Winter Child.

It never failed to surprise Bucky just how friendly some of the residents were at the assisted living facility his sister resided at. They always wanted him to stop and chat for a few minutes, especially some of the veterans. The ones from his era were far and few in-between and that bothered him more and more. 

Even though he would be in the building or sometimes just on the grounds near the parking lot, it would sometimes take Bucky 20 minutes to make it from the lobby to Becca’s hall. He gave a polite nod to the receptionist as he passed by her. She made brief eye contact with him as she signed for a package from the UPS driver.

“Oh! Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Proctor isn't in right now,” she relayed. 

Bucky stopped walking. Becca was in her 90’s. She didn't go anywhere very fast so how had he missed her?

“Where is she?”

The receptionist gave a small shrug. “She didn't say, she just signed out and said “with friends”. She left about 30 minutes ago.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, not at the receptionist doing her job, but the fact his sister was still being an annoying little sister even now. “Did she say when she'll be back?”

The young lady shook her head. “I'm sorry.”

Bucky just shook his head and turned around giving her a wave as he left. This was the second time this had happened this week. She was always out with friends. Would it kill her to text him or call? He knew she knew how. She was always sending him memes that her grandchildren sent her. 

“Hey, Jim!” A man's voice called from behind him.

Bucky stopped and turned around. “Hey Nate, how's it going?” 

“Still alive,” Nate said with a small shrug as he shook Bucky’s hand. “My niece is taking me out for lunch, want to join us?” he asked, gesturing to the woman behind his wheelchair.

Bucky paused to think about Becca and her 'out with friends'. “I don't want to be a burden on your day out…” The first time Bucky had met Nate's niece, you, Bucky had thought you were a picture. He nearly beat himself up over that thought too. A picture. Like this was 1930 and his mom was talking to him about cute girls. 

“You won't be a burden, it'll be fun,” you said to reassure him. While you enjoyed visiting with your uncle, it would be nice to have something to look at in the form of Bucky. “We planned on lunch and then maybe the mall. Uncle Nate wants new clothes.”

“Alright, sure, let's go.”

Lunch with you and Nate had been nice. Bucky was much more relaxed than he anticipated he'd be for such a last minute thing. 

“Y'know, Jim, your sister is just the kindest person on the planet. I've been around a long time, I would know.” Nate turned to you. “She gets these cookies from …” he paused trying to recall the name. “David's! She orders them from Davids and they are fantastic. She'll give me a cookie here and there. But she's not kind just because of the cookies, no, she's just a good person. Always talking with folks and making people feel heard. She's just a great lady.”

Bucky listened intently to the praise. He knew his sister was an amazing person, even if he missed most of her accomplishments. 

You watched Bucky as he heard the words your uncle was saying and saw Bucky’s face change slightly. His face got softer; he clearly loved his sister very much. 

A few days later, Bucky tried again. The same receptionist was on duty and he raised an eyebrow as he passed. She gave him a nod; she was too busy to talk to Bucky today, Mr. UPS was back with more packages, Bucky thought he saw a David's Cookies box in the mix. That had to be for Becca. At least Becca could make time in her busy schedule for him today.  

As Bucky was walking up the hall, he saw one of the nurses exiting Becca's room. “Alright, Mrs. Proctor, I'll quit taking up so much of your time today. We can get together later to discuss Goncharov more. Have you seen the extended version?” He asked as he stepped more into the hall. “Oh you haven't? That has got to change. I'll swing by later. Thanks again for the cookie.” He shut the door and nodded at Bucky. "Hello Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Proctor has been looking forward to seeing you.”

Bucky nodded and he turned to stare at the nurse as he walked on. Something felt…off. He knocked on Rebecca's door. “Open up, I know you've got the goods.”

It took a few minutes but finally the door opened, “You're late. You said 2 o clock. I gave those cookies away.”

“Liar,” Bucky said, stepping into the room, and once in the door was shut, gave his sister a hug and a kiss on the top of her head. Becca didn't have a means of cooking, but she could buy the cookies Bucky loved. “Besides it's only” - he checked his watch - “2:25. Tell your neighbors to stop talking when I visit and maybe I'll be on time.”

“You could always get here early so you're on time,” she said and went back to her chair, gesturing for him to join her. “There's a container on the table. Grab a pop from the fridge.”

Bucky grabbed the container off the table and sat near to her. “So what's this I hear about you going out with friends all hours of the night?” He was exaggerating slightly. 

“What I do on my own time is my own business. Who snitched?”

Bucky put the container on his lap and held up his hands. “I'm not revealing my sources.”

Becca tsked. “I bet it's Holly at the desk. She's sweet on you. You should ask her to go out dancing.”

Bucky chuckled and shook his head. “I'm pretty sure she's barely 18. That is not my thing. Besides, I think she's into a delivery driver.”

Becca gave a non-committal noise but seemed a bit surprised. “Was it Ross?”

Bucky shrugged off her question. “I didn't get his name. You got a sweetheart, sis? You going out dancing?”

Becca just scoffed. “Do I look like I could go out dancing? I'd break a hip if I tried.”

He shook his head. “I think you're stronger than what you let on. You've been doing those exercise classes, haven't you?”

“Yeah…”

“We should go out dancing sometime. Be like old times. We go together and then ditch the other once we meet someone.”

Becca just laughed, “I don't think so, Jim.”

“So where are you and this gang of roaming seniors going off to?”

“If you must know, I found a group of people who play pickleball seated. It's fun.”

Bucky frowned. “Why didn't you tell me? I can take you.” 

Becca just gave him a look that was reminiscent of their ma when she was annoyed. “No, thank you. I can go out with friends on my own. I have a life alert and my phone which has you as a contact should I need it. I'm fully capable.”

Bucky looked at the floor, “yes ma'am, alright, message received. You do know that I'm connected to lots of people and can find out information,” he was absolutely trying to rile her up. He wouldn't violate her privacy.

“James Barnes. You will not. I'm not a child.”

“No, but you're still my little sister.”

“You're still a pain in my ass. Do you want to go downstairs and play Phase 10?”

He just nodded “sure, sure, lead the way. You'll be glad to know that Alpine jumped me in the bathroom the other night…”

“Good. Someone else needs to keep you in line. Which is why you need to find someone to marry. Get you a good woman - or man, I don't care - and settle down. I'd like to be someone's aunt before I'm dead. It's taken you long enough as it is.”

She stepped out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, smiling automatically, until she caught the flicker in Bucky's eyes. The slight drop of his shoulders. The tension so tight under his skin it was a wonder he could move at all.

Still, he crossed the room like nothing was wrong, dropped the duffel with a heavy thud, and bent to kiss her in a short, dry press. His lips were chapped, and his hand felt cold against her hip through her pajama shirt. "Missed you," he said, like he meant to add more but swallowed it back.

Sam snorted behind them. "Real touching, man. Now gimme the damn briefcase, lover boy."

She laughed under her breath; Bucky flipped him off without looking.

The briefcase waited by the couch, matte black, secure enough to survive a plane crash. Bucky kicked it closer with the toe of his boot.

"You know," Sam said, hefting it, "this wouldn't even be necessary if a certain someone didn't hulk out on Redwing."

Bucky shrugged, deadpan. "It was an accident."

"Bullshit," Sam barked, half-laughing. "You aimed at him!"

"He was in the way."

"He was flying surveillance, you jackass!"

Bucky shrugged again, more theatrical this time, a sly twist tugging at his mouth. "Collateral damage."

Sam muttered something vile, but the edge was gone, worn down by exhaustion and familiarity. They circled each other like two old dogs too stubborn to admit they were friends.

"You owe me," Sam called over his shoulder, stepping through the door.

Bucky didn't answer, just kicked the door shut behind him with a solid, decisive slam.

Three long strides, and he was in her space. He bent his head, digging his forehead into the curve where her neck met her shoulder, banding his arms around her like he could fold himself into her skin if he just held tight enough.

He shuddered once -just once- and then went still, breathing her in like she was air after drowning.

Already feeling the shift in his mind -the slow melt of tension into something heavier, darker- she cupped the back of his head and murmured, "What's wrong, Jamie?"

His voice was a rasp against her throat. "Don't wanna talk about it, Ma."

There it was. The tremor under the words. The old damage rising from the depths, thick as smoke, inescapable.

It was going to be one of those weeks.

Bucky was gone. Not dead, not disappeared. Just… buried.

His mind, fractured and fragile, bore scars deeper than any bullet wound. Years of physical torture, mind control, chemical sedation, that damned chair. They'd left behind something that could never be stitched whole again. Only nurtured. Only loved in all its brokenness.

"Alright," she whispered, smoothing her palm along the nape of his neck, tangling her fingers lightly in his hair. "You don't have to, sweetie."

Bucky clung harder and shifted his weight, nudging her backwards, steering her without words. The backs of her knees bumped the armrest of the couch, catching her off guard, and then he was pressing, urging, laying her down like something loved but urgent, needing her pliant and beneath him.

She let herself fall back, her body sinking into the cushions.

Bucky climbed after her, sprawling his massive frame above her, caging her in, shuddering like the weight of the world was slipping down his spine.

He buried his face against her chest, moving his mouth blindly, mouthing her through the thin cotton of her pajama top. Desperate, clumsy, a low whine slipped from his throat when the fabric denied him skin.

Frustrated, he nosed under the hem, catching it with his teeth, tugging upward, like an animal trying to shed the barrier himself. She lifted her arms in silent permission, helping him strip the top away.

"There you go, baby," she cooed, cradling the back of his head, guiding him.

Bucky latched onto her breast the second he could. His tongue flicked roughly and desperately, the suction almost bruising, pulling at her with the kind of force that spoke of starvation, not hunger.

She cradled him close, rocking them slightly as soft, wet sounds filled the quiet room. The metal plates of his hand pressed cold against her waist as he shifted his hold, needing the contact.

He suckled hard -harder than he usually allowed himself- losing himself in the mindless rhythm, soothed only by her scent, her heartbeat, the feel of her skin in his mouth.

Eventually, she felt the tension start to drain from his shoulders, his weight sinking heavier against her.

She thought he might be falling asleep, but then, his breathing changed. Where it had been deep and even, it started to catch, shorter and sharper. The rhythm of his mouth faltered, then reformed into something hungrier. His jaw tensed against her skin, the suction growing harder, wetter.

Her breath hitched before she could stop it.

She felt her own body respond, the involuntary arch of her spine, the way her hips tilted just slightly, seeking pressure she hadn't realized she wanted. A low heat pooled low in her belly, unwanted but undeniable, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound.

His fingers, which had been still against her sides, started to move. First a slow drag across her skin, almost absent. Then a firmer grip, his palm pressing against the flesh of her waist like he needed something solid to hold onto.

A small, broken sound escaped his throat, between a whimper and a moan. His mouth opened wider around her nipple, tongue flat and rough, and she felt the sharp spike of sensation travel straight down her spine.

Her back arched again, involuntarily, pressing her chest more firmly into his mouth. She couldn't help it. Couldn't control the way her thighs parted just slightly, or the way her hips rolled once -just once- against the heavy weight of his thigh.

Bucky froze.

His mouth went still against her breast. His whole body locked up, every muscle gone rigid, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. For a long, breathless moment, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, his hips shifted.

Just once. A single, hesitant roll against her leg, barely there, almost questioning. As if his body was testing the waters while his mind was still miles away, still buried in whatever dark place he'd been trying to crawl out of.

She felt him, the heavy press through the layers of fabric, the undeniable proof that his body had already made the turn without his permission.

His mouth found her again, but different now. Still seeking comfort, yes, but there was something else underneath it. A sharper edge. A need that had twisted itself into the soothing and couldn't be untangled.

She shouldn't have liked it. She knew what he was doing, knew it wasn't about her, knew he was using her body to keep himself from splintering apart.

But her hips rolled again anyway.

Her own need. Her own traitorous body, responding to his weight, the heat of his mouth, the desperate little sounds he kept making against her skin.

She felt his hand slide up and down her hip, and the noise that came out of her lips was barely a whisper, a soft, ragged exhale that she hoped he hadn't heard.

He heard.

His hips rolled again, harder this time, and she felt the thick, heavy line of his cock drag against her thigh through his pants. A low, helpless sound rumbled in his chest, muffled against her breast, and his mouth clamped down harder, suckling like he was starving for it.

The heat in her belly flared. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, trying to remember that this wasn't- that he wasn't-

But her hand was already sliding down his back, pressing him closer. Her thighs were already falling open beneath him, making room she couldn't take back.

She felt the tension in his shoulders shift. Felt the exact moment he realized there was something different between them now. Not just comfort. Not just grounding.

Something else.

His mouth broke from her breast with a wet, startled sound. He pulled back just far enough to look at her, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide, face flushed and wrecked.

She knew what her own face must have looked like. Knew he could see it. The heat on her cheeks. The parted lips. The way her chest was heaving, nipples hard and wet from his mouth.

He stared at her for a long, shaking moment.

Then something in him gave way.

His forehead dropped back to her chest, his whole body folding into hers, and the sound he made was raw, wounded, torn straight out of some place she couldn't follow.

His mouth found her nipple again. Not the slow, grounding suction from before, but something ravenous. Desperate. Like he'd stopped trying to soothe himself and started trying to survive.

He whined around her nipple. The sound was pitiful, hungry, broken. His hips jerked forward in clumsy, desperate thrusts, rubbing his heavy cock against her leg, the friction too little, too clothed, too maddening.

One of his hands fumbled down between them, pawing clumsily at her waistband, frustrated when the fabric of her pajama shorts didn't yield. She lifted her hips, helping, soothing, letting him peel the barrier away along with her underwear.

The second they were gone, he was there, grinding harder, the rough fabric of his fatigues rasping against the tender, slick heat between her legs. His mouth never stopped, suckling greedily and wet at her breast. The noises were animalistic, wet, obscene.

Her thighs fell open to give him more, to give him everything he was silently begging for.

"That's it, baby," she murmured against his temple, her voice thick with love and aching need. "Take it, Jamie. Take what you need."

He shuddered at her words, and with a low groan, he fumbled at his belt, nearly tearing it open in his frantic need. The sound of the zipper rasped loud in the thick, humid air between them, and then he was pushing his pants and boxers just far enough down to free himself, his cock flushed and leaking, throbbing with every erratic beat of his heart.

