattering.

Tears sliding, unchecked, down his cheeks as he leaned down and pressed his face into your hair. His voice was a wreck, low and raw as he whispered thank you over and over again like a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved to say out loud.

The Tower didn’t last long after that.

You’d both known it wouldn’t.

Even before the due date. Before the sleepless nights. Before the lullabies and growth charts and sleepy 3 a.m. feedings when the world narrowed down to nothing but her. You wanted something quieter. Softer. A place that didn’t smell like reinforced steel and hand sanitizer. A place that couldn’t be burned down around you.

And somehow in between team rotations and budget scraps and whispered promises made in the middle of briefings, Bucky found it.

A cottage.

Small, tucked between thick evergreens near a lake you couldn’t pronounce, where the sky always looked just a little bigger. The porch creaked. The chimney leaned. There was no cell service unless you stood on a specific mossy rock out back. Wild thyme and honeysuckle climbed the windowsills like they’d been waiting for you.

When he handed you the keys, he didn’t say much. Just:

“This okay?”

Your throat had gone tight. Because it wasn’t okay. Not even close.

It was perfect.

And now the cottage felt broken in. Familiar. Like it had always known you were coming.

The nursery smelled like lavender and laundry soap. The rocking chair clicked softly if you leaned too far back. The floorboards moaned every time someone stepped too hard, and the kitchen faucet always dripped when it rained. But none of that mattered.

Because Bucky hadn’t taken his eyes off her for more than ten minutes since the day you brought her home.

She was four months old now. Teething. Vocal. Stubborn as hell.

You’d caught her chewing on his dog tags that morning, smacking them against her gums with the solemn determination of a tiny war general.

Bucky looked completely horrified.

And proud.

“Sweetheart,” he’d whispered, lifting her gently off his chest with practiced ease. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

She giggled. Loud. Right into his neck.

You swore you saw his entire spine melt on the spot.

Some nights, when the house finally quieted—when dishes were done and lullabies had faded and the sky outside had gone inky and wide—he would hold you like the world might try to take you both if he let go.

One arm around your waist. The other cradling your hand, always, thumb brushing lazy circles.

Sometimes he’d press his lips to your shoulder and just breathe there, like he still didn’t quite believe this was real. Like maybe it would vanish if he blinked too long.

“She’s got your stubbornness,” he’d murmur into your skin.

“She’s got your eyes,” you’d whisper back.

And then—after a beat, long and heavy and breakable—he’d ask, in that soft, careful voice he only ever used when the lights were off:

“Do you think she’ll be proud of me someday?”

It undid you every time.

You’d turn to face him, fingers catching gently on his jaw, pulling him in like gravity. And you’d say it with everything in you. No hesitation. No doubt.

“She already is.”

Because how could she not be?

Bucky Barnes had walked through hell and clawed his way back with his heart intact. He’d unlearned everything Hydra tried to build him from. He’d fought for softness without forgetting how to be steel. He’d made a promise in a blood-soaked medbay and never once faltered.

And now, he was here.

You watched him from the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, breath caught behind your ribs.

He sat in the nursery’s dim glow, her tiny body curled against his chest. One of her fists gripped his finger like she’d decided it belonged to her now. He was swaying gently, humming something low beneath his breath, maybe a lullaby. Maybe just her name.

His hair was pulled back, messy. His sweatshirt had a dried stain on the collar that might’ve been from formula or spit-up or both. And he looked, God, he looked wrecked.

Wrecked by love.

Completely undone by it.

He was a father.

And not just that.

He was hers.

And you were his.

And somehow—against every odd, against every scar, every nightmare, every time you both thought you wouldn’t make it—this wasn’t the end of the story.

This was the beginning of everything.

The outpost had been a decommissioned Soviet weapons vault, long gutted by time and rain just outside of Kozelsk. But that intel was two weeks old, and it sure as hell didn’t account for the tripwire mines rigged beneath the floor tiles or the new signature explosives packed into the shell of the forward lab.

You spit blood and pushed onto your elbows.

Your comm buzzed once, then cracked to life in your ear.

“Detka, tell me you’re not dead,” Yelena snapped, her voice patchy through static but sharp as ever. “I swear to god if you are dead, I am not hauling your body out of here. I’ll leave you for the fucking vultures.”

You could’ve cried at the sound of her voice.

“Still breathing,” you coughed. “Mostly.”

“Good. Because I am three corridors west of wherever that boom came from and it smells like burning piss in here. You see any of those freelancers yet?”

“No visuals,” you groaned. “But I’ve got bodies. Clean kills. Their throats are open but there’s no blood on the floor. No drag marks either.”

Yelena swore under her breath. “That’s not freelancers. That’s extraction protocol. Someone’s clearing the site.”

You already knew. You’d seen enough black ops sanitizations to recognize the signs: no witnesses, no trace. If Valentina had found this place and thought there was something worth salvaging, so had someone else. And someone faster. This wasn’t a recon mission anymore.

This was a cleanup.

And you were on the wrong side of the mop.

And this time, there was more to lose than just intel. More than reputation. Your hand brushed low across your abdomen, barely grazing the fabric there like it might burn you, like maybe ignoring it long enough would make it untrue. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. 

You hadn’t even told him yet.

Your chest tightened. Not from pain. From panic. Real and hot and rising up the back of your throat like bile.

A sound echoed down the hall. Boots scraping stone, deliberate and unhurried. You didn’t breathe. Not even when your lungs screamed. You counted the steps. Four sets. Heavy.

“Yelena,” you whispered into your comms. “One o’clock. Not ours.”

Another pause.

“Copy. Backtracking to your location. ETA two minutes. Do not engage.”

Too late.

The boots stopped, pivoted.

You backed into the nearest alcove, just wide enough for shadow to fold around you and let your pulse slow in your throat. Your weapon was warm in your grip. One mag loaded. One spare. Not enough for four if they got close.

Especially not like this.

You took a breath. Then another.

The first one rounded the corner, rifle up. Big. Bulked out in matte armor, but his line of sight was narrow. Tunnel vision.

You waited until he passed you fully, until you could hear the click of his comm mic as he keyed it.

Your elbow slammed into the back of his skull with enough force to make his knees buckle. You twisted, dropped low, and swept his legs as he toppled, dragging him sideways to muffle the sound of his body hitting the ground. 

You shoved your knife up under his chin. The blade punched through soft tissue with a wet snap. His body thrashed once, then went still.

The second came running at the subtle noise, catching a glimpse of your crouched silhouette too late. He fired once, the shot ricocheting just inches above your head. You surged forward, used your momentum to jam your shoulder into his gut and drove him into the wall.

Your ribs lit up from the impact, but you gritted your teeth and held.

He swung, catching your cheekbone with the butt of his rifle. The blow made your ears ring. You ducked under his next swing, grabbed the arm of his jacket, and bit hard.

He screamed.

You shoved your thumb into his eye socket before he recovered, using the distraction to snatch his sidearm, flip it in your palm, and shoot him point-blank in the head. Twice, for good measure.

He dropped, still twitching.

You stumbled back, hand instinctively pressed low and flat to your stomach again. You breathed through the sharp pang in your side and steadied your stance again.

There were still two more.

You sprinted toward the third as soon as you saw movement, zig-zagging low as bullets peppered the wall behind you. Sparks flew from the conduit lines as a round hit something vital. Smoke curled in your lungs. The air stung with ozone and copper.

You dove into him feet-first—heel to knee, your full body weight behind the strike. He crumpled with a yell, and you rolled, landed hard on your side, and caught his fallen knife.

But he recovered faster than you anticipated, before you were even on your knees again.

He grinned.

“Не двигайся (Don’t move),” he said, low and rough, the Russian curling sharp off his tongue like he’d said it a thousand times before. Like he had the upper hand. Like you were done.

You hurled the knife, despite your eyesight blurring slightly.

It missed. Barely.

But it made him flinch.

You moved with everything you had left—ducked under his swing, used your shoulder to ram his center of gravity off-balance, and jammed your boot between his legs with such force he let out a choke. 

He went down swinging. Caught your bicep with a blade. Hot pain tore across your arm. You didn’t stop. You grabbed the closest thing, a broken pipe that was jagged at one end, and drove it into his neck with a scream.

His blood hit your face in a hot arc.

You staggered back, wild-eyed, panting, blood soaking through your clothes. Smoke still curled from the wrecked conduit. A siren blared somewhere far away.

You fired your last two rounds at the fourth just as he rounded the corner, one round to the knee. He dropped hard, snarling. You aimed for the killshot, but it veered, hitting his shoulder as he went for his weapon. He still managed to return fire.

Fuck.

The wall just beside your head cracked.

You bolted through the next doorway, gun hot in your palm, shoulder still screaming where the blast had torn through muscle. There was blood on your sleeve now, more than before, but your legs still worked. That was enough.

You ducked through a lab corridor, ruined wires dangling from the ceiling like seaweed. A flickering red light pulsed from an old generator in the corner, painting everything in bursts of blood.

It would be enough. You’d make it back. You’d tell him. The right way. With time to breathe. With his hand in yours—No. Not now. Don't think. Focus.

One step—two—and then something gave beneath your boot.

Click.

Then snap.

Pain tore up your leg like lightning through steel, white-hot and blinding, so sudden it didn’t even feel real. Your body flinched before your mind caught up, before you could even look down, before you understood. A crunch. A grind. The jagged burn of something metal sinking deep.

Your vision stuttered.

You hit the ground hard, knees buckling like wet paper, concrete tearing through your palms, breath punching out of your lungs in a single wrecked gasp.

A pressure trap.

You hadn’t seen it—disguised beneath fallen rubble, metal jaws wired to catch from shin to thigh height. It didn’t go off fully. Didn’t explode. But the clamp hit with enough force to break bone.

A scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. The world reeled. You scrambled backward on your elbows, dragging your leg free, gasping as the pain ripped up your side. You couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t focus.

Your hand pressed instinctively to the flat of your abdomen. You hadn’t meant to do it again but—

The comm crackled again.

“Where are you—”

“I’m hit,” you choked. “West wing. Level 2. Trap rigged to the door. I didn’t see it.”

“Stay awake,” Yelena said, sharper now. “I am coming. You don’t move. You hear me? You don’t fucking move.”

But you had to.

Because the sound of boots had returned. The one you shot. Limping, but closer. A soft shuffle, like he was dragging a blade across the tile for your benefit.

Taunting.

You forced yourself up onto one knee, teeth bared. The pain was beyond language now, beyond screaming. Your hand reached for your sidearm. Gone. You must’ve dropped it when you fell.

Your fingers brushed the hilt of your boot knife instead.

The man stepped into view, grinning through blood.

“Милая (Cute),” he said.

Then lunged.

You didn’t have time to think, you just swung.

Your blade hit home right under his ribs. He hissed, dropped low, and drove his elbow into your throat. The air vanished from your lungs. Your head cracked back against the wall. He grabbed for the knife, twisted it out, and slammed it back toward you—

You shoved it down. It missed your stomach by an inch. Sank deep into your thigh instead.

You screamed again, ugly this time. Wordless.

He raised the blade again.

A single gunshot split the air.

He jerked. Stumbled. Collapsed. Blood spilled from the back of his skull like syrup.

Yelena stepped into view behind him, smoke still curling from the barrel of her sidearm.

She didn’t say anything. Just dropped to her knees beside you just as you did, eyes scanning the ruin of your leg and your expression like she was trying to decide which was worse.

You stared up at the broken ceiling above, vision narrowing at the edges. Your lips moved, but nothing came out.