He didn't even line himself up properly at first, just thrusting blindly, rutting against her belly, her hip, lost in pure instinct. She reached down, gentle but firm, guiding him lower, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds, and he gasped, a desperate, wounded noise, like she'd just torn open his chest and touched his heart.

He pushed forward in a single, shaking thrust and gaspedher name, clinging to her body.

"Mommy... Mommy, please..." he sobbed into her skin, fucking desperately into her, like he couldn't get deep enough, close enough, like he needed to crawl inside her and never come out.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tighter, whispering praises and love into his hair, rocking her hips up to meet each frantic thrust, giving him everything. Everything he needed.

Bucky's rhythm faltered almost immediately, embarrassingly fast. His whole body went rigid, and a broken cry tore from his throat as he came hard, pulsing deep and warm inside her.

Her fingers never stopped stroking his scalp, the curve of his neck, the tense line of his back where sweat glued his shirt to his skin. He whimpered low in his chest, a sound that made her thighs clench around his waist instinctively, holding him there, inside her, where he belonged.

"You did so good for me," she murmured, threading the words into his fractured mind. "So good, sweetheart."

His hips gave a weak jerk, as if his body was trying to answer even while spent. He shook his head, mumbling a “No” and nosed deeper into the crook of her neck, his hands roaming frantically over her hips like he didn't know whether to stay still or start again.

A needy little sound bled out of him, wet and desperate.

"Shh, you were perfect," she soothed, rocking her hips just the slightest bit, enough to make him groan, low and wrecked.

But Bucky needed more. Shame and hunger twisted together in his mind. His hand scrabbled down her body, pushing shaking fingers between them, seeking out where they were still joined, sticky and wet.

"I can-" he mumbled into her neck, his voice hoarse and cracked, "I can make you come, Mommy... lemme... please-"

She caught his wrist, soft but firm, to slow him down. To breathe. To think.

She didn't need it. Her body was warm and satisfied in a different way: the deep contentment of having held him through his unraveling, of being the one he came to when the world got too heavy.

She could have let him drift off right there, heavy and spent against her chest, and it would have been enough. More than enough.

But she knew Jamie.

Knew that almost compulsive need to show her he was good, that he could give back what she'd given him. To earn the praise she'd already offered freely, because somewhere in that broken mind of his, love still had to be deserved.

And if she was honest with herself -brutally honest- she couldn't pretend she didn't want an orgasm.

Her fingers slipped down between them, spreading herself open for him, her fingers parting her folds around where he was still buried inside her, letting him feel the slick heat, her throbbing clit, how ready she was. How close she already was, just from his desperate rutting, from the sounds he'd made, from the weight of his body pressed against her.

"Alright," she breathed, her voice breaking into a moan when his thumb brushed clumsily over her clit. "Let me remind you how."

He chased every stuttered gasp, every little roll of her hips, with awkward but hungry movements, so eager to please that he trembled. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, nuzzled helplessly against her, feeding off every moan. "Is it good? wanna make you feel good.”

"You're doing so good, baby," she cooed, rolling her hips into the clumsy circles he traced against her clit, feeling sparks skittering up her spine. "My big strong boy... that's it, just like that."

His breath hitched sharply. She felt him throb inside her, half-hard but growing, so easily aroused by her praise.

"M- more," she whispered into his hair, guiding his hand with gentle, insistent pressure. "Mommy needs more, Jamie... you can give it to me, can't you, baby?"

A shattered little sound broke out of his throat. He latched onto her neck, sucking greedily, slipping his fingers faster, finding the rhythm she loved without even realizing it, simply because she wanted it, because she told him he could.

"Yes... yes, I can-" he gasped, nearly crying it, driving his hand harder against her, frantic, devoted.

She moaned shamelessly, her hips rolling in a slow, unsteady circle, partly chasing the pressure of his thumb against her clit, partly sinking herself deeper onto his cock, feeling him fill her as she moved against his hand. Her breath caught, sharp and high.

"That's it, baby. Right there. You're doing so good."

A broken little sound escaped his throat -half sob, half moan- and his fingers stumbled, almost losing the rhythm before finding it again, more desperate now. More devoted.

"Such a good boy," she panted, dragging her fingers across his scalp, tugging his hair just enough to make him moan. "Making me feel so good... my perfect boy..."

Bucky's whole body shuddered. He humped against her without rhythm, desperate, straining toward the heaven of her approval.

She was so close, the pleasure burning tight and high, and when he whined brokenly, "Need you to cum, Mommy, need it so bad," she ground against him harder, her breath hitching. The tension snapped through her body as she came around him, writhing, crying his name, clamping her thighs tightly around his waist.

His hips moved before thought could catch them, pure instinct, pure need. She gasped sharply, her body so sensitive, still riding her orgasm, and he let out a strangled moan, pressing his forehead hard against hers, his arms shaking where they caged her in.

"Jamie," she moaned, reflexively wrapping her legs tighter around him, holding him there, where he belonged.

He groaned, trying to last this time, trying to hold back, but the heat of her body and the clutch of her inner muscles around him milked another low, broken cry from his throat.

"Can't-" he choked out, hips twitching. "S- sorry, I- fuck- I can't-"

She cupped his face then, forcing his hazy, desperate eyes to meet hers. She held his gaze for a long second, anchoring him, telling him without words that this wasn't a failure, it was a gift. "You don't have to, baby," she whispered against his lips. "Just let go for Mommy."

The second the words left her mouth, Bucky shattered. His rhythm was frantic and short-lived, sloppy little thrusts, his whole body spasming, jerking helplessly. His face twisted into a tortured, beautiful grimace, mouth open in a silent cry as he came again, flooding her. So raw, so painfully intense it stripped the breath from his lungs.

She held him through it, both hands threaded in his hair, pulling his weight down onto her so he could sob against her throat, every breath a broken thing.

"Good boy," she murmured, cradling him, rocking him gently even as he trembled and gasped, as if the orgasm had unraveled something too dark inside him. "My sweet, perfect Jamie..."

He clung to her, gasping, as the aftershocks racked his body. His cock throbbed weakly inside her, spent but refusing to soften, desperate to stay part of her, to never be alone again.

"Love you," he rasped, barely louder than a breath. "I love you so much..."

She kissed his temple, his wet lashes, the corner of his mouth. "I love you too, sweetheart."

He made a small, broken sound again,softer this time, more at peace, and his breathing began to slow as she stroked his spine. It was a mindless comfort, just the warmth of her body, her scent, the surety of being wanted exactly as he was, no masks, no shame.

She felt him trembling against her, small broken hitches of breath ghosting hot over her collarbone, and she knew he wasn't done needing her yet. Gently, she threaded her fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp until he made a soft, choked sound, half-whine, half-moan.

"Jamie, baby," she whispered, kissing his ear, feeling the damp strands of hair clinging to his temple. "I need you to sit up for me, alright? Just for a minute. Let Mommy take care of you."

He burrowed his face harder against her skin, refusing. His cock twitched uselessly inside her, spent but stubborn, like his body was terrified of losing contact.

She cupped his stubbled jaw, brushing her thumb along the sharp plane of his cheekbone. "Sweetheart, please. Just a little shift, then we can cuddle all you want. Promise."

That promise broke through the fog in his mind. Bucky lifted his head, blinking slowly, heavy-lidded blue eyes glazed and distant. His lip caught in his teeth in a desperate little bite. Wordless, he obeyed, pushing himself up on shaking arms and pulling out of her with a reluctant, shuddering moan.

She winced a little at the loss but sat up quickly, nudging his hips to guide him back onto the couch cushions. His tactical pants were still around his thighs, boots still muddy and scuffed from the mission, his whole body a mess of tension and need.

She kissed his knee through the fabric, soothing him. "There we go. Stay still for me, alright?"

He nodded, but his hands twitched like he didn't know what to grab onto, finally fisting the fabric of her discarded pajama top like a lifeline.

With quick hands, she unlaced and yanked off his boots, tossing them without care. His socks followed, peeled off with a little tug. Then she shimmied the ruined pants down his thighs, past his knees, his ankles, freeing him completely.

Bucky whined low in his throat, his thighs trembling where they spread for her, his cock flushed and twitching weakly against his belly, glistening with the mess of what they'd made.

"It’s alright, baby," she murmured, stroking his trembling thighs, letting him feel her loving hands on him. "I've got you."

He looked like he wanted to fold in on himself, humiliated and desperate, his chest heaving.

She pressed a soft kiss to his navel, another just above his hipbone. "You did so well for me, Jamie. Gave Mommy everything she needed."

He tensed beneath her mouth, breath hitching like he wanted to protest. "That's not true, it was pathetic and-"

She kissed the top of his thigh, firmer this time. "Shhh. No more of that." Her hand smoothed over his stomach. "You gave me what you could. That's everything."

Her kiss, her words, seemed to reach him. She felt the tension in his grip easing. Not gone, but yielding enough for her to slip from his hold.

"I'll be right back, baby," she murmured, brushing one last kiss to his thigh before pulling away slowly.

He gave a faint whine but let her go, slumping back into the couch, legs still spread, arms loose and heavy at his sides. Vulnerable. Waiting.

She moved quickly, finding a clean cloth and dampening it with warm water, squeezing it out until it streamed between her fingers. When she returned, he hadn't moved. His eyes were glassy, staring somewhere past the ceiling, lost somewhere she couldn't follow, breathing slowly but not relaxed.

She knelt between his thighs and began wiping him with slow, tender strokes, the warm cloth gliding over his softening cock, the skin of his inner thighs. He let her do it, as always.

Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost a breath, he said, "There was a chair."

Her hands froze for just a second before she moved again, softer now, like she was tending a wound she couldn't see. He didn't have to explain. That phrase -the chair- floated between them, thick and poisonous.

She kissed the inside of his knee tenderly and crawled up to straddle his lap without hesitation, wrapping him up in her arms. His flesh hand immediately latched onto her waist, the metal one curling over her back like he could mold her into himself.

"It was supposed to be another kind of mission," she said tentatively.

"The growing organization... Sam said... they were forming from scraps. Vestiges. Hydra intel." His breathing hitched. "We thought... we thought there would be data to scrap. Maybe... maybe a serum, old samples. Destroy it before it could spread. But they had it. They had the chair."

He choked the last word out like it tasted like blood.

She cradled his face between her hands. "They can't hurt you anymore. You're free, remember? Remember how they made it all better in Wakanda?" He only nodded, hiding his face in one of her palms.

She threaded her fingers slowly through his hair, feeling the tension beneath his scalp like a live wire still sparking. "Are you hungry, baby?" she whispered against the shell of his ear.

There was a small, reluctant pause before he nodded against her chest. "Yeah. But... I can't-" He clutched her tighter, as if her body might dissolve if he let go.

"I know," she soothed. "Come with me, then. We'll stick together."

She coaxed him to stand; his heavy steps were sluggish, clumsy, almost childlike in his exhaustion. He shadowed her across the room, never more than an inch away, his hand curled tight at her waist.

While she pulled things from the fridge and stacked a couple of fast sandwiches, Bucky wrapped around her from behind, big and unyielding, pinning her gently against the counter with his weight.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing her scent.

"I'm sorry I'm like this," he mumbled, voice raw and scratchy against her skin. "I'm sorry my head's so messed up."

She stilled her hands, the sandwich forgotten half-built, and cupped his forearm where it pressed across her middle, squeezing him hard.

"No," she said firmly, tipping her head back against his shoulder to make sure he heard every word. "You survived what would have killed anybody else. You're not messed up. You're my Jamie. That's all that matters."

Bucky let out a low, broken sound, something between a sob and a sigh, and hugged her tighter, like he might fuse himself into her bones if he could.

"Now eat a little," she whispered. "Then I'll tuck you into bed, yeah?"

He nodded mutely against her neck, still clinging, letting her finish fixing the sandwiches one-handed while he melted against her.

"Need me to cut them small for you, or are you good to grab the knife?" she asked gently, tilting her head to catch his expression.

Bucky hesitated, his eyes flickering uncertainly to the counter, then back to her. "I'll eat them whole," he said finally. "With my hands."

"That's so good, baby," she praised, brushing her fingers over his knuckles. "Wanna eat them on the bed?"

He only nodded, letting her gather the plate and then reach for his hand, guiding him through the hallway like leading a wounded animal.

"Alright. Shirt off, sweetheart," she murmured when they reached the bedroom, giving a little tug at the hem of his tactical top. "Don't want that messy thing on the sheets."

"Sorry," he mumbled, brow crumpling. His fingers fumbled at the fabric, uncertain. "Should I shower too?"

"Do you want to?" she asked.

"The sheets-"

"Bucky," she cut him off. Not Jamie this time, but Bucky, to wise him up. His breath caught in his chest.

"Do you want to?" she repeated, slower, softer.

"...not right now," he confessed.

"Then get in the bed and eat the sandwiches," she ordered gently, brushing her palm over his stomach in passing.

He obeyed without argument, pulling the shirt clumsily over his head and leaving it crumpled on the floor. His body was flushed and tight with leftover adrenaline, his scars standing out against his skin.

He climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged like a great, awkward boy, with the plate balanced in his lap.

She settled beside him, smoothing her hand up and down his back in slow, rhythmic strokes as he tore into the first sandwich with trembling fingers, chewing dutifully.

Every time he took a bite, she murmured something soft near his ear: "That's it, baby." "You're doing so good." "My sweet boy."

Bucky shivered every time, eating faster, desperate for her approval, for the tone of her voice wrapped around him.

When he finished, he wiped his hands clumsily on the sheet. She would've scolded him, but when he turned toward her -his eyes huge and glassy, his mouth trembling like he might cry if she said even one word wrong- she couldn't.

Instead, she only smiled, lifting the plate from his lap and setting it aside.

"C'mere," she whispered, opening her arms.

She eased them down into the mattress, coaxing him to lie with his head against her chest. His hair -brushing past his jawline in dark, tangled waves- spilled over her skin. She threaded her fingers through it without urgency, combing gently through the snarls, almost worshipfully.

Bucky let out a low, shaky exhale against her skin, the sound so raw it made her chest ache.

Each slow stroke of her fingers through his hair unspooled knots buried far deeper than the ones at his scalp: memories of fists twisting in his hair to punish, to control, to bend him to grotesque, degenerate wills. Those hands had ripped at him like he was a mindless beast, but hers... hers just held, adored, cherished.