Yelena pressed her hands to one of the puncture wounds. “Hey, hey, hey! Stay with me. Don’t you dare pass out. I don’t have time to carry your dramatic ass out of here—”

You tried to laugh, but it came out broken. Just a dry exhale through cracked lips. Your hands had gone numb—pressure loss, you were sure—but Yelena’s were firm, steady, digging into the torn flesh above your knee with trained precision.

“There’s too much blood, to many entry wounds,” she muttered. “Shit, shit—okay. It’s not arterial. Maybe not. Don’t move. Just don’t move—”

You weren’t planning on it.

The hallway pulsed in and out of clarity, red light still flickering overhead, your own pulse a tidal roar behind your ears. But beneath it, beneath everything, there was a pressure blooming behind your ribs. A wild, animal panic. Not just for you.

Don’t think about it.

You shoved the thought down.

You couldn’t afford to feel anything else.

Not now. Not when the tremor of more boots echoed down the ruined corridor.

Yelena looked up. Went still.

You didn’t have to ask. You knew that sound. Not your team. Too heavy. Too many. Not a rescue. A sweep.

More were coming.

Yelena shifted her weight off your leg, already reaching for your belt—grabbed your spare magazine, tucked it into her own vest. The way her eyes flicked toward the end of the hall made your stomach pitch harder than the blood loss.

“They’ll have to come through me,” she said.

“Don’t be a dumbass,” you croaked. “Go. Take the passage to the furnace room. You can double back—”

“Shut up.”

She pressed her sidearm into your hand. Yours had been lost. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even glance at it. “You buy me thirty seconds. I’ll clear the rest.”

“I’m not bait.”

“You’re bleeding into the floor. You are already bait.”

Another laugh. Another failed breath.

Something sharp twisted behind your navel, deep and low, and you flinched. It was too much. The pain. The pressure. The screaming throb in your skull and the weight blooming beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. Something primal and new, something that didn’t belong in warzones or kill zones or places like this where people like you died ugly.

Yelena’s eyes locked on your face. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you croaked, trying not to focus on the pain.

“You grabbed your stomach.”

“No, I—”

“Don’t bullshit me, that's the third time I've seen you do that today,” she snapped.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She stared at you for one beat too long, too long to be safe, but you couldn’t give her what she was asking. Couldn’t even say it. Not here. Not with the taste of smoke on your tongue and death pressing in from both sides of the corridor.

You curled your fingers tighter around the sidearm. Your hands were slick. You didn’t know if it was hers or yours.

“Go,” you rasped. “You have to go.”

Yelena didn’t argue this time.

But she hesitated. A blink of something behind her eyes. Not fear. Something heavier. Something sharp.

Then the sound of boots again, closer now.

She shoved a flash grenade into your palm, already armed to detonate in six seconds.

“When you see their boots,” she said, “you throw it. You count to four, then run. Limp. Crawl. I don’t care. But you move, alright?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded.

Yelena was gone a second later, vanishing into the smoke like a blade into water.

And you were alone.

Alone in a crumbling corridor, leg torn open, lungs full of smoke, blood slicking the floor beneath you like oil. You could feel the weight again, heavy and awful, curling behind your sternum like something waiting. Not just adrenaline. Not just pain.

You didn’t want to die here. Not like this.

You couldn't.

A flicker of guilt followed. A whisper of something like hope.

The shadows moved. Voices barked. Feet thundered.

They were coming fast. A whole squad. You saw the first silhouette appear through the haze—rifle raised, sweeping side to side. You waited, hand wrapped around the grenade like a prayer, heart screaming behind your ribs.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

You threw it.

The flash hit with a scream of light so loud it fractured the hallway.

You didn’t look back.

You dragged your body forward, weight on your elbows, on your left knee, hauling yourself through the broken floor toward the stairwell. Everything screamed. Your thigh. Your ribs. The low, foreign ache in your gut that had nothing to do with war but had everything to do with why you had to live.

Gunfire split the air behind you. Shouting. Movement.

It grew louder behind you, closer now. Shouts tangled through the static still buzzing in your ear, foreign commands barked over comms that weren’t yours.

You barely made it to the stairwell. One hand gripped the banister slick with dust, rust, and your own blood. You hauled yourself up a single step, then another, panting, ears ringing from the flashbang.

That ache behind your navel flared sharp again, twisting deep and low, not like any wound you knew. It slowed you. Staggered you.

But the shout that followed snapped everything else into focus.

You heard it before you saw it: the sharp scrape of metal boots. The crunch of shattered tile. Then a yell.

You turned on instinct. No plan. No thought. Just move.

“Yelena—!”

You half-crawled, half-limped toward the sound, yelling out, but you didn't care, vision tunneling. You reached the edge of the corridor just in time to see her—back against the wall, gun empty, knife in her hand, pressed to the throat of a man easily twice her size. There were two more behind him, closing in. One of them had her in his sights.

You didn’t stop to count bullets.

You didn’t stop at all.

You raised the sidearm Yelena had given you, your hand shaking, and fired.

One shot. Missed.

Second. Hit a shoulder. Not enough.

Your hands were too shaky.

So, you lunged into the open, screaming as your leg nearly buckled beneath you, throwing the full weight of your body toward the second man, the one with the rifle. 

Your shoulder slammed into his chest, and the impact sent you both to the ground. The rifle clattered away. He was faster, stronger, barely staggered by your hit, and he recovered first, driving his elbow down hard.

Your vision exploded in white.

You didn’t stop.

Your hand found a jagged piece of rebar on the floor. You drove it upward into the side of his throat.

He gurgled once. Then stopped moving.

But not before he got one last blow in, one savage kick to your stomach that left you gasping, choking, every nerve in your body screaming.

Yelena was beside you a second later.

One clean throw, and her knife lodged in the final attacker’s neck. He dropped before he could even react.

Silence fell like a body.

Then the floor tilted under you. Your arms didn’t work. You couldn’t move.

You were still looking at Yelena, her face flushed and streaked with blood, crouched in front of you. You tried to speak. Nothing came out.

She grabbed your face, her palms rough and shaking. “You fucking idiot. That’s twice now.”

You blinked hard. Everything was blurring. Your fingers curled weakly toward your middle.

“I—I had to,” you whispered.

Yelena’s eyes were wide. She shook her head. “You’re gonna bleed out. Stop talking. Save your breath—”

“Tell Bucky…”

You barely managed it.

She froze. “No.”

Your mouth opened again. “Tell him I’m sor—”

“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped, voice cracking now. “You don’t get to say that.”

Your throat felt tight. The pain was unbearable now. Your vision dimmed at the edges, the world flattening to static and heat and the ghost of her hands holding your face.

“Tell him yourself,” she said. Quieter. Fiercer. “You tell him yourself, do you hear me? You don’t get to leave me with that.”

Your fingers twitched once against your stomach.

Then everything went black.

You weren’t shaking until the timer went off.

Three minutes wasn’t long. You’d sat through debriefs far longer. But in that small, stifling pocket of silence—curled on the edge of the bathtub, cheek pressed to the cool tile wall—it stretched and warped like time did in firefights. Slow. Loud. A countdown with no cover and no escape route.

You didn’t look at first. Just sat there, the plastic stick face-down on the lip of the sink, heartbeat pounding like a warning beneath your ribs. You’d picked it up two nights ago. Tossed it into your basket with toothpaste and Advil like it wasn’t setting your whole life on fire.

No reason to panic yet, you’d told yourself. Your body had been off before. Travel. Stress. Field meds. You’d slept six hours across four days and eaten a protein bar that was months expired. This wasn’t new. Wasn’t unmanageable. You were probably fine.

But your body felt…different.

Not just tired. Not just sore. Not even the nausea that crept in each morning the past few weeks and refused to leave. Something deeper. Heavier. Like your blood was thicker now. Like you were carrying something, and your body had already started rearranging around it.

You’d known.

Before the test. Before the countdown. Before the lines even appeared.

You’d known.

And now that you were staring at the proof—those two lines, faint but unmistakable—you realized that the terror didn’t come from the answer. It came from the silence after.

The front door clicked open just as you turned your face to the towel hanging on the wall after splashing yourself with cold water. You didn’t have time to move, didn’t even wipe your eyes before Bucky’s voice filled the apartment. Low and familiar and worn around the edges with something close to fondness.

“Hey,” he called casually, voice already warmer now that he was inside. “They were out of the egg noodles you like, so I got the fried rice instead. Hope that’s ok.”

His boots scuffed softly against the entryway tile. You heard the rustle of a bag, the crinkle of cardboard.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood too fast. The room reeled. You shoved the test into the drawer beneath the sink and slammed it shut with your hip.

“That’s…it’s perfect,” you called back. “Stomach’s still off.”

He didn’t question it. He never did. You’d been off before missions before—hell, usually everyone was. He chalked it up to adrenaline, or the fact that Valentina always held the worst ones just long enough for you all to get twitchy. He never read more into it than that.

You didn’t want him to.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the living room was already warm with light. Bucky stood at the counter with your favorite takeout in one hand and a bottle of ginger ale in the other. His hair was damp from the rain outside, curling slightly at the ends. He wore one of the soft old hoodies you always tried to steal.

God, he looked tired.

“Still nauseous?” he asked without turning, already reaching into a drawer for a fork. “I told you not to eat the eggs in the tower fridge. John says they’re powdered.”

You managed a tight smile. “I didn’t eat the eggs.”

He glanced at you then, brow furrowed. Not suspicious. Just worried.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded. Too fast.

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. His gaze dropped for a half-second, scanning you like he always did, like you were a map of terrain he’d memorized too many times to ever get lost in. You wondered if he could see it. If your skin looked different. Paler. Warped. Touched by some invisible shift.

“Come here,” he said. “Sit.”

You did. He placed the container in front of you, still warm. Fried rice and plain steamed chicken. The only thing you could stomach lately. He cracked open the ginger ale with a flick of his thumb and set it down beside the plate.

He didn’t ask why you were shaking.

Didn’t ask why your face was paler than usual, or why your breathing was shallow. Didn’t say a word about how your hands lingered too long against the counter or why your gaze kept drifting toward the bathroom.

He just stood there, leaning on his elbow, watching you pick at the food like he could will you back into being okay.

You loved him so fucking much it made your throat close.

And that was the problem.

You couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not now. God, maybe not ever.

You weren’t sure if it was even supposed to be possible, not after everything they did to him. Hydra had carved him down to the bone and rebuilt him into something inhuman. Something they thought didn’t need softness. Didn’t need futures or family or hope. 

Bucky never said it directly, but he didn’t talk about that kind of life. Not for himself. Not after what he’d done. Not with blood on his hands and weight in his eyes.

You knew that kind of grief. The kind that wrapped around your ankles and whispered, you don’t deserve nice things.

You remembered an offhand comment once—months ago, maybe longer—when Yelena had made a crack about raising tiny assassins and Bucky had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that meant don’t. 

He’d said it flat, even: “That ship sailed.” Like it wasn’t just impossible but irrelevant. Like it wasn’t even a thought he let himself have.

You’d shrugged it off. Because you loved him. Not for what he could give you, or not give you. Just for him. The broken, beautiful, brutal truth of him. His silence. His weight. His hands, warm against your lower back when nightmares woke you. His voice when it was three in the morning and the world wouldn’t stop spinning.

But now you were here. With a plastic pregnancy test hiding in the bathroom cabinets and a gut full of something new and terrifying and real.

This tiny, terrifying thing inside you. This unknown. This heartbeat that didn’t exist yet but already made your chest ache.

You looked down at your hands. They didn’t feel like yours.

If you told him now, it wouldn’t be fair. He was one day out from deployment, and you were four days out from a mission you’d just been assigned. He needed clarity. Precision. Control. You couldn’t be the thing that pulled the ground out from under his feet.

You forced down a bite. Swallowed it with effort. Took a sip of ginger ale and smiled like it didn’t feel like your entire life had just split in half.