She waited, giving him time to soften under her touch, before she murmured, her voice barely a ghost against the crown of his head.

"Do you have to go tomorrow?" Her fingers combed slowly, untangling another small knot. "You just got here. Can't Clint count on someone else?"

He shook his head against her chest, dragging his hair across her skin in a silky brush. "They need me," he rasped, his voice hollowed out by guilt. "My strength. My hands. Can't just leave 'em hanging."

She kissed the top of his head, brushing her lips against the softest spot where his hair parted. "Rest then, handsome," she breathed into him. "I'll guard your sleep."

----

She woke slowly, feeling him before she even turned her head. Bucky was draped half over her, chest pressed to her side, one heavy arm hooked around her waist. His face was nuzzled into her breast, his wet, warm mouth suckling in soft, absent pulses around her nipple. Not truly awake. Not truly dreaming. Just clinging. Needing.

Nuzzled in like a child too big to be held, too broken not to need it anyway.

She said nothing. Would never say anything. Just slid her hand through his long hair, slow and tender, letting him have whatever peace he could steal from her body.

Later, after he finally stirred with a grumble and a heavy, embarrassed sigh, she helped him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. She washed his hair carefully, then his body. Dressed him piece by piece in a fresh set of tactical clothing with a lover's hands.

They sat side by side at the kitchen table, knees bumping occasionally, plates between them. Bucky picked at his toast, sluggish but obedient, while she fussed with a napkin, sweeping a streak of jam from the stubble along his jaw. He tilted his head toward her touch like a sleepy cat, eyes half-lidded, savoring every second. Then-

The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden.

Bucky stiffened immediately. His fork clattered onto the plate as he straightened, a frown etching deep between his brows.

"Early," he muttered. "Wasn't supposed to be here 'til later."

"I'll get the door. Finish your breakfast," she said, squeezing his hand before rising.

As she crossed the living room, she could already hear Clint's muffled voice behind the door, some cheery nonsense about coffee and "no rest for the wicked." She shook her head fondly and reached for the handle, casting one last glance back at Bucky, still sitting hunched at the table, tense, his eyes dark with the weight of parting.

Clint stepped inside with a gust of morning air, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. He sniffed exaggeratedly, a wide grin breaking over his face.

"Smells delicious in here. You mind if I munch on something? Didn't have time at home; kids were playing tug-of-war with my socks."

Bucky froze for a breath mid-bite. Then, without missing another beat, the switch flipped, and he slipped the mask into place. His scowl was automatic, familiar, almost rehearsed.

"Coming early and stealing my food," he muttered, jerking his chin toward the table in a rough invitation.

Clint chuckled, taking it for what it was, and flopped into the nearest chair.

She hid her little sigh behind a smile, moving to pour Clint some coffee and pulling extra toast and eggs from the warming plate on the stove. As she set them down in front of him, she cast a glance at Bucky.

The mask wasn't how he lived day to day. Most of the time, he was a functional, competent, reliable partner. Not the trembling boy who'd wept against her chest, mourning a harsh treatment he hadn't had in years but still felt in his bones.

When something triggered the trauma, he regressed for days. And those days were… well, manageable inside the house.

But when the outside world needed something of him -when he couldn't just pass those days at peace- the mask appeared. He wore it every time he left home. To go on missions, to stand across from bureaucrats and therapists, to smile awkwardly when a stranger said "thank you for your service," while looking at him like he was a monster.

Now he lounged in his seat, elbow propped on the table, coffee in hand, boots crossed at the ankles, looking confident.

Clint wolfed down half a piece of toast, talking around it. "So, mission details got updated late last night," he said, crumbs flying. "Turns out the warehouse isn't just full of spare parts and wannabe Zemo cosplay rejects. They've got a shipment of experimental tech stashed in a sublevel. Pressure sensors on every door, that kind of shit. Trip one, and the whole place locks down."

Bucky barely lifted his brows. Sipped his coffee like Clint was telling him the damn weather. "I'll handle that alone," he said flatly. "You just focus on fucking up their electric system."

Clint grinned around his coffee mug. "Pfft. It's like you don't even need me there."

Bucky gave him a slow, unimpressed look that said exactly that.

Clint clutched his chest theatrically. "Rude."

They bickered, sharp-edged and almost amicable, but beneath the noise, Bucky's left hand slid across the seat instinctively until his fingers found hers under the table.

He squeezed her, firm and self-soothing. She squeezed back, not even glancing down, not making a big thing of it.

----

By the time Clint was asking for seconds, Bucky had drunk all his coffee and finished wiping his plate clean with a torn piece of toast.

"You should see what Lila pulled on Laura last week," Clint said between mouthfuls. "Whole laundry room filled with packing peanuts. Packing peanuts. I swear, that kid's got a future in psychological warfare."

Bucky huffed -the closest thing he gave to a laugh most days- and leaned back in his chair. His hand didn't leave hers under the table. Not once. When he stood, he tugged gently, silently asking her to follow.

"Be right back," she said casually to Clint, who just waved her off, too busy scraping jam onto another slice of toast.

In the hallway, Bucky didn't speak. He just brushed his arm against hers, subtly, before nudging open the door to the gear room.

Everything was already half-packed. She moved to help without him asking: slid ammo clips into pouches, folded the spare jacket, zipped compartments closed. Behind her, Bucky stripped off the sweatshirt he'd thrown on for breakfast, revealing the tight black compression shirt beneath it.

"Are you good on suppressors?" she asked, checking the side pouches.

"Yeah." His voice was rough, but controlled. "Packed two."

She smoothed her hand over the thick strap of his tac belt as she adjusted it on the table, brushing her thumb over a scuff mark near the buckle.

His body brushed hers again -slow and heavy- a silent gratitude he never put into words.

From down the hallway, Clint's voice floated: "-and then she glued all my arrows together. Like some evil arts and crafts project-"

Bucky huffed another low sound, a little closer to amusement this time.

His arm bumped hers again.

He just kept finding ways to stay in her space, pressing close like something small burrowing under a blanket, chasing the comfort only she could give him.

She worked around him like a second skin, slipping knives into their sheaths behind his waist, across his thighs, securing flashbangs to the front clips.

He stood still for her, obedient, letting her dress him for war, like he couldn't do it himself.

Not today.

His hands twitched at his sides when she brushed too close to his belt, reaching for the magazine pouches. When she fastened the vest across his chest, his fingers tangled briefly in the hem of her shirt. Clutching, small, desperate. She pressed a kiss just below his collarbone in answer, right over the faint scar where a bullet had once shattered bone.

He exhaled roughly. Still trembling. Still pretending otherwise, because Clint was just down the hallway.

She buckled the side straps and slotted the heavier grenades at his hip. Checked the sidearm holsters, one after the other. He didn't even try anymore, just let her do it. Let her carry the ritual when he couldn't. It broke her heart every time, how he still wanted to be the strong mission partner everyone expected him to be, even when the man inside it had been splintered into pieces.

She knelt to strap his boots tighter, double-knotting the laces with a tug. When she stood up, Bucky was already sinking to his knees in front of her. He pressed his face against her belly, wrapping his arms around her waist in a crushing grip.

She just threaded her fingers through his hair -those longer, wild locks he never let the stylists touch- combing slow, soothing strokes from root to tip.

He breathed against her. Ragged. Needy.

A few years ago, when she'd found him curled in a corner after a nightmare so bad he couldn't even speak, she'd dared to ask him, "How did you deal with it… before?"

It had taken him three tries to answer. Finally, he'd muttered: "I... hurt myself. Until I could function again." Like it was normal. Like it was the best strategy. Damage the body to break the mind out of a loop.

Pain instead of panic.

She cradled him closer, stroking the nape of his neck with her thumb.

Never again. Not under her watch.

She motioned for him to stand. "You're geared up, Jamie," she murmured against his temple when he pressed his body against her again. He nodded but didn't move. Just held her closer, breathing the scent of her skin, sensing the fabric of her shirt, the pulse of life he always chased in her when the world tried to smother him.

Only when she whispered, "Come on, handsome. Let's not keep Clint waiting," did he finally push himself up with a soft grunt, rubbing his face against her like he could take a piece of her with him.

He took a deep breath, still trembling faintly, but standing straighter now.

Still fractured, but held together by her hands, her patience, and her love.

And that was enough.

It was always enough.

The screen flickered with one of those shows she watched. People acting out things that weren't real, to tell stories.

Humans were strange.

In the box, a couple sat across from each other at a small table, candles and glasses between them. The woman laughed at something the man said. He poured her wine. Flowers sat crammed into a glass jar at the center of the table, already dying but arranged to hide it.

Bucky frowned.

"Why are they there?" he asked, chin tipped toward the screen.

He watched the way the man's hand moved, deliberate, not reaching but inviting. The woman's smile shifted, softer. It wasn't the same as what he and she did. When they sat together, it was without ritual. Without this careful performance of interest.

She glanced up, following his gaze. "The dinner? It's a date."

The word meant nothing on its own, but the picture did. Two people, seated face to face, offering each other food and wine, suggestive words and intent body language. He knew of that, in another shape…

"Why?" he pressed.

"Why, what?"

"The purpose." His voice came out more demanding than he meant. "Of sitting like that. The food, the flowers. What are they after? Are they friends or is it a couple’s thing?" he still struggled to understand where the line was drawn between friendship and claim. It irritated him, the way they blurred what his kind made clear.

She laughed, not unkindly, more at the way he'd said it, like he was cross-examining a suspect.

"There's no big purpose, Bucky. It's just... getting to know each other. Spending time together. Showing the other person you care, that you put effort into the moment." She shrugged. "Sometimes it's at the start, when you first begin seeing someone. Sometimes couples keep doing it years later. So they don't lose that."

So they don't lose that.

Lose what? he wanted to ask. But his tongue felt heavy, suddenly too clumsy for the question forming in his mind.

He went quiet, eyes still fixed on the screen, where the fictional man tucked a strand of hair behind the woman's ear and produced a small box with some earrings.

The woman gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Bucky's fingers tightened on her thigh, irritated by the sound -too sharp, too rehearsed- but something else moved beneath his skin, older than annoyance.

Something felt wrong.

They'd shared breakfasts at the kitchen table, dinners, spent entire afternoons pressed together beneath blankets, talking, watching television until she fell asleep against him, but that wasn't the same thing.

Humans seemed to assign meaning to the circumstances rather than the act itself.

His own sought someone apt out once a year, met what the body demanded, and each returned to their own dark after, alone, needing nothing from the other until the next season.

What he felt about her, and her for him, had no name in his tongue. No protocol. No elder to ask how it was done right, how you kept a human who needed things he could not feel the need for.

He thought, suddenly, of the Valentine’s Day situation. The pink foil chocolate. The presents in the market. His own frustration afterward, lying alone beneath cold water while trying to understand gifts, offerings, and fish that carried stones to impress a mate.

He had not given her anything that day.

I could have, he thought bitterly. I could have found something, but I chose not to.

His jaw clenched.

The couple on the screen kissed. The camera pulled back, showing other couples at other tables, a room full of humans performing the same ritual with slight variations.

"We've never had one," he murmured.

She blinked. The hand that had been tracing lazy patterns on his chest stilled. "Never had... what?"

"A date." The word felt foreign, too small for the weight he was giving it. "What they are doing. The ritual. We've never..."

He didn't finish. Couldn't find the words for what they had done instead, afternoons on the beach, in the nest, the occasions when he held her through asthma attacks, and she held him through haunting memories. None of it had been framed. None of it had been for something.

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Hmm that’s true. We never had one."

It wasn’t a reproach. Just acknowledgment. But he heard reproach anyway, or maybe he heard his own voice saying it for her.

He shifted, uncomfortable, his hand retreating from her thigh to grip the edge of the cushion beneath them. "Would you like to?" The question came out forced, scraped from somewhere low in his throat. "Having… this date thing."

She smiled. That smile that always seemed to know something he didn't. "Bucky, that’s not necessary right now. We are together-"

"But would you like to?" He interrupted her. Hated doing it, but the words not necessary had stuck him like a barb. As if what they had was sufficient, as if she was tolerating his lack of courtship abilities. "Not 'need to.' Like to."

She looked at him. And he saw something shift in her expression, the amusement becoming something more careful, more serious.

“That we go out in a more… human way?" she said, slower.

He nodded once. Rigidly.

She hesitated. Not long -a breath, maybe two- but he noticed it.

"Yes," she said. "I would like to."

He should have felt relief. He felt terror instead.

She must have felt something shift in him -the way his body went still, the way his hand had stopped its lazy path over her leg. She looked up at him, her head tilting slightly.

"Bucky?"

He forced his jaw to unclench. "Yes."

She studied him for a moment, then reached up and touched his cheek, her palm warm against the tension in his jaw.

"We don't have to do anything elaborate," she said softly. "I just... I'd like to do something with you. That's all."

He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.

----

She fell asleep against him eventually, the way she always did, her breathing slowing into the rhythm he knew better than his own heartbeat. He didn't sleep after turning the television off, just stayed awake, staring at nothing, his mind churning.

More human.

The phrase turned like a current, pulling him toward depths he didn't know how to navigate.

What could he offer that wasn't already given? his body, his time, his fierce and unwavering attention?

Money? He had none. Food? He could hunt, but most of the things he could bring her would probably be unfit. Besides, they had eaten together hundreds of times. Was a date simply "eating but with candles"? Was the candle what made the difference?

A restaurant. He'd seen a couple in town when he tagged along with her while shopping for groceries. Lights, tables, people sitting while others served them. The concept had seemed absurd then. It still did. But she had smiled at the screen when the couple entered.

His hand closed into a fist on the cushion.

Objectively -he forced himself to think it, because his kind was nothing if not objective about status- he was a worthy male. The mating mark on his arm proved it, the ink extending past what most achieved. He had survived capture, magic, the war they forced him to wage. He had dealt with those who attacked him while looking for Steve, alone, unarmed, with nothing but what nature had given him.

For his species, that was enough. More than enough, actually. It was superiority.

But she was not his species.

And when she spoke of "effort," of "showing you care," of "putting time into the moment", none of those things required physical traits or abilities. They required something he couldn't name.

Where did he fit in human standards?

He listened for hours while she spoke of things he barely understood: her customers, knitting patterns, shipping policies of some digital platform. He had learned to make toast, to tolerate shoes, to sit in a car that vibrated wrong against his nerves.