Bucky leaned across the counter and brushed his fingers along your arm, barely there. His thumb skimmed your elbow like he was grounding himself. Like he always did right before he left for something bad.

“You get the call about Kozelsk?” you asked, voice steadier than it felt.

He nodded slowly, still watching you. “Yeah. Valentina’s already sent me the files. Cut and dry recon. You and Belova should be in and out in less than 24 hours.”

You gripped your fork harder than necessary. Nodded like it meant nothing. Like your body wasn’t already vibrating with a thousand what-ifs. You told yourself it wasn’t a lie. Just a delay. Just time to think.

He set the takeout down without a sound. Didn’t speak. Didn’t rush.

Just moved toward you with that particular kind of caution only he ever seemed to get right—like you were both wild animal and wounded thing, like he knew better than to corner you even if you looked fine on the outside.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low. A thread of something softer caught in it. “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. Your body answered before your mouth could.

He caught you as soon as you reached him. One arm warm and solid around your waist, the other colder where the vibranium wrapped your back, a press of protection you hadn’t realized you’d been aching for until you were tucked beneath it. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t rock or shush or demand. Just held you there in the quiet, nose pressed to your temple like maybe he could breathe for the both of you.

You let your face fall against his chest. Inhaled. Exhaled. Didn’t move.

His thumb brushed the back of your neck, slow and steady, like he could coax the tension out of your spine by touch alone.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he murmured against your hair. Not accusing. Not even curious. Just noticing.

You nodded.

Didn’t lift your head.

Didn’t answer.

“You sure you're alright?”

Another nod. Smaller this time.

You felt his chest rise beneath your cheek. Felt him start to ask more, but stop. Think better of it.

Instead: “Do you want me to run you a bath?” His lips grazed your hairline. “I can put the lavender stuff in. The one you pretend not to like.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

He waited. A long moment. Then leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of your head—slow and certain, like a promise. His hand never left your back. His other one shifted just slightly, curling around your hip like it could shield whatever part of you was fraying most.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he said finally. Quiet. Firm. Like he meant it. Like saying it made it true.

You didn’t correct him.

Didn’t tell him what your body already knew.

You just nodded again.

And let yourself believe it. If only for a minute. If only because it was him.

The call came through at 03:41.

Not a full report. Not even proper clearance. Just a clipped string of emergency codes dumped through a back channel Bucky hadn’t checked in weeks. The kind of channel they only used when there wasn’t time to waste on protocol.

His comms had lit up in red.

Your name came first.

Then injured.

Then unconscious.

Then medevac.

Then...nothing.

No location. No vitals. No timestamps. Just five fragments, jagged and cold, vibrating through the band on his wrist like a warning shot to the heart.

The silence that followed was worse. Not blank. Hollow. The kind of nothing that meant something had already gone wrong.

Bucky didn’t think. There wasn’t time for it. Thought required oxygen, and that had already drained out of the room the second your name hit the screen. His body moved before his mind caught up—spinning on his heel, breaking into a sprint like he could rewind time with sheer speed alone.

He was still mid-mission, a low-risk sweep on the fringes of Senta with a two-man backup team and half a page of useless intel. They were searching abandoned bunkers for intel that probably didn’t exist, tracing signatures that pinged and vanished like ghosts. 

He should’ve called in a full reroute. Should’ve waited for extraction clearance. Should’ve done anything except what he did.

But he didn’t care.

Not when it was you.

He reached the jet in under three minutes. Didn’t speak when the co-pilot tried to block him. Just pushed past and took the seat, fingers already flying through the console, overriding the flight path manually. He wasn’t shouting. Wasn’t panicked. But his voice didn’t sound like his own when he keyed in his name and entered the override code.

He didn’t sit still after that.

Didn’t rest. Didn’t blink.

The jet took off and he paced the length of it like a caged animal, barely registering the turbulence, barely noticing the blood on his knuckles from punching the wall beside the comms station when the outbound call failed to connect.

Everything about those few hours on the jet felt like someone had taken a crowbar to the scaffolding of his brain and just kept hitting until all that was left was your name and the phantom of your voice in his head.

You were supposed to be fine. You’d said as much the night before his mission—half asleep on the couch, wrapped in his hoodie, your fingers brushing his where they met on the blanket between you. Told him not to worry, that your op was routine stuff, nothing he had to lose sleep over.

Then you’d kissed him. Real slow. Like you knew something he didn’t.

He hadn’t pushed. Just smiled into your hair and murmured something soft about taking you on a proper date when he got back.

And then yesterday, on comms, you’d called him on your way out. Clear signal. Short call.

“You’ll beat me home,” you’d said, trying to sound light.

“Don’t do anything stupid before I get back.”

You’d laughed. But there was a hitch in it. A crack he’d almost asked about. Almost.

He didn’t remember landing.

One moment, the jet was still five minutes out—dark sky, shaking frame, the pilot avoiding turbulence. The next, the ramp cracked open and he was already moving. Wind in his face, boots hitting tarmac, lungs half-full of air that felt too thin.

Move. Just fucking move.

He took the stairs four at a time, quicker than the elevator. Through the lower hangar. Past Ops. Some tech tried to call his name and didn’t finish it, he was already gone. 

The world narrowed to sharp lines and glaring light. The Tower looked the same as it always did—brushed steel, sterile walls, military-grade silence—but it all felt wrong. Too clean. Too quiet. Like the whole place was holding its breath.

Like it already knew.

He turned the corner. Nearly collided with a figure stepping out of the shadows of the west corridor.

John. Shoulders squared. Dressed down in field gear, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His mouth opened like he’d been waiting there, like he knew this would happen. Like he was stupid enough to try and intercept him.

“Barnes—”

“Where is she.”

No pause. Not a greeting. Just fire.

John took a step back. Not scared. Just reading the room. Reading him.

“She’s in room three,” he said. “Med bay. She's stable.”

The word made Bucky flinch.