The sex was good, that was unquestionable. But she had said once, casually, that for humans sex wasn't enough.

He felt cold suddenly.

Because what else did he do, really? He couldn't buy her things. Couldn't take her to places. Couldn't give her the kind of life that humans built with houses and plans and futures that stretched beyond the next tide. What he could give didn't translate into human currency.

And he had seen what happened to males who couldn't provide in the ways their mates needed in other species. They were left behind.

She stirred against him, murmuring something unintelligible. His hand moved automatically to her hair, caressing it, soothing her back to stillness. The gesture was unconscious now.

That, he thought. That is effort. Learning her. Adapting to her.

But would she see it that way? Would any human?

He looked at the darkened television, then down at his mate sleeping against his chest, completely trusting, her body relaxed in a way no one ever had been with him.

She had chosen him. Was choosing him still, every day she came back to the shore, every night she let him into her house, her nest, her warmth.

I have never shown her that I keep choosing with a gesture. I have simply... stayed.

The thought sat heavy as stone in his chest.

He didn't know if that was enough.

But he knew he couldn't keep asking her to settle for what he didn't understand.

He would learn. He would watch. He would find out what humans needed from each other when they sat across a table with candles and flowers and offered each other their time.

Even if it felt like performing. Even if it made him feel like a creature wearing a skin that didn't fit.

Because she had said yes. And that meant he had to try.

----

A couple of days passed after that.

Not that she noticed anything unusual… not at first. Bucky still came to the cottage, still took up his space on the couch, helped with some things. But his mind was elsewhere, turning like an undertow, circling the same problem from every angle.

She had to sleep, eventually. He didn't always. And those dead hours, when her breathing slowed, and her body went slack against his in the bed, became his window.

The movies.

Not the ones she picked for them to watch together; those had complicated plots and dialogue he couldn't quite track. No. Bucky waited until she was asleep, then took the remote and searched for the ones that seemed to show what people did to impress each other.

The first two nights were frustrating. The movies showed men bringing flowers -he didn't know where to get flowers, or what kind- or reserving tables in places with dim lights – also he had no coin-, or saying things that sounded rehearsed and false.

Is that what she expects? That I pretend to be someone I'm not?

But on the third night, he found a different movie.

A woman walked along a beach at night. Moonlight silvered the water, and then the sea began to glow. Blue. A blue that moved with the waves, that lit up where her feet touched the shore.

Bucky sat up slowly on the couch.

That, he thought. I can do that.

There wasn’t a male there accompanying her, but the woman on screen laughed, spread her arms, spun in the darkness while the water around her flickered like the sea was alive.

He knew where to find that blue. He'd seen it before, floating on the surface like scattered stars.

He would need something to carry it back.

He could already imagine her face. The way her eyes would widen. The sound she'd make, that soft breath she let out when something surprised her in a good way.

He would make her make that sound.

----

The dairy aisle was cold enough to raise goosebumps on her arms, but she lingered there anyway, hand hovering over the butter display.

She grabbed one pack, then paused. Her fingers twitched. She reached for a second pack, then a third, then caught herself and laughed under her breath.

He's going to eat all of this in three days.

She tossed the extra packs into the cart anyway; the butter budget was just part of her life now. She pushed the cart forward, past the yogurts and the cheeses, but her mind had already drifted.

Four days now. She'd noticed a change in him, subtle but unmistakable. He was still there, still present, but something was different.

His silences felt heavier. His eyes would drift to the window when he thought she wasn't looking, and there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before. His hand, which used to find hers instinctively, now rested still on his own thigh. Like he was waiting for something. Or preparing for something.

Four nights, she thought again, he hasn't reached for me first. And coming from him, that was practically a scream.

She'd asked him about it, of course. Twice.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? You seem-"

"I'm fine."

The second time, he'd said it with enough finality that she'd let it drop. But she hadn't stopped noticing.

She turned down the next aisle, grabbing a box of tea, -a new strawberry blend- and put it into the cart.

Maybe she was overthinking it. He wasn't exactly a talker. He showed things through actions, through presence, and sometimes, words didn't come easily to him. They never had.

But this felt different.

It wasn't the closed-off silence of someone hiding pain, or the distant quiet of someone lost in old thoughts. It was more like... he was somewhere else.

She paused at the end of the aisle, leaning on the cart for a moment, staring at a display of crackers without really seeing them.

Maybe it's the sea.

The thought surfaced before she could stop it, and once it was there, it wouldn't leave. She knew -had always known- that the ocean was part of him in ways she couldn't fully understand.

Not just his home, but his blood. His nature.

What if the restlessness she'd been sensing was something biological pulling at him from the deep?

What if he was trying to figure out how to tell her he needed to leave?

To swim far and deep, to follow whatever instinct was whispering to him?

She remembered what he'd told her, months ago, before they'd become anything. My kind doesn't attach; everything has a purpose. And though he'd changed, though he'd chosen to stay, what part of that nature still pulsed beneath his skin?

Her stomach churned.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. You're spiraling. He said he was fine.

She grabbed a box of crackers at random, threw it in the cart, and forced herself to keep moving. The checkout line was short. She paid, bagged her groceries, and walked out into the cold afternoon air.

The ride back to the cottage was quiet. The sky was overcast, the sea a dull grey, and the wind carried the smell of salt and wet stone. She let herself drift, still thinking about him, still turning over the same questions.

She'd asked him, once, if he ever missed the deeps. The places where the sun didn't reach, where the pressure was so great it would crush a human body. He'd said yes, but he'd said it like it didn't matter. Like she was more important than the ocean.

She'd believed him. She still believed him.

But that didn't mean the sea had stopped calling him.

She reached the cottage door and fumbled with her keys, nudging it open with her hip. The house was empty when she stepped inside.

No Bucky sprawled on the couch, no heavy presence in the kitchen eating toast. He'd said something about the sea yesterday. Feeling the pull. Needing to swim.

She'd nodded, not questioning it. She understood that part of him better than he probably realized. The sea was his home. His body needed it the way hers needed air.

But now, standing in the quiet kitchen, she felt the absence more sharply than she expected.

She unpacked the groceries slowly, putting the butter in the fridge, stacking the tea next to the kettle, folding the reusable bags and tucking them under the sink. Her movements were automatic, her mind elsewhere.

What if he's really trying to figure out how to leave?

The thought hit her like cold water, and she had to stop, her hands braced on the counter, breathing through it.

No. That's not who he is. That's not what we are.

But she'd seen the way he looked at the sea sometimes. The longing in his eyes, even when he was holding her. He'd spent decades alone, wandering, surviving. What if that part of him was too deep to change?

She wrapped her hands around the warm mug a few minutes later, staring out the window at the grey sea, and tried to convince herself she was being ridiculous.

He wasn't going anywhere.

He'd told her, in his own way, that she was his home now.

She had to trust that.

----

The dock was quiet the night of the recollection.

He'd swum the distance, moving through the dark water with the efficiency that only came from being in his element, silent and fluid as a shadow.

The swim had been easy. Almost relaxing, compared to what he was about to do.

He surfaced near the pilings, his head breaking the water in a slow, cautious rise. His eyes swept the dock, the fishing boats, the shore beyond. Empty. Good.

The transformation came quickly, quicker every time he did it, a familiar twist of bone and muscle, his limbs retracting and reshaping, his skin pulling tight over a form he'd never quite learned to love.

He bit back the sounds that wanted to escape his lips, the low grunts and hisses that always accompanied the shift.

It hurt.

It always hurt. But he was used to pain, and he didn't have time to dwell on it.

When it was done, he was human again. Naked and cold. The night air bit at his bare skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. Disgraceful.

He'd considered bringing clothes. Briefly. But the swim had been long, and he had quite the feat to perform after leaving the docks.

Besides, he'd assumed the place would be empty.

He pulled himself up onto the wooden planks, his bare feet silent against the damp surface. The wood was rough and splintered beneath his soles, and he moved carefully, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

A few fishing boats bobbed at their moorings, dark and empty. The air smelled of fuel and salt and the faint, rotting sweetness of bait left too long in the sun.

His naked body moved carefully, scanning the ground, then froze.

A sharp sting shot up from his foot. He looked down. A piece of broken glass, glinting in the dim light, buried in the pad of his heel.

He hissed through his teeth, pulling his foot up to inspect the damage. Blood welled dark against his skin.

"Fuck," he muttered, the word still foreign on his tongue but satisfying somehow. That was a human word he'd learned well.

He pulled the glass free -a small piece, nothing too deep- and pressed his thumb against the wound until the bleeding slowed. It would heal quickly. It always did.

But the irritation lingered.

This wouldn't have happened in the sea.

He limped forward a few steps, testing the weight on his foot, then dismissed it. He'd had worse. Much worse. A piece of glass was nothing.

He found what he came for near the end of the dock, a stack of discarded plastic barrels, the kind used for storing fish bait or industrial fluids. They were empty, smelled clean enough, with sealed lids that would keep all inside during the journey.

He tested one. It was large. Heavy, even empty. Carrying two would be a challenge.

He dragged them to the water's edge, then paused, looking out at the dark expanse of the sea.

He slipped into the water silently and shifted again, his limbs spreading wide, tasting the currents, orienting himself.

The barrels floated beside him. He wrapped two tentacles around each, securing them against his body, and began to swim.

The current was against him tonight, but he was stronger. The town faded behind him, then the coast, then the shallows, until he was alone in open water, the stars above and the darkness below.

He swam for hours. Past the fishing grounds, past the drop-off where the seabed fell away into nothing. The water grew colder. The current shifted, then stilled.

And then he saw it.

A faint glow on the horizon, spreading across the surface like a slow dawn. Blue. Electric. Alive.

He slowed, letting himself drift, watching it approach. The light was thick here, so dense it seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Thousands upon thousands of tiny organisms, each one a point of light, gathering in the warm currents to perform their silent, ancient dance.

He floated among them for a moment, surrounded by blue, and felt something in his chest loosen. This was his world. This was what he could offer.

Carefully, he uncapped one of the barrels and dipped it beneath the surface. The algae flowed in, glowing faintly, swirling like liquid starlight. He waited until the barrel was full, sealed it, and repeated the process with the second.

The weight was immense. Each barrel was heavy with water, and the distance back was just as far. But he'd carried heavier things. Two barrels of glowing water were nothing.

He turned and began the long swim back, the blue light trailing behind him like a phosphorescent wake. For a while, he let himself feel the satisfaction of making an effort.

By the time he reached the cave, his muscles were burning and the sky was beginning to lighten. He dragged the barrels onto the rock, his muscles burning with exhaustion, and looked at the pools where he'd planned to pour the glowing water.

The tide would reach them in a few hours. If he poured the algae now, it would be washed away before nightfall. All that effort, wasted.

He cursed under his breath, a low, frustrated sound.

He thought about the alcove they used in mating season, and with a final surge of effort, he hauled the barrels there.

His arms trembled with the strain, and his limbs ached from swimming for hours and carrying impossible weights.

He was done.

He let himself slide down into the deepest pool, the cool water enveloping his tired body, and he didn't even have the energy to find a comfortable position. His limbs went slack, his eyes closed, and he let the darkness take him.

----

He woke to the sound of water dripping and the soft gray light filtering through the cave's chimney.

His body was stiff, and his muscles protested as he stretched, uncoiling his limbs one by one. The exhaustion from the night before had settled into a dull ache, manageable but persistent.

The light told him it was late afternoon. Almost evening.

He cursed and dragged himself to grab the containers. Then, he uncapped them and began to work.

Once the last remaining of glowing water was poured, he stopped, breathing hard, and let himself look.

It was… beautiful. He'd known it would be.

The pools glowed softly, even with sunrays still entering from the mouth and the vents. The light reflected off the wet stone and danced across the ceiling. The cave was transformed. It wasn't the kind of beauty his kind usually made: functional, purposeful, built for survival. This was something else. Something that existed just to be seen.

He hoped she'd see it the way he did.

He then moved through the cave, gathering what he needed.

From the alcove he pulled the blankets. The ones she'd brought from the cottage, stored in plastic bags. The ones that still smelled like them, and from time to time, they still used.

He carried them to a flat section of rock near the glowing pools, where the surface was smooth enough to be comfortable, and spread them out with clumsy hands.

It wasn't a bed. Not really. But it was soft, and it was theirs.

Also, some things from the cottage that he took before departing for the lights.

The tupperware with the strawberries that he'd seen her pack the other day, rinsing them carefully, patting them dry with paper towels before putting them on the fridge.

He had doubted. They were hers, and he was taking things from her only to give them back as a gesture. It felt... wrong. Like stealing. Like he was pretending to offer something he hadn't earned.

Then he remembered what she'd said, weeks ago, when he'd hesitated to take food from her pantry.

"Bucky, you live here now. Half the time, anyway. You don't have to ask. It's our food."

Ours.

So he took the strawberries. And the wine, too, a bottle of white she'd bought for a dinner she never ended up making, forgotten in the back of the fridge. He didn't know if it was the right kind. He didn't know much about human wine at all.

But he'd seen it in the movies; it seemed important, and he wanted to get this right, so he had snatched a cooler, ice, and the bottle and gone out before she came back from wherever she was.

----

He stepped back and looked at the glowing pools, the blankets, the food.

It looked like something from one of those movies. Something magical. Something that said I thought about you. I planned this. You matter to me.

He felt a flicker of pride. Small, fragile, unfamiliar in this context.

Then he thought about the logistics.

He shouldn’t be just there, waiting for her to appear through the mouth of the cave by inspiration.

He'd have to go get her. Bring her here. And hope that when she saw what he'd done, she'd understand what he was trying to say.

He slid to one of the pools, looking at his work, and waited for the right time.

----

He waited until the sun was low, just before it slipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that made the sea look as if it were burning.

He climbed the path to the cottage with his heart beating harder than it should have been. Ridiculous. He'd faced a lot of things trying to kill him. Walking up a hill to knock on a door shouldn't make him feel like this.

Once at the door, he took a deep breath and let himself in.

She was wearing something he'd never seen before. A dress -not the comfortable things she wore around the house, not the practical clothes she wore to town. Something softer. Her hair was different, too, in a way that made her look almost like a different person.

He just… stared.

Humans, he thought, do this on purpose. They change their appearance to signal something.

She smiled when she saw him. That was good. Her eyes looked brighter than they had earlier, when he'd left. He'd been gone for almost two days, and she'd clearly been busy preparing for something.

Maybe she expected me to come back.

He hadn't told her he would. He never did. Some days he just... left and came back when the sea had released him. She never complained. Never asked where he'd been. She'd just open the door and let him in, like it was natural. Like she knew he would always come back.

He'd never told her he would.

She has no reason to expect me tonight, he realized. 

But she was dressed like she might meet someone.

"Hey," she said, closing the distance. "You're back."

"I said I would be."

He hadn't. But it felt true anyway.

She chuckled. A small, amused sound. "You didn't, actually. Still, I'm glad you're here." She glanced over her shoulder, into the house, and something in her expression flickered. "But… actually, I was just about to head out."

Something cold went down his spine.

"Head out?"

"Ian, Arthur's friend, the one from the town? He and his girlfriend invited me for drinks at the new pub. They've been trying to get me to go for some weeks now, knowing I don’t go out a lot." She shrugged, a little apologetically. "I figured I'd finally take them up on it. Since I didn't know when you'd be back."

Since I didn't know when you'd be back.

It was fair. Completely fair. He never told her. He never could tell her, because he didn't know himself. She understood that. She'd always understood that.

But right now, the understanding didn't help.

Because he knew that name. He remembered the half-eaten chocolate on her coffee table, the way his chest had twisted when he'd realized another male had given her an offering. On Valentine's Day. On a day meant for courtship.

He'd said nothing then. Had no right to say anything. They weren't anything. He'd told himself that over and over, had let himself drown in that denial for months.

But he remembered.

The one who gave her chocolate. The one who had a girlfriend, supposedly, but still gave offerings to another female. The one who, even now, was taking her out at night.

His jaw clenched.

"You're going out with him," he said. Flat. Controlled. The kind of control he'd learned to use when he was trying not to do something he'd regret.

Her brow furrowed. "With him and his girlfriend, Bucky. Both of them.

"You arranged to go out with him."

"I didn't arrange it. They invited me." She paused, and something in her expression shifted, a hint of wariness. "And I told you, his girlfriend is coming too. It's not-" She stopped, exhaled. "It's not what you think."

What I think.

He didn't know what he thought. Only that the name Ian had lodged itself somewhere in his stomach and was burning.

"The chocolate," he said. "On the human holiday. He gave you chocolate."

She stared at him. For a long moment, she didn't speak.

Then, slowly: "That was months ago, Bucky."

"I remember."

"That was different," she said quietly. "We weren't even-” she sighed. “Ian has a long-term partner," she repeated, firmer this time. "And I'm going out with both of them. Not just him. Both."

The emphasis was deliberate. He heard it.

But his blood didn't care. His blood was already moving, already readying itself for a fight that wasn't there.

He looked at her dress again. The soft fabric. The careful way she'd fixed her hair.

She dressed up for him. The thought came sharp and cruel. She dressed up to go out with the male who gave her an offering. Not for me.

And then, quieter: But I never gave her anything. Not on that day. Not when it mattered.

"You didn't tell me," he mumbled, "That you were going out with him."

"Because I didn't know when you'd be back. You don't have a phone, Bucky. You don't tell me when you're leaving or when you're coming back. I can't just sit here waiting; I have a life."

Again, it was reasonable. He knew it was.

But reason had nothing to do with the way he felt.

He'd been trying so hard to do the human thing. The date thing. The effort thing. He'd spent a day swimming and dragging heavy barrels through the sea, all so he could show her something beautiful, something that proved he'd thought about her, that she mattered.

And she was walking out the door.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them:

"I was going to give you a date," he said. The words came out rough, scraped. "Tonight. In the cave."

She went still.

"A date?"

"Yes." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "The human thing. The one we talked about. I was going to show you. But you are going out with him."

He couldn't say the name.

She stared at him. Her lips parted slightly, and something in her expression shifted. Surprise, then confusion, then something softer.

"You were planning a date for tonight?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Bucky." Her voice came out soft, almost careful. "You didn't have to-"

"Don't." He cut her off, rougher than he meant. "Don't say 'not necessary.' I know it's not necessary. I did it anyway."

----

She blinked.

The words hung in the air between them. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed somewhere past her shoulder, and she watched the muscle in his temple twitch.

He's nervous, she realized.

Bucky. Nervous.

The man who'd faced down his own kind, who'd swum through dark water with nothing but claws and teeth, who'd looked at her like she was the most fragile thing he'd ever held, was nervous.

Because he planned a date.

She'd spent the last few days watching him drift in and out of the cottage, his silences heavier than usual, his eyes distant. She'd told herself it was the sea calling him. That maybe he was figuring out how to tell her he needed space.

And all along, he was planning a date.

She almost laughed.

Almost.

But the look on his face -the way he was bracing himself, like he expected her to tell him it was stupid, unnecessary, too much- stopped her.

"Bucky," she said with a soft voice. "You planned a date for us in the cave?"

His throat worked. "I- yes."

"And you've been working on this for days."

He didn't answer. But the way his eyes flicked away told her everything.

She stepped closer. "I've been thinking you were pulling away."

His head snapped back to her. "What?"

"The silences. The lost gazes. I thought-" She stopped, shook her head. "I thought maybe the sea was calling you. That you were trying to figure out how to tell me you needed… to go."

Something broke in his expression. His hand came up, not quite touching her, hovering near her elbow like he was afraid to make contact.

"No," he said, and the word came out hoarse. "No. I was-" He stopped, jaw working. "I was trying to give you something. The thing we talked about… when we watched that movie." He gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding into the motion. "I thought you deserved that. With effort. With-" He stopped, swallowed.

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, he looked almost lost.

She didn't think. She just moved.

Her arms came around him, pressing her body against his, and she felt the way he went rigid beneath her touch. Every muscle locked, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, held captive by whatever was still coiled tight inside him.

For a heartbeat, he didn't move at all. Just stood there, frozen, like he'd forgotten how to accept comfort.

Then, slowly, something in him gave way.

His arms came up, and she felt it, the faint shake of his fingers against her back. Then his arms closed around her, tighter than she expected, pulling her into his chest like she was the only solid thing in a world that had been shifting beneath him for days.

She felt the breath leave his lungs in a long, shaky exhale, felt the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen, increment by increment, like a rope slowly being untied.

"Okay," she murmured against his chest.

He didn't answer. Just pressed his face into her hair and breathed.

She stayed there, letting him hold her, letting him collect himself. Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through the strands at his nape, and she felt him shiver. Not from cold.

"Okay," she said again, softer this time. "Let's go then. Show me what you prepared."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his brow furrowing. "But you were going out-"

She almost smiled at the way he said it, all clipped and reluctant, like the words tasted bad.

"I was," she said. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "And now I'm not."

He blinked, confused, as she unlocked the screen and opened the messaging app. She tapped the voice note icon and held the phone up to her lips, watching his face as she spoke.

"Hey Ian, I’m sorry, but something came up, and I won't be able to make it tonight. Nothing bad, so don’t worry. I’m so sorry for the late notice. Tell Hannah I said hi, and enjoy your drinks!"

She pressed send and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"There. Done. It’s not like they need me as a third wheel."

"Third wheel?" he asked slowly, brows furrowed in confusion. "What would you do with a wheel in a pub?"

She laughed.

"That means you're the extra person when a couple goes out," she explained, caressing his back. "You're the third one. The one who's not part of the couple. It's a little awkward sometimes, because they're focused on each other and you're just... there."

His frown deepened. "Why a wheel? I don't see why it would be a third thing."

"It's just an expression." She smiled, stepping back just enough to take his hand. "I'll explain more on the way."

He didn't move at first, but then he gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

"Okay," he said.

She grabbed his hand and tugged him gently toward the door. "Lead the way. I want to see this date you planned."

As she followed him out into the cool evening air, she felt his fingers tighten around hers. She noticed, too, as they walked, that the tension in his shoulders had eased. His steps were steadier. His jaw, still set, had lost that sharp edge of worry.

There you are, she thought. There's my Bucky.

----

The path to the cave was familiar by now. She'd walked it enough times, in the golden glow of late afternoon and the gray hush of overcast skies. But tonight, something was different.

A faint glow spilled from the mouth of the cave, soft and blue, pulsing like a slow heartbeat against the darkening sky. She slowed, her hand tightening around his. The light wasn't harsh or artificial; it was gentle.

"What is that?" she whispered.

He didn't answer. Just watched her, waiting.

She stepped forward, drawn by the glow, and when she reached the entrance, she stopped.

The cave was transformed.

The pools that usually sat dark and still were now filled with liquid light. Blue and silver and white, shifting and swirling like captured stars, drifting in slow, hypnotic circles across the water's surface.

The light reflected off the wet stone walls, dancing across the ceiling in rippling patterns that made the rock itself seem alive. It was like standing inside a living constellation, like the night sky had decided to come down and make its home in the dark.

She couldn't speak. Couldn't find the words. Her breath caught somewhere in her chest, and she just stood there, drinking it in, letting the wonder settle into her bones.

Then she started moving, her feet carrying her deeper into the cave without conscious thought. The glow grew brighter as she walked, the light intensifying as she passed each pool.

Some were shallow, barely more than puddles of liquid starlight. Others were deeper, the blue so rich it seemed to have weight, like she could reach in and scoop it up in her hands.

And then she saw them, on a flat section of rock that overlooked the largest pool: a nest of blankets had been spread out. And on top of them, arranged with careful precision: a green Tupperware container, and beside it, a bottle of white wine.

She turned slowly, her heart too full for her chest to hold.

He was watching her. Standing just a few feet away, hands at his sides, his face unreadable but his body tight with tension, like he was bracing himself. Like he was waiting for her to tell him it wasn't enough. That he'd gotten it wrong. That she'd expected something different.

"Bucky," she breathed.

He didn't speak. His throat worked, a swallow he couldn't quite hide.

"It's-" She stopped, shook her head, tried again. "It's beautiful. It's so beautiful."

Something in his expression eased, a crack in the armor he'd been wearing for days. "I thought… you would like it," he said, and his voice was a little unsteady.

She crossed the space between them in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. "I love it. I love it."

His arms came around her, and she felt it, the release of tension, the way his whole body seemed to exhale. The grip of his arms was careful, still testing, but the rigid wall he'd built around himself was finally coming down.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, a smile spreading across her face. "You're the best mate ever."

He went still.

The words hung in the air between them, and she caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the way his breath caught for just a fraction of a second. His pupils dilated, just a little, and she saw the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.

"You're the best mate ever," she repeated, softer this time, and she watched him process the word. Mate. His word. His language.

His hand found hers, his fingers closing around her smaller ones, and she felt the slight tremor in them, barely there, but unmistakable. He squeezed gently, and pulled softly at her hand.

"Come," he managed. "Sit with me."

She hesitated a moment.

"Bucky," she said slowly, "don't you want to shift first?"

He stopped, and she saw the brief flicker of uncertainty cross his face. His mouth opened, then closed. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured.

"I thought... the idea was a date, as a human thing. I assumed you would prefer-"

She reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw. "I prefer you. Whatever way you want to be tonight. The date isn't just for me, Bucky. It's supposed to be for us. Both of us. I want you to enjoy it too."

He stared at her, processing, and she watched the conflict play out across his features. Then, slowly, a spark of his usual confidence flickered back to life.

"In that case..."

His hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, his fingers finding the buckle with deliberate ease. His eyes never left hers, and there was something in his gaze now, a hint of the old Bucky, the one who knew exactly what he was worth.

She stepped forward, her own hands reaching for his. "Let me help."

His breath caught, just slightly, when her fingers brushed against his, taking over the task of undoing his belt. Then she worked the button free, tugged the zipper down, and let the denim fall. He stepped out of them, and she pushed the fabric aside with her foot.

"You're not just saying that to see me undress?" he murmured, and his voice was low, amused, a hint of the teasing she'd missed.

She laughed softly, her hands sliding up his chest as she pushed his t-shirt up. "One thing is not mutually exclusive from the other."

He hissed as the fabric cleared his shoulders, and she took the opportunity to press her mouth to the curve of his neck, just below his jaw. He tilted his head back, a low sound rumbling in his chest, and her fingers splayed across the warm skin of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tightened beneath her touch.

Then his hands were in her hair, tilting her face up to meet his, and when his mouth found hers, there was nothing careful about it.

This kiss was hungry, deep, the kind that stole breath and made her forget where she ended and he began. His tongue swept against her lower lip, and she opened for him without hesitation, pulling him closer, her fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back. He tasted like salt and something darker, something that was entirely him, and she let herself drown in it.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her buttocks, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the heat of his body pressed against her through the thin fabric of her dress.

She whimpered against his mouth, and he answered with a low groan, his teeth grazing her lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, his forehead rested against hers, his eyes still dark and heavy-lidded.

"Turn around," he said, his voice rougher now, quieter. "I don't want you to see."

She nodded, but before letting go, her hands slid down to the waistband of his boxers, her fingers hooking into the fabric. "These too," she murmured, “you aren’t a cartoon, and they are not cheap.”

He let out a low sound, almost a growl of surprise, as she slid them down his hips, working the fabric past his thighs until he stepped out of them. Her eyes dropped for just a moment -she couldn't help it- before he gently turned her, guiding her to face the wall. Then he pressed against her from behind.

His body was warm and solid against her back, one hand bracing against the stone beside her head, the other splayed across her hip. His mouth found her ear, breath hot against her skin.

"Now," he said, low and rough. "Stay like that."

She felt the word vibrate through her, felt the heat of his naked chest pressed against her, and for a moment, her body screamed at her to turn around, forget about the date entirely and just climb him like a tree. The thought made her fingers curl against the stone.

She took a breath, steadying herself.

Focus.

But his hand was still on her hip; he was still warm against her back, and the ghost of his breath still lingered at her ear.

It took everything she had to push those thoughts away, to remember that this moment -the cave, the lights, the blankets- was about more than just her wanting him.

She pressed her palms flat against the cool rock and waited.

Behind her, she heard him take a slow, steadying breath, and then he walked away.

Then the sounds began briefly after that. A sickening crack. Bone shifting, rearranging, finding a shape that wasn't meant to be seen. She flinched at the sound, her fingers pressing harder against the stone, and she heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

He was trying to be quiet. She could tell. He was holding back the sounds he didn't want her to hear.