“Define stable.” His voice scraped low. Controlled, but only just.

“She’s alive,” John said carefully. “But she’s still under, intubated. Oxygen, fluids. The whole nine yards.”

Bucky blinked once. Hard. His jaw locked so tight it popped.

John took that as agreement and turned, motioning him to follow.

The hallway felt longer than it had any right to be. Bucky’s boots beat a steady rhythm against the tile, but his thoughts outran it, spiraling tighter with each step.

“That mission was supposed to be recon,” he said finally, voice rough. “Clean in, clean out. So what the fuck happened?”

Walker followed beside him, matching his pace, but his voice wasn’t flippant the way it usually was. “We don’t really know yet.”

“Try again.”

“I’m not bullshitting you, Barnes. We had no red flags on the pre-sweep. Site had been cold for months. No chatter, no heat signatures. They went in blind.”

“No backup?”

John’s jaw ticked. “Wasn’t supposed to need any.”

They turned a corner. The lights dimmed slightly overhead, switching into night mode. Everything felt more sterile. More final. Bucky’s skin crawled.

John didn’t stop talking. “They walked into what sounded like a fucking cleanup. Not ours. Not friendly. Belova said the floor was rigged—pressure traps, gas leaks, low-profile explosives. No chatter about it beforehand. Nothing in our intel. They got there and shit was already smoking. Someone was erasing evidence, and they didn’t care who they took with it.”

Bucky’s jaw clicked.

He stopped walking for half a breath. Just long enough for John to notice.

“What am I walking into, Walker?” Bucky’s voice dropped, sharp and cold and coiled like a live wire. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

John’s gaze flicked toward the medbay doors just ahead, then back. “I told you—she’s stable.”

“I don’t give a fuck about stable,” Bucky snapped. “I’ve been stable on an operating table with my arm missing.”

The hallway was suffocating—every fluorescent hum too loud, every inch of floor stretching like it was trying to keep him from getting to you. He was too hot in his jacket. His shoulder ached. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching. There was a sourness behind his teeth, behind his ribs, building like bile in his throat.

“She was bleeding out when they brought her in,” John started, slowly. “Her leg’s the worst of it. Pressure-triggered trap. She pulled herself out of a hallway on that leg. Didn’t wait. Got Belova clear.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She’s got a skull fracture. Took a hit from behind—blunt force. Her head was bleeding bad. Ribs too. Maybe internal. I don’t know what the hell happened—”

“Fuck.” Bucky’s voice cut through the space like a blade. “She was walking just last week before I left, she was fine.”

John went quiet.

“You ever see her when she’s really tired?” Bucky kept his eyes ahead, voice clipped, unraveling thread by thread, his mouth moving faster than his brain could keep up. “She hums. Half-conscious, doesn’t even know she’s doing it. When she’s too tired to fight it off, she curls her foot up against the couch cushion and knocks it against the fabric until it leaves a mark. Like a metronome.”

He swallowed hard.

“She did that before I left. Last thing I saw.”

The lights above them flickered.

“And you’re telling me that she is behind a wall right now, not breathing on her own, because no one thought to double-check the fucking floor plan?”

“Bucky—”

“You tell me the name of the analyst who cleared that op,” Bucky said, voice low and cold enough to cut steel. “And you tell Val she better not be in my fucking line of sight when I walk out of that room.”

The edges of the hallway started to warp. Not visually, just something in the way the air bent around him, too loud and too sharp. His pulse had long since abandoned rhythm. He blinked hard, once, like it might shake the tension loose from his spine.

John didn’t argue. Just gave a slow nod, jaw tight. He turned toward the panel, reaching for the override to the medbay doors.

“Hey, man—” His free hand hovered like he meant to touch Bucky’s shoulder, to ground him somehow, but he stopped himself. Let it fall. “She’s strong. You know that. Just…it looks worse than it is.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He’d already started moving.

He walked the last stretch alone.

The corridor narrowed. Dimmed. Sterile med bay walls that had all started to look the same after too many years of bleeding into them. But this one was different.

The door was marked with a small glowing three in the upper corner, backlit in blue like it meant nothing at all. There was a narrow observation window set into the center of it, sterile glass and reinforced steel, standard issue. He could see through it from halfway down the corridor. 

Could see you.

He stopped walking.

Stopped breathing.

Stopped everything.

His boots stilled. His hands curled at his sides, tight enough that the vibranium plates clicked under the skin. One step from the door and his whole body locked. Not because of the security code or the weight of John’s voice behind him, but because he could finally see you now. Not a report. Not a briefing. Not numbers or charts or the sound of someone else’s voice saying you’re stable like that meant anything.

You.

You were unconscious. Intubated. Pale in a way he’d never seen before, chalk white against hospital linens, color stripped from your face like it had been taken. Your lips were slightly parted around the oxygen tube. Your chest lifted just barely under the sheet with every controlled breath the machine gave you. 

There was gauze wrapped around your head, dark pink in places where blood had leaked through. Your leg was elevated, casted and braced and still twice the size it should’ve been. A bruise bloomed across your shoulder—deep and rotten-looking under the skin—and there was a fresh cut along your cheekbone, barely stitched, swollen and angry.

You looked like you’d been left to die.

Like they hadn’t meant to bring you back.

And for a moment, Bucky couldn’t move.

The air outside the door felt thin. Not stale, just missing. Like everything had been sucked out of this one corner of the Tower and left hollow. Like he was standing in the vacuum left behind by something sacred cracking open.

This was the thing he never let himself imagine. The image he never let form behind his eyelids, even on the bad nights. Not you. Not like this.

He pressed one hand to the wall beside the door and bowed his head, his palm flat to the cold surface. His chest rose, shuddered once, and held. He counted to five. To ten. He tried to focus on the weight of his own body. The feeling of his boots against the tile. The edge of the wall biting into his palm. Anything to keep himself tethered. Anything but your face behind that glass.

You were alive.