Another crack, wetter this time, followed by a low, gritted grunt that he couldn't quite swallow. Her eyes squeezed shut. She focused on the texture of the rock beneath her palms, on the rhythm of her own breathing, on anything but the sounds of his body pulling itself apart and putting itself back together.

Then came the soft, wet splash of his limbs meeting the stone floor. One, then another, and another after that, uncoiling into the water, the sound of suction cups releasing and reattaching as he adjusted to his true form.

"Okay," he said, and his voice was lower now, richer.

She turned slowly.

He was half in the water, his torso rising from the dark surface, and his limbs -black and blue and gleaming- curling around him in familiar, graceful arcs. The bioluminescence cast his features in soft blue light, shadows flickering across the angles of his face.

His chest was still heaving slightly, and she could see the fine sheen of sweat on his skin, the evidence of what the shift had cost him.

But he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and that look made everything else fall away.

She crossed the space between them, her hand reaching for his. He took it, and she let him guide her to the blankets, settling onto the soft fabric with him beside her.

The moment they were seated, his limbs moved with a quiet, possessive certainty. One curled around her waist, another wrapped loosely around her calf, and a third settled across her thighs, heavy and slightly moving. He pulled her closer without a word, and she felt herself relax into his hold, the tension of the past days finally beginning to ease.

Then his nose brushed against her throat. A slow, deliberate inhale. She felt the subtle graze of his lips against her skin, and a shiver traced down her spine.

Her hands found the Tupperware container, and she opened it, the scent of strawberries rising up between them. She pulled one out, holding it up to his mouth.

"Strawberries," she said softly. "You're so damn thoughtful," she added, and she watched a faint flush creep across his cheeks.

It wasn't obvious. Not like a human blush. But she'd learned to read him, to see the subtle shift in his skin, the way his gaze dropped for just a second. It made her heart squeeze.

He reached for the wine next, his fingers closing around the bottle. He examined it, turning it over once, his claws finding the cork. He pulled, once, and it slipped. A low grunt of frustration. He tried again, angling his claw differently, and this time it came free with a soft, satisfying pop.

He looked at the bottle, then at her, then at the cave around them.

"Didn't think of cups," he admitted, and there was something almost sheepish in his voice. Like he'd studied so hard and still forgotten something essential.

She smiled and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "It doesn't matter. I don't need cups. This-" she gestured at the cave, at the glowing water, at the blankets and the fruit and him, "this is more than I could have asked for. It's perfect."

His eyes searched hers, like he was trying to see if she meant it.

"Seriously," she added, and she let her gaze travel across the cave, watching the way the bioluminescence danced across the wet stone walls. The blue light rippled and shifted, casting moving shadows that made the cave feel alive. "It's beautiful. How did you do this?"

His chest rose and fell with a breath. "I found something I could give you," he said. "Something only I could do."

That was all he offered. No details.

She wanted to ask. She could see it in the slight tension in his limbs, the evidence of what the task had cost him. But if he didn't want to talk about it, she wouldn't push.

Because she knew him. Knew that if he wasn't bragging about the effort, it was because it had been more than he wanted to admit.

So she let it go.

----

He watched her take another strawberry from the box, observed the way her fingers closed around the soft red flesh, and he felt proud. His mate liked it. What he'd made. What he'd done. She'd called it beautiful, called it perfect, said she couldn't have asked for more.

She held the strawberry out to him, and he leaned forward, taking it from her fingers with his mouth. Her skin brushed his lips briefly, accidentally and electric. She smiled at him, with a knowing smile, and he felt the satisfaction washing away the exhaustion.

In his world, you didn't press food into someone's mouth and watch them taste it, didn't wait for their expression to shift with pleasure. Didn’t indulge. It was not necessary. It was, plainly worthless.

She took a sip from the wine bottle, her lips wrapping around the glass rim, and handed it to him. He lifted it to his own mouth, tasting the warmth, the faint sweetness that lingered where her mouth had been.

They talked. Nothing important. She asked about the human form again, about the things he'd learned to tolerate. He told her about shoes -how he still hated them, how they felt like cages for his feet- and she murmured soothingly at him, a sound that made his limbs curl tighter around her.

And beneath all the merriness, he could smell it.

Her arousal.

It was subtle, buried under the sweetness of the wine and the salt of the sea air. But it had been there since they kissed, building as the night wore on, a slow, steady heat that made his skin prickle and his thoughts scatter.

He tried to focus on her words. He really did. But his limbs, traitors that they were, had begun to move on their own. One slid higher up her thigh, the suction cups grazing her skin. Another curled around her waist, pulling her closer. He felt the heat of her body through the thin cloth, felt the way she yielded against him, and his jaw clenched.

This isn't how it goes.

He'd watched the movies. The humans in the restaurants, the candles and the wine and the careful rituals, or the walks in the park, or the theatre.

They didn't do what he wanted to do.

They sat across from each other, kept their hands visible, their bodies apart. They talked. They laughed. And when the male escorted the female to the door, maybe they kissed, and maybe they didn't.

But they didn't -he was fairly certain- get distracted by the taste of their mate's arousal while they were still eating.

He could feel his control slipping. His concentration, sharp and focused moments ago, was fracturing. He tried to pull his limbs back, to give her space, to remember the ritual she deserved.

But she shifted against him, and one of his suction cups brushed her inner thigh, and he couldn't. He couldn't.

His mind was spinning, caught between the Thal'kyr part of him that wanted nothing more than to pin her down and fuck her, and the part that wanted to prove he could do this right.

He opened his mouth, tried to form words, tried to remember what she'd been asking him-

"-ucky. Hey."

Her voice cut through the haze, and he blinked, focusing on her face. She was looking at him, her head tilted slightly, a small crease between her brows.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and the question was gentle, but there was something in her voice... concern?

His jaw worked.

"I..." he started, and stopped.

She shifted again, adjusting her position on the blankets, and the movement pressed her thigh more firmly against the limb that had been creeping upward. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat -barely a breath- but he heard it.

Felt it.

The last thread of restraint snapped.

"I want to have sex," he blurted. His eyes met hers, almost obligingly. "But that doesn't… happen on dates." He scowled, frustrated. "In the movies, they don't-"

She started laughing.

It wasn't cruel or mocking, and she pressed her hand to her mouth like she was trying to stop it. "Bucky," she said, and her voice was warm, amused, "maybe you watched a very vanilla catalogue of films. It depends on the movie."

He frowned at her, knitting his brow in confusion. "What do you mean, depends-”

She waved a hand, still smiling. "Let's just say-" She leaned closer, her hand finding his, her fingers curling around his, and she looked at him with a gaze that was anything but innocent. "Not all dates end with sex. But plenty do."

He stared at her. She was looking at him with those eyes, her scent curling around him, her hand warm in his, and he felt the last shred of his careful composure crumble.

"Plenty," he repeated, and the word came out rough, hungry.

"Plenty," she confirmed.

She lifted her free hand, counting on her fingers as she spoke. "You brought me to a beautiful place you prepared with care. We sat down. We ate. We drank. We talked."

Her free hand traced a slow, deliberate path across his chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

"I think the date already hit most of the steps." Her fingers splayed flat against his skin, warm and certain. "Which means we could easily move on to the part you're so interested in."

She leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"With the added bonus that you don't have to walk me home."

He didn't speak.

Couldn't.

Because she was looking at him like that, her scent thick and sweet in his nostrils, her hand warm on his skin, and every thought he'd been trying to hold onto scattered like fish fleeing a net.

He'd done well. He'd provided. He'd created something beautiful, something she'd loved, and now she was offering herself to him in return.

And he was going to take what she offered.

His instincts took control.

His limbs moved before he could think.

They wrapped around her, lifting her body, arranging her. One curled around her waist, another supported her back, and a third slid beneath her thighs, spreading them apart as he settled her onto his lap. She gasped, and then she was straddling him, her hands finding his shoulders for balance, her eyes dark and wanting.

He didn't need to lie her down. His limbs could hold her exactly where he wanted her, could maneuver her however he pleased, could keep her suspended and open and completely at his mercy.

And he wanted her exactly like this.

"Bucky-" she breathed, and he could feel the way her thighs tightened around him, the way her fingers curled into his shoulders.

He smiled. Slowly.

"I like you here," he murmured, his hands finding her hips, guiding her closer. "Right where I want you."

His limbs shifted beneath her, adjusting her position, spreading her wider. He could feel the heat permeating through the thin fabric of her underwear, and the knowledge that she was already so ready for him made him groan.

But before he could do anything else, her hands slid from his shoulders down his chest, her fingers trailing over his skin slowly. She leaned forward, her mouth finding the curve of his neck, and then she bit down, just enough to make him hiss.

His grip on her hips tightened.

"All night," he said, his voice low and rough, "I've been wanting to touch you like this."

Her teeth grazed his skin again, and she ground down against him, shameless and wanting. "Then stop talking about it."

He gently fisted her hair, throwing back her head.

"Patience, mate."

His mouth found her throat, and he breathed her in, slow and deliberate, letting her scent flood his senses.

"Bucky…" she breathed, and her hands came up to frame his face.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the expression on his face was pure, unapologetic satisfaction.

"You smell so good," he said, his lips brushing her jaw. "You've been like this all night. I could smell you while we were eating." A low sound rumbled in his chest. "You wanted me the whole time."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't let her.

His mouth covered hers, deep and possessive, and her hands tangled in his hair, tugging; her hips never stopping the grinding against him. His limbs moved with purpose now, one sliding the hem of her dress higher, another finding the edge of her underwear.

He didn't rush. He savored. Every inch of skin he uncovered, he tasted. Every sound she made, he cataloged.

When his mouth finally left hers, trailing down her throat, she gasped his name.

"Tell me," he murmured as his lips grazed her cleavage. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want," she breathed, almost whining. "I want you."

His teeth grazed her skin, just enough to make her gasp. "Good."

One of his limbs found its way under her panties, the suction cups grazing the sensitive skin, and she arched against him with a soft cry. He watched her face, watched the way her eyes fluttered, the way her lips parted as he teased her wet, little pearl. He was in control now. He had her exactly where he wanted her.

His mouth found her ear, his voice low and rough.

"Does this happen on dates?" he asked, and there was amusement in his tone now, a hint of the teasing that had always been there beneath the surface. "Does the male do this-" his limb pressed down in a soft, deliberate stroke against her entrance, and she gasped, "-and the woman still eats?"

He pulled back to look at her face, heated and wanting, and he felt pure, unapologetic, masculine smugness.

"Because I don't remember seeing that," he continued, his teeth grazing her lower lip, "in any of the ones you showed me."

She chuckled, breathless, her hands tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan. "Told you, it depends on the movie."

His limb pressed higher, more insistent now, and she moaned against his mouth, her hips rolling desperately against him. Her hands slid down his chest, across his stomach, and he felt her fingers brush against the slit where his cock was still concealed. He grabbed her wrist and removed her wandering hand, with a hiss.

Not yet

"Then I think," he murmured against her lips, "you're going to have to show me that movie later."

His mouth found hers again, hungrier this time, and the rest of his limbs moved with purpose. One slid her dress higher, bunching the fabric around her hips. Another found the edge of her underwear, and started to tug it down with unhurried precision.

His free hand found the strap of her dress, dragging it down her shoulder with more patience than the rest of him seemed to possess. When her breast came free, he didn't reach for it right away, just looked at it, the way she'd looked at the glowing pools. Then his palm covered it, squeezing as a separate limb, uninvited, curled up along her sides to join it, sliding down the fabric covering her other breast, the ring of suction cups closing gently around her nipple.

She gasped at the double sensation -warm palm, cool pull-  and he made a low sound, pleased with himself.

She was so wet. Of course she was. He'd been smelling it all night, had been tasting it in the air between them. But feeling it -feeling the slick heat of her against his suction cups- made something feral rise up in his chest.

"All night," he murmured against her skin, his lips trailing down her throat again, "you were like this. While you ate. While you talked to me." His teeth grazed her collarbone.

She opened her mouth, but whatever she'd been about to say dissolved into a moan as a suction cup of the limb between her thighs closed over her sensitive pearl and pulled.

"So desperate," he said, and his voice was low, rough. "Even when you were eating strawberries and pretending you weren't thinking about this."

She tried to shake her head, but he wasn't having it.

"Don't lie to me, mate," he murmured. "I can always smell it on you. When you want me to take you. When you want my limbs tasting your body. When you want my heavy seed dripping down your delectable thighs."

His limb teased her, sucking and pushing inside, and he reveled in the way her body arched into his touch, the way her hands found his shoulders, the way she moaned his name.

And then, when she was trembling, when her breath was coming in short, little gasps, almost there-

He stopped.

She made a sound of protest, her eyes flying open, and he smiled at her, knowingly.

"Bucky-"

"I want to feel you come around my cock." he said, and his voice was gentle but firm.

He hadn’t let his shaft free on purpose, forcing himself to wait, so as not to end things too fast even if he craved it. Now it was time, so he finally let his concealing slit relax, and his poor, aching shaft pulsed free against her skin.  

He knew she felt it, heavy and throbbing against her belly, and shamelessly rubbed it up and down, wetting her sensitive skin, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You want it?" he asked, as he lifted her with his limbs, grabbing his cock and teasing her folds.

She just nodded. Couldn't speak.

He pressed his tongue against a fang and pushed into her, slowly as always, and observed her face as she took him. The way her lips parted, the way her eyes widened, the way her body yielded to him inch by inch. When he was fully seated inside her, he paused, letting her adjust.

"Fuck," she breathed.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her skin. "You feel so good."

He pulled back slowly, then pushed in again, and the sound she made -low, desperate- made his jaw clench.

"So perfect," he said, and his voice was rougher now. "My mate. My perfect mate."

She ground her hips against him, trying to take him deeper, to get friction, and he nipped her below her jaw.

"You like it?" he asked, finding a slow, deep rhythm. "You like me inside you?"

She nodded, breathless, and he smiled.

"I would usually ask you for words, mate. But since this is a special occasion, I’m not pushing you tonight," he murmured against her skin.

He started to move faster, harder, his limbs wrapped around her, holding her in place as he thrust up into her, teasing her little bundle of nerves with his limbs.

She was gasping, trembling, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and then he felt her starting to clench around him.

"Bucky-" she gasped.