But that fact didn’t settle in his chest like it should have. It didn’t soothe. It didn’t offer relief.

Because all he could see were the places where that truth had almost unraveled. The bandages. The monitors. The thin line between your makeshift breaths. 

And where it still could. Not when he could see how close it had been. How much of you was still in danger. How easily this could’ve been the morgue instead of a medbay.

How easily he could’ve lost you without ever hearing your voice again.

Without holding your hand. Without telling you that everything else in his life—every broken, violent, worthless part—meant nothing if you weren’t in it.

He didn’t even remember walking toward the door.

Didn’t remember the first step. Or the second. Or how his hand found the keypad through fingers that didn’t feel like they belonged to him anymore. Just knew that if he stood there a second longer, he’d come apart in the hallway and never make it back.

It wasn’t strength that made him move.

It was desperation.

The kind that stripped a man of pride and breath and sense. The kind that whispered cruel things in his ear and made him believe them. She could’ve died without you. She almost did. And you don’t deserve a second chance.

The door opened with a hiss.

He stepped inside like the floor might collapse under him. Every movement was cautious. Careful. Like you might break if he breathed too loud.

The lights inside were low, adjusted to night levels, soft and indirect. The room smelled like antiseptic and gauze and something faintly metallic. Machines hummed in the background, steady and unrelenting.

He made it halfway to the bed before his knees almost gave out.

His eyes were locked on your hand, the one nearest to him, lying limp on top of the blanket with a thin white IV line threaded into the crook of your elbow. He reached for it, slowly, and didn’t care that his hands were shaking so hard he could barely keep them steady. He just needed to feel your skin again. To know it was real. To know you were still real.

He sat beside you, the chair groaning under his weight. He didn’t lean back. Just folded over his knees, one hand gripping yours and the other braced against the side of the bed. His head hung low, and for a long time, he said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then, he lifted his head. Reached for your face.

Some hair had stuck to your temple—damp with sweat, clinging to the edge of the bandage there. He brushed it back gently with two fingers, like he’d done a hundred times when you were half-asleep on the couch or pretending not to cry after watching a sappy movie.

But it looked different now. Smaller. Like everything in this room had shrunk down to one unbearable moment, stretched out across too much time.

His fingers trembled as they pulled back.

“Jesus,” he murmured. The word cracked in the middle.

His throat burned.

Your face was still slack, pulled tight with bruising.

You didn’t stir. Didn’t twitch.

That terrified him more than anything.

He leaned forward again, his elbows digging into the edge of the mattress, and he held your hand in both of his—flesh and metal, warm and cold. He stared down at them like they didn’t belong to him. Like he could squeeze hard enough to push time backward.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that.

Could’ve been twenty minutes. Could’ve been hours. The walls didn’t move. The light didn’t change. It was just the constant, low hum of machines and the slow, glacial rhythm of your pulse ticked out on the monitor. Too slow. Too goddamn quiet. He counted the beats. Every one. Anchoring himself to it like it was the only real thing in the room.

At some point, his legs had gone numb.

His neck ached from the way he’d curled it to rest his forehead against the back of your hand. But he didn’t move. Not really. Not until there was a knock at the door, barely audible.

His body tensed.

The door opened with a soft hiss and a man stepped inside—white coat, small tray in hand, a lanyard with two clipped badges bouncing lightly against his chest. Mid-forties, maybe. Tired eyes. The kind of face that had delivered too much bad news to too many people.

“Ah, Barnes,” the doctor said, voice quiet, respectful. “You got here fast.”

Bucky didn’t answer at first. He just sat back slightly, gaze fixed on the man’s hands as he moved toward the IV line.

It was automatic, the way his muscles coiled, just under the surface. His jaw ticked.

He knew this wasn’t a threat. Knew this man was here to help.

But there was a part of him, something wired into his bones and gut and breath, that didn’t want anyone touching you. Not right now. Not while you were like this. Not while he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

He swallowed heavily and kept his voice flat. “Came as soon as I heard.”

The doctor nodded and glanced at the chart hanging near the bed. He was quiet for a while—replacing one IV vial with another, checking vitals, updating a digital pad with a slow drag of his stylus.

Bucky didn’t take his eyes off your face.

“She’s holding steady,” the doctor offered eventually. “Brain swelling’s gone down since the scan we took this morning. That’s a good sign.”

Bucky blinked once. His throat ached. “When’ll she wake up?”

“Hard to say. Could be hours. Could be another day or two. With blunt trauma to the skull, everyone’s timeline looks different.” A pause. “But the oxygen’s helping. And she’s strong.”

Bucky nodded slightly. He’d heard that too many times now. It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

The doctor hesitated. Then cleared his throat gently. “If it’s okay, I just want to ask you a few questions for her record. While we’ve got a quiet window.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”

“She listed you as her primary in the system,” he continued. “So I’ll walk you through some of the next steps once we get past the acute stage. But just for the chart—are you two… partnered? Cohabitating?”

Bucky glanced over. His brows drew together slightly. “We live together. Yeah.”

“And how long’s the relationship been established, roughly?”

The question was phrased clinically, but something about it made the back of Bucky’s neck prickle.

“Four years and change,” he muttered. “Why?”

“Oh, just part of the standard update,” the doctor said casually. “Especially in cases like this, where stress can impact… well, a number of things.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His grip on your hand shifted slightly. The doctor made a note, eyes still on the screen.

A few more seconds passed.

Then:

“She’s… not on any hormone therapy, correct? No recent adjustments in medications?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “No.”

Another pause.

The doctor nodded, looking at something on the screen again, something Bucky couldn’t see. “Right. I thought so, but I wanted to confirm. Her file’s a little sparse on that front. We ran a full tox panel and basic endocrine workup when she came in, just routine, and some of the markers… well.”

That cold feeling crawled back up Bucky’s spine.

“Well what?”

The doctor hesitated this time. Looked up.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Pardon my wording here—I just want to make sure I’m not stepping into anything sensitive. But… had the two of you been trying to conceive?”