"I know," he said. "I can feel you. I can feel you getting close."

He shifted the angle, pushing deeper still, and she cried out.

"I've got you, mate. I want to feel it. I want to feel what I do to you." He declared, the tip of a limb rubbing mercilessly against her clit as he fucked her.

She shattered around him with a cry, her body clenching, and he followed her over the edge, thrusting once, twice, before stilling and coming with a low, guttural groan.

For a long moment, he stayed there, buried inside her, his limbs wrapped around her, his face against her throat. His breathing was ragged, and he could feel her heart racing beneath his palm.

"Ok, that was-" she started, but she couldn't finish.

He smiled, satisfied.

"I know," he said.

He pulled out slowly, and she made a soft sound of protest. He felt a surge of warmth at the sound, at the way she still wanted him even now.

He settled behind her, his limbs curling around her, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed, pressing her back into his chest.

"That was a good date," he said after a moment, and she laughed, soft and tired.

"The best date ever." She conceded.

He felt his chest expand with something he couldn't quite name at the praise. Something deep and old.

"So I did good?" he heard himself ask anyway, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

She turned a little in his grasp to face him, her body still pressed against his, her limbs tangled with his. Her hands lifted, finding the line of his jaw, tracing along its edge before sliding down to his throat, that sensitive spot where she knew he loved to be touched.

He shivered, his eyes fluttering half-closed at the sensation.

"What do you think?" she murmured, her thumbs stroking slow circles along the column of his neck.

Her touch was deliberate, knowing, and he felt himself relax into it despite the question still hanging between them.

"I think," she continued, her voice soft, "you brought me to a place you made beautiful. You bring strawberries, the first food we shared. You gave me wine. You talked to me." Her thumb brushed over his pulse point. "You made me feel like I mattered."

He opened his mouth, but one of her hands reached his semi-hard shaft, giving it a playful squeeze, and he groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip.

"And then," she said, a small smile curving her mouth, "you proceeded to remind me exactly why you're the only one I want."

He felt the damn heat in his cheeks and knew he had blushed like an inexperienced pup. He found himself leaning into her touch like a creature starved for it, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in slow, uneven pulls.

"So yes," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You did good. You did so good."

He didn't answer. Couldn't. Instead, his hands and limbs started to wander along her body, fingers tracing the curve of her hip, suction cups grazing the soft skin of her lower back, other limbs curled around her thighs. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, and let himself feel the weight of her words in a language that didn't require saying things aloud.

The screen flickered with one of those shows she watched. People acting out things that weren't real, to tell stories.

Humans were strange.

In the box, a couple sat across from each other at a small table, candles and glasses between them. The woman laughed at something the man said. He poured her wine. Flowers sat crammed into a glass jar at the center of the table, already dying but arranged to hide it.

Bucky frowned.

"Why are they there?" he asked, chin tipped toward the screen.

He watched the way the man's hand moved, deliberate, not reaching but inviting. The woman's smile shifted, softer. It wasn't the same as what he and she did. When they sat together, it was without ritual. Without this careful performance of interest.

She glanced up, following his gaze. "The dinner? It's a date."

The word meant nothing on its own, but the picture did. Two people, seated face to face, offering each other food and wine, suggestive words and intent body language. He knew of that, in another shape…

"Why?" he pressed.

"Why, what?"

"The purpose." His voice came out more demanding than he meant. "Of sitting like that. The food, the flowers. What are they after? Are they friends or is it a couple’s thing?" he still struggled to understand where the line was drawn between friendship and claim. It irritated him, the way they blurred what his kind made clear.

She laughed, not unkindly, more at the way he'd said it, like he was cross-examining a suspect.

"There's no big purpose, Bucky. It's just... getting to know each other. Spending time together. Showing the other person you care, that you put effort into the moment." She shrugged. "Sometimes it's at the start, when you first begin seeing someone. Sometimes couples keep doing it years later. So they don't lose that."

So they don't lose that.

Lose what? he wanted to ask. But his tongue felt heavy, suddenly too clumsy for the question forming in his mind.

He went quiet, eyes still fixed on the screen, where the fictional man tucked a strand of hair behind the woman's ear and produced a small box with some earrings.

The woman gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Bucky's fingers tightened on her thigh, irritated by the sound -too sharp, too rehearsed- but something else moved beneath his skin, older than annoyance.

Something felt wrong.

They'd shared breakfasts at the kitchen table, dinners, spent entire afternoons pressed together beneath blankets, talking, watching television until she fell asleep against him, but that wasn't the same thing.

Humans seemed to assign meaning to the circumstances rather than the act itself.

His own sought someone apt out once a year, met what the body demanded, and each returned to their own dark after, alone, needing nothing from the other until the next season.

What he felt about her, and her for him, had no name in his tongue. No protocol. No elder to ask how it was done right, how you kept a human who needed things he could not feel the need for.

He thought, suddenly, of the Valentine’s Day situation. The pink foil chocolate. The presents in the market. His own frustration afterward, lying alone beneath cold water while trying to understand gifts, offerings, and fish that carried stones to impress a mate.

He had not given her anything that day.

I could have, he thought bitterly. I could have found something, but I chose not to.

His jaw clenched.

The couple on the screen kissed. The camera pulled back, showing other couples at other tables, a room full of humans performing the same ritual with slight variations.

"We've never had one," he murmured.

She blinked. The hand that had been tracing lazy patterns on his chest stilled. "Never had... what?"

"A date." The word felt foreign, too small for the weight he was giving it. "What they are doing. The ritual. We've never..."

He didn't finish. Couldn't find the words for what they had done instead, afternoons on the beach, in the nest, the occasions when he held her through asthma attacks, and she held him through haunting memories. None of it had been framed. None of it had been for something.

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Hmm that’s true. We never had one."

It wasn’t a reproach. Just acknowledgment. But he heard reproach anyway, or maybe he heard his own voice saying it for her.

He shifted, uncomfortable, his hand retreating from her thigh to grip the edge of the cushion beneath them. "Would you like to?" The question came out forced, scraped from somewhere low in his throat. "Having… this date thing."

She smiled. That smile that always seemed to know something he didn't. "Bucky, that’s not necessary right now. We are together-"

"But would you like to?" He interrupted her. Hated doing it, but the words not necessary had stuck him like a barb. As if what they had was sufficient, as if she was tolerating his lack of courtship abilities. "Not 'need to.' Like to."

She looked at him. And he saw something shift in her expression, the amusement becoming something more careful, more serious.

“That we go out in a more… human way?" she said, slower.

He nodded once. Rigidly.

She hesitated. Not long -a breath, maybe two- but he noticed it.

"Yes," she said. "I would like to."

He should have felt relief. He felt terror instead.

She must have felt something shift in him -the way his body went still, the way his hand had stopped its lazy path over her leg. She looked up at him, her head tilting slightly.

"Bucky?"

He forced his jaw to unclench. "Yes."

She studied him for a moment, then reached up and touched his cheek, her palm warm against the tension in his jaw.

"We don't have to do anything elaborate," she said softly. "I just... I'd like to do something with you. That's all."

He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.

----

She fell asleep against him eventually, the way she always did, her breathing slowing into the rhythm he knew better than his own heartbeat. He didn't sleep after turning the television off, just stayed awake, staring at nothing, his mind churning.

More human.

The phrase turned like a current, pulling him toward depths he didn't know how to navigate.

What could he offer that wasn't already given? his body, his time, his fierce and unwavering attention?

Money? He had none. Food? He could hunt, but most of the things he could bring her would probably be unfit. Besides, they had eaten together hundreds of times. Was a date simply "eating but with candles"? Was the candle what made the difference?

A restaurant. He'd seen a couple in town when he tagged along with her while shopping for groceries. Lights, tables, people sitting while others served them. The concept had seemed absurd then. It still did. But she had smiled at the screen when the couple entered.

His hand closed into a fist on the cushion.

Objectively -he forced himself to think it, because his kind was nothing if not objective about status- he was a worthy male. The mating mark on his arm proved it, the ink extending past what most achieved. He had survived capture, magic, the war they forced him to wage. He had dealt with those who attacked him while looking for Steve, alone, unarmed, with nothing but what nature had given him.

For his species, that was enough. More than enough, actually. It was superiority.

But she was not his species.

And when she spoke of "effort," of "showing you care," of "putting time into the moment", none of those things required physical traits or abilities. They required something he couldn't name.

Where did he fit in human standards?

He listened for hours while she spoke of things he barely understood: her customers, knitting patterns, shipping policies of some digital platform. He had learned to make toast, to tolerate shoes, to sit in a car that vibrated wrong against his nerves.

The sex was good, that was unquestionable. But she had said once, casually, that for humans sex wasn't enough.

He felt cold suddenly.

Because what else did he do, really? He couldn't buy her things. Couldn't take her to places. Couldn't give her the kind of life that humans built with houses and plans and futures that stretched beyond the next tide. What he could give didn't translate into human currency.

And he had seen what happened to males who couldn't provide in the ways their mates needed in other species. They were left behind.

She stirred against him, murmuring something unintelligible. His hand moved automatically to her hair, caressing it, soothing her back to stillness. The gesture was unconscious now.

That, he thought. That is effort. Learning her. Adapting to her.

But would she see it that way? Would any human?

He looked at the darkened television, then down at his mate sleeping against his chest, completely trusting, her body relaxed in a way no one ever had been with him.

She had chosen him. Was choosing him still, every day she came back to the shore, every night she let him into her house, her nest, her warmth.

I have never shown her that I keep choosing with a gesture. I have simply... stayed.

The thought sat heavy as stone in his chest.

He didn't know if that was enough.

But he knew he couldn't keep asking her to settle for what he didn't understand.

He would learn. He would watch. He would find out what humans needed from each other when they sat across a table with candles and flowers and offered each other their time.

Even if it felt like performing. Even if it made him feel like a creature wearing a skin that didn't fit.

Because she had said yes. And that meant he had to try.

----

A couple of days passed after that.

Not that she noticed anything unusual… not at first. Bucky still came to the cottage, still took up his space on the couch, helped with some things. But his mind was elsewhere, turning like an undertow, circling the same problem from every angle.

She had to sleep, eventually. He didn't always. And those dead hours, when her breathing slowed, and her body went slack against his in the bed, became his window.

The movies.

Not the ones she picked for them to watch together; those had complicated plots and dialogue he couldn't quite track. No. Bucky waited until she was asleep, then took the remote and searched for the ones that seemed to show what people did to impress each other.

The first two nights were frustrating. The movies showed men bringing flowers -he didn't know where to get flowers, or what kind- or reserving tables in places with dim lights – also he had no coin-, or saying things that sounded rehearsed and false.

Is that what she expects? That I pretend to be someone I'm not?

But on the third night, he found a different movie.

A woman walked along a beach at night. Moonlight silvered the water, and then the sea began to glow. Blue. A blue that moved with the waves, that lit up where her feet touched the shore.

Bucky sat up slowly on the couch.

That, he thought. I can do that.

There wasn’t a male there accompanying her, but the woman on screen laughed, spread her arms, spun in the darkness while the water around her flickered like the sea was alive.

He knew where to find that blue. He'd seen it before, floating on the surface like scattered stars.

He would need something to carry it back.

He could already imagine her face. The way her eyes would widen. The sound she'd make, that soft breath she let out when something surprised her in a good way.

He would make her make that sound.

----

The dairy aisle was cold enough to raise goosebumps on her arms, but she lingered there anyway, hand hovering over the butter display.

She grabbed one pack, then paused. Her fingers twitched. She reached for a second pack, then a third, then caught herself and laughed under her breath.

He's going to eat all of this in three days.

She tossed the extra packs into the cart anyway; the butter budget was just part of her life now. She pushed the cart forward, past the yogurts and the cheeses, but her mind had already drifted.

Four days now. She'd noticed a change in him, subtle but unmistakable. He was still there, still present, but something was different.

His silences felt heavier. His eyes would drift to the window when he thought she wasn't looking, and there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before. His hand, which used to find hers instinctively, now rested still on his own thigh. Like he was waiting for something. Or preparing for something.

Four nights, she thought again, he hasn't reached for me first. And coming from him, that was practically a scream.

She'd asked him about it, of course. Twice.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? You seem-"

"I'm fine."

The second time, he'd said it with enough finality that she'd let it drop. But she hadn't stopped noticing.

She turned down the next aisle, grabbing a box of tea, -a new strawberry blend- and put it into the cart.

Maybe she was overthinking it. He wasn't exactly a talker. He showed things through actions, through presence, and sometimes, words didn't come easily to him. They never had.

But this felt different.

It wasn't the closed-off silence of someone hiding pain, or the distant quiet of someone lost in old thoughts. It was more like... he was somewhere else.

She paused at the end of the aisle, leaning on the cart for a moment, staring at a display of crackers without really seeing them.

Maybe it's the sea.

The thought surfaced before she could stop it, and once it was there, it wouldn't leave. She knew -had always known- that the ocean was part of him in ways she couldn't fully understand.

Not just his home, but his blood. His nature.

What if the restlessness she'd been sensing was something biological pulling at him from the deep?

What if he was trying to figure out how to tell her he needed to leave?

To swim far and deep, to follow whatever instinct was whispering to him?

She remembered what he'd told her, months ago, before they'd become anything. My kind doesn't attach; everything has a purpose. And though he'd changed, though he'd chosen to stay, what part of that nature still pulsed beneath his skin?

Her stomach churned.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. You're spiraling. He said he was fine.

She grabbed a box of crackers at random, threw it in the cart, and forced herself to keep moving. The checkout line was short. She paid, bagged her groceries, and walked out into the cold afternoon air.

The ride back to the cottage was quiet. The sky was overcast, the sea a dull grey, and the wind carried the smell of salt and wet stone. She let herself drift, still thinking about him, still turning over the same questions.

She'd asked him, once, if he ever missed the deeps. The places where the sun didn't reach, where the pressure was so great it would crush a human body. He'd said yes, but he'd said it like it didn't matter. Like she was more important than the ocean.

She'd believed him. She still believed him.

But that didn't mean the sea had stopped calling him.

She reached the cottage door and fumbled with her keys, nudging it open with her hip. The house was empty when she stepped inside.

No Bucky sprawled on the couch, no heavy presence in the kitchen eating toast. He'd said something about the sea yesterday. Feeling the pull. Needing to swim.