Bucky blinked.

The words didn’t land at first.

“What?”

“I only ask,” the doctor continued, slower now, more cautious, “because we noted elevated hCG levels. Not extreme, but consistent with early gestation. Six to eight weeks, give or take. It’s not uncommon for someone in her position to not realize it yet. But based on the labs, it seems likely that she may—”

Bucky stood up.

The chair scraped against the floor, sharp and jarring in the quiet of the room.

“She’s...pregnant?” he said, his voice low. Disbelieving. Barely holding together.

The doctor’s mouth flattened. “We didn’t want to make assumptions until we had context. I assumed you would’ve been aware.”

Bucky stared at you. Stared like he’d never seen you before.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not because he was angry. Not because he was blindsided.

Because he felt like the fucking ground had disappeared beneath his feet.

Because it was you. And it was this. And it was real.

And he hadn’t known.

And now you were lying here with a goddamn tube down your throat and a second heartbeat that wasn’t yours might’ve already—

His hand clenched into a fist at his side, metal creaking softly.

Bucky stood motionless, fists curled at his sides, every muscle wound so tight it hurt. His eyes were locked on you, on the bruising at your ribs just visible beneath the blanket, on the plastic tubing taped to the soft skin above your collarbone. He didn’t blink. Couldn’t.

His voice scraped up through his throat like broken glass. “Are you sure?”

The doctor—still standing a few cautious paces from the bed—shifted his weight and offered a nod, slow and grave. “The labs were repeated three times. Elevated hCG levels. Progesterone consistent with early gestation. We ran hormone panels as a baseline given the trauma….It’s not just a possibility. It’s confirmed.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. The words didn’t form right. His lips were dry. His chest felt like it had been filled with sand.

“You said six to eight weeks,” he said, barely above a whisper.

The doctor tilted his head slightly, expression softening—not out of pity, but out of clinical care. He knew who he was talking to. Knew Bucky Barnes wasn’t the kind of man who cried wolf.

“Give or take,” the man answered gently. “That’s an estimate based on hormone levels, not ultrasound, but yes. I’d say closer to eight weeks along.”

Eight weeks.

Eight weeks.

That was before this last mission cycle. Before the op outside Madrid. Maybe even before the one before that.

And you hadn’t said a word.

Bucky’s eyes dragged back to you. You were so still. Your hand resting under the blanket, palm turned up, the edges of your fingers bruised like you’d been gripping something hard.

He couldn’t stop seeing it now. Couldn’t unsee it.

You’d been off. He’d chalked it up to nerves, pre-op jitters, the heavy rhythm of one mission bleeding into the next. He’d told you to rest. Offered takeout. Tried to make you laugh the night before he left.

And you had. Smiled. Said thank you. Kissed his cheek. You’d curled into him that night like your ribs ached and your mind was somewhere else, and he’d thought it was just exhaustion.

He’d believed you when you said it was nothing.

God, how fucking stupid could he be?

His voice broke. “She would've known?”

The doctor hesitated. Not from doubt. From restraint.

“There’s no way to say for certain,” he said carefully. “But even as early as four weeks, many people start to notice changes. Nausea. Fatigue. Food aversions. Emotional shifts. Even small things like dizziness or temperature changes. Some miss it entirely. Others…” He paused. “Others don’t.”

Bucky didn’t need a fucking doctor to tell him you knew. He could see it now, clear as a sniper’s scope.

“She didn’t tell me.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse. Raw. Like something was tearing loose inside his chest. “She didn’t say a word.”

“I understand that must be difficult,” the doctor said, not unkindly.

Bucky laughed, just once, sharp and empty. It didn’t sound like anything close to humor.

“She was sick last week. I told her it was nerves. I said she just needed rest.” He blinked, hard. “And she nodded. And let me believe it.”

He felt sick. Hollow. As if someone had cut him open and left the pieces spread out across the room for everyone to examine.

“She made me dinner and couldn’t even taste it. She spit it out. Said it was too salty.” He dragged a hand down his face, breath unsteady.

“I knew. I fucking knew something was off and I didn’t—” He stopped. Pressed his palm into his forehead like he could shut off the noise in his brain. “—I didn’t ask.”

The doctor didn’t respond right away. He didn’t need to. The silence hung there, heavy, just long enough to let Bucky crumble beneath it.

“I would’ve pulled her,” Bucky said, voice low, like it hurt to speak. “If I’d known—I would’ve pulled her off the mission. I would’ve stayed. Christ, I never would’ve let her walk into that hellhole alone.”

“I believe you,” the doctor said softly.

Bucky shook his head. “No, you don’t.” His gaze locked on yours again, like you might open your eyes at any second and tell him it was all a joke, some stupid, sick prank. But your lashes didn’t so much as twitch. “I didn’t even notice. What kind of man misses that? What kind of man lets her go?”

“You trusted her,” the doctor said. “She clearly trusted you too.”

Bucky let out a breath that sounded like it had been clawed from his lungs. “She didn’t tell me.”

“No. She didn’t.” The doctor’s voice was quieter now. “But people keep things for all kinds of reasons. Even from the people they love most.”

Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers trembling at the edge of his jaw. “You don’t get it. She doesn’t hide things from me. Not like this. Not the big stuff. We—we don’t do that.” He looked up again, eyes wet and sharp. “She was going to tell me. I know she was. I think—shit. I think she was, the morning she left.”

He could hear it now. In the way you’d paused before signing off the comms. He thought you were worried about the mission. About Belova watching your six. About slipping into yet another building you weren’t sure you’d walk back out of.But it hadn’t just been that. It had been this. This had been behind your eyes.

He hadn’t kissed you like he should’ve. Hadn’t said goodbye like it might’ve mattered.

Hadn’t known it wasn’t just your life you were walking into that op with.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until the next breath caught wrong in his throat.

“I let her go,” he repeated. “And now she’s in this bed, and I didn’t even know she—”