She'd nodded, not questioning it. She understood that part of him better than he probably realized. The sea was his home. His body needed it the way hers needed air.

But now, standing in the quiet kitchen, she felt the absence more sharply than she expected.

She unpacked the groceries slowly, putting the butter in the fridge, stacking the tea next to the kettle, folding the reusable bags and tucking them under the sink. Her movements were automatic, her mind elsewhere.

What if he's really trying to figure out how to leave?

The thought hit her like cold water, and she had to stop, her hands braced on the counter, breathing through it.

No. That's not who he is. That's not what we are.

But she'd seen the way he looked at the sea sometimes. The longing in his eyes, even when he was holding her. He'd spent decades alone, wandering, surviving. What if that part of him was too deep to change?

She wrapped her hands around the warm mug a few minutes later, staring out the window at the grey sea, and tried to convince herself she was being ridiculous.

He wasn't going anywhere.

He'd told her, in his own way, that she was his home now.

She had to trust that.

----

The dock was quiet the night of the recollection.

He'd swum the distance, moving through the dark water with the efficiency that only came from being in his element, silent and fluid as a shadow.

The swim had been easy. Almost relaxing, compared to what he was about to do.

He surfaced near the pilings, his head breaking the water in a slow, cautious rise. His eyes swept the dock, the fishing boats, the shore beyond. Empty. Good.

The transformation came quickly, quicker every time he did it, a familiar twist of bone and muscle, his limbs retracting and reshaping, his skin pulling tight over a form he'd never quite learned to love.

He bit back the sounds that wanted to escape his lips, the low grunts and hisses that always accompanied the shift.

It hurt.

It always hurt. But he was used to pain, and he didn't have time to dwell on it.

When it was done, he was human again. Naked and cold. The night air bit at his bare skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. Disgraceful.

He'd considered bringing clothes. Briefly. But the swim had been long, and he had quite the feat to perform after leaving the docks.

Besides, he'd assumed the place would be empty.

He pulled himself up onto the wooden planks, his bare feet silent against the damp surface. The wood was rough and splintered beneath his soles, and he moved carefully, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

A few fishing boats bobbed at their moorings, dark and empty. The air smelled of fuel and salt and the faint, rotting sweetness of bait left too long in the sun.

His naked body moved carefully, scanning the ground, then froze.

A sharp sting shot up from his foot. He looked down. A piece of broken glass, glinting in the dim light, buried in the pad of his heel.

He hissed through his teeth, pulling his foot up to inspect the damage. Blood welled dark against his skin.

"Fuck," he muttered, the word still foreign on his tongue but satisfying somehow. That was a human word he'd learned well.

He pulled the glass free -a small piece, nothing too deep- and pressed his thumb against the wound until the bleeding slowed. It would heal quickly. It always did.

But the irritation lingered.

This wouldn't have happened in the sea.

He limped forward a few steps, testing the weight on his foot, then dismissed it. He'd had worse. Much worse. A piece of glass was nothing.

He found what he came for near the end of the dock, a stack of discarded plastic barrels, the kind used for storing fish bait or industrial fluids. They were empty, smelled clean enough, with sealed lids that would keep all inside during the journey.

He tested one. It was large. Heavy, even empty. Carrying two would be a challenge.

He dragged them to the water's edge, then paused, looking out at the dark expanse of the sea.

He slipped into the water silently and shifted again, his limbs spreading wide, tasting the currents, orienting himself.

The barrels floated beside him. He wrapped two tentacles around each, securing them against his body, and began to swim.

The current was against him tonight, but he was stronger. The town faded behind him, then the coast, then the shallows, until he was alone in open water, the stars above and the darkness below.

He swam for hours. Past the fishing grounds, past the drop-off where the seabed fell away into nothing. The water grew colder. The current shifted, then stilled.

And then he saw it.

A faint glow on the horizon, spreading across the surface like a slow dawn. Blue. Electric. Alive.

He slowed, letting himself drift, watching it approach. The light was thick here, so dense it seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Thousands upon thousands of tiny organisms, each one a point of light, gathering in the warm currents to perform their silent, ancient dance.

He floated among them for a moment, surrounded by blue, and felt something in his chest loosen. This was his world. This was what he could offer.

Carefully, he uncapped one of the barrels and dipped it beneath the surface. The algae flowed in, glowing faintly, swirling like liquid starlight. He waited until the barrel was full, sealed it, and repeated the process with the second.

The weight was immense. Each barrel was heavy with water, and the distance back was just as far. But he'd carried heavier things. Two barrels of glowing water were nothing.

He turned and began the long swim back, the blue light trailing behind him like a phosphorescent wake. For a while, he let himself feel the satisfaction of making an effort.

By the time he reached the cave, his muscles were burning and the sky was beginning to lighten. He dragged the barrels onto the rock, his muscles burning with exhaustion, and looked at the pools where he'd planned to pour the glowing water.

The tide would reach them in a few hours. If he poured the algae now, it would be washed away before nightfall. All that effort, wasted.

He cursed under his breath, a low, frustrated sound.

He thought about the alcove they used in mating season, and with a final surge of effort, he hauled the barrels there.

His arms trembled with the strain, and his limbs ached from swimming for hours and carrying impossible weights.

He was done.

He let himself slide down into the deepest pool, the cool water enveloping his tired body, and he didn't even have the energy to find a comfortable position. His limbs went slack, his eyes closed, and he let the darkness take him.

----

He woke to the sound of water dripping and the soft gray light filtering through the cave's chimney.

His body was stiff, and his muscles protested as he stretched, uncoiling his limbs one by one. The exhaustion from the night before had settled into a dull ache, manageable but persistent.

The light told him it was late afternoon. Almost evening.

He cursed and dragged himself to grab the containers. Then, he uncapped them and began to work.

Once the last remaining of glowing water was poured, he stopped, breathing hard, and let himself look.

It was… beautiful. He'd known it would be.

The pools glowed softly, even with sunrays still entering from the mouth and the vents. The light reflected off the wet stone and danced across the ceiling. The cave was transformed. It wasn't the kind of beauty his kind usually made: functional, purposeful, built for survival. This was something else. Something that existed just to be seen.

He hoped she'd see it the way he did.

He then moved through the cave, gathering what he needed.

From the alcove he pulled the blankets. The ones she'd brought from the cottage, stored in plastic bags. The ones that still smelled like them, and from time to time, they still used.

He carried them to a flat section of rock near the glowing pools, where the surface was smooth enough to be comfortable, and spread them out with clumsy hands.

It wasn't a bed. Not really. But it was soft, and it was theirs.

Also, some things from the cottage that he took before departing for the lights.

The tupperware with the strawberries that he'd seen her pack the other day, rinsing them carefully, patting them dry with paper towels before putting them on the fridge.

He had doubted. They were hers, and he was taking things from her only to give them back as a gesture. It felt... wrong. Like stealing. Like he was pretending to offer something he hadn't earned.

Then he remembered what she'd said, weeks ago, when he'd hesitated to take food from her pantry.

"Bucky, you live here now. Half the time, anyway. You don't have to ask. It's our food."

Ours.

So he took the strawberries. And the wine, too, a bottle of white she'd bought for a dinner she never ended up making, forgotten in the back of the fridge. He didn't know if it was the right kind. He didn't know much about human wine at all.

But he'd seen it in the movies; it seemed important, and he wanted to get this right, so he had snatched a cooler, ice, and the bottle and gone out before she came back from wherever she was.

----

He stepped back and looked at the glowing pools, the blankets, the food.

It looked like something from one of those movies. Something magical. Something that said I thought about you. I planned this. You matter to me.

He felt a flicker of pride. Small, fragile, unfamiliar in this context.

Then he thought about the logistics.

He shouldn’t be just there, waiting for her to appear through the mouth of the cave by inspiration.

He'd have to go get her. Bring her here. And hope that when she saw what he'd done, she'd understand what he was trying to say.

He slid to one of the pools, looking at his work, and waited for the right time.

----

He waited until the sun was low, just before it slipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that made the sea look as if it were burning.

He climbed the path to the cottage with his heart beating harder than it should have been. Ridiculous. He'd faced a lot of things trying to kill him. Walking up a hill to knock on a door shouldn't make him feel like this.

Once at the door, he took a deep breath and let himself in.

She was wearing something he'd never seen before. A dress -not the comfortable things she wore around the house, not the practical clothes she wore to town. Something softer. Her hair was different, too, in a way that made her look almost like a different person.

He just… stared.

Humans, he thought, do this on purpose. They change their appearance to signal something.

She smiled when she saw him. That was good. Her eyes looked brighter than they had earlier, when he'd left. He'd been gone for almost two days, and she'd clearly been busy preparing for something.

Maybe she expected me to come back.

He hadn't told her he would. He never did. Some days he just... left and came back when the sea had released him. She never complained. Never asked where he'd been. She'd just open the door and let him in, like it was natural. Like she knew he would always come back.

He'd never told her he would.

She has no reason to expect me tonight, he realized. 

But she was dressed like she might meet someone.

"Hey," she said, closing the distance. "You're back."

"I said I would be."

He hadn't. But it felt true anyway.

She chuckled. A small, amused sound. "You didn't, actually. Still, I'm glad you're here." She glanced over her shoulder, into the house, and something in her expression flickered. "But… actually, I was just about to head out."

Something cold went down his spine.

"Head out?"

"Ian, Arthur's friend, the one from the town? He and his girlfriend invited me for drinks at the new pub. They've been trying to get me to go for some weeks now, knowing I don’t go out a lot." She shrugged, a little apologetically. "I figured I'd finally take them up on it. Since I didn't know when you'd be back."

Since I didn't know when you'd be back.

It was fair. Completely fair. He never told her. He never could tell her, because he didn't know himself. She understood that. She'd always understood that.

But right now, the understanding didn't help.

Because he knew that name. He remembered the half-eaten chocolate on her coffee table, the way his chest had twisted when he'd realized another male had given her an offering. On Valentine's Day. On a day meant for courtship.

He'd said nothing then. Had no right to say anything. They weren't anything. He'd told himself that over and over, had let himself drown in that denial for months.

But he remembered.

The one who gave her chocolate. The one who had a girlfriend, supposedly, but still gave offerings to another female. The one who, even now, was taking her out at night.

His jaw clenched.

"You're going out with him," he said. Flat. Controlled. The kind of control he'd learned to use when he was trying not to do something he'd regret.

Her brow furrowed. "With him and his girlfriend, Bucky. Both of them.

"You arranged to go out with him."

"I didn't arrange it. They invited me." She paused, and something in her expression shifted, a hint of wariness. "And I told you, his girlfriend is coming too. It's not-" She stopped, exhaled. "It's not what you think."

What I think.

He didn't know what he thought. Only that the name Ian had lodged itself somewhere in his stomach and was burning.

"The chocolate," he said. "On the human holiday. He gave you chocolate."

She stared at him. For a long moment, she didn't speak.

Then, slowly: "That was months ago, Bucky."

"I remember."

"That was different," she said quietly. "We weren't even-” she sighed. “Ian has a long-term partner," she repeated, firmer this time. "And I'm going out with both of them. Not just him. Both."

The emphasis was deliberate. He heard it.

But his blood didn't care. His blood was already moving, already readying itself for a fight that wasn't there.

He looked at her dress again. The soft fabric. The careful way she'd fixed her hair.

She dressed up for him. The thought came sharp and cruel. She dressed up to go out with the male who gave her an offering. Not for me.

And then, quieter: But I never gave her anything. Not on that day. Not when it mattered.

"You didn't tell me," he mumbled, "That you were going out with him."

"Because I didn't know when you'd be back. You don't have a phone, Bucky. You don't tell me when you're leaving or when you're coming back. I can't just sit here waiting; I have a life."

Again, it was reasonable. He knew it was.

But reason had nothing to do with the way he felt.

He'd been trying so hard to do the human thing. The date thing. The effort thing. He'd spent a day swimming and dragging heavy barrels through the sea, all so he could show her something beautiful, something that proved he'd thought about her, that she mattered.

And she was walking out the door.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them:

"I was going to give you a date," he said. The words came out rough, scraped. "Tonight. In the cave."

She went still.

"A date?"

"Yes." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "The human thing. The one we talked about. I was going to show you. But you are going out with him."

He couldn't say the name.

She stared at him. Her lips parted slightly, and something in her expression shifted. Surprise, then confusion, then something softer.

"You were planning a date for tonight?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Bucky." Her voice came out soft, almost careful. "You didn't have to-"

"Don't." He cut her off, rougher than he meant. "Don't say 'not necessary.' I know it's not necessary. I did it anyway."

----

She blinked.

The words hung in the air between them. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed somewhere past her shoulder, and she watched the muscle in his temple twitch.

He's nervous, she realized.

Bucky. Nervous.

The man who'd faced down his own kind, who'd swum through dark water with nothing but claws and teeth, who'd looked at her like she was the most fragile thing he'd ever held, was nervous.

Because he planned a date.

She'd spent the last few days watching him drift in and out of the cottage, his silences heavier than usual, his eyes distant. She'd told herself it was the sea calling him. That maybe he was figuring out how to tell her he needed space.

And all along, he was planning a date.

She almost laughed.

Almost.

But the look on his face -the way he was bracing himself, like he expected her to tell him it was stupid, unnecessary, too much- stopped her.

"Bucky," she said with a soft voice. "You planned a date for us in the cave?"

His throat worked. "I- yes."

"And you've been working on this for days."

He didn't answer. But the way his eyes flicked away told her everything.

She stepped closer. "I've been thinking you were pulling away."

His head snapped back to her. "What?"

"The silences. The lost gazes. I thought-" She stopped, shook her head. "I thought maybe the sea was calling you. That you were trying to figure out how to tell me you needed… to go."

Something broke in his expression. His hand came up, not quite touching her, hovering near her elbow like he was afraid to make contact.

"No," he said, and the word came out hoarse. "No. I was-" He stopped, jaw working. "I was trying to give you something. The thing we talked about… when we watched that movie." He gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding into the motion. "I thought you deserved that. With effort. With-" He stopped, swallowed.

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, he looked almost lost.

She didn't think. She just moved.

Her arms came around him, pressing her body against his, and she felt the way he went rigid beneath her touch. Every muscle locked, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, held captive by whatever was still coiled tight inside him.

For a heartbeat, he didn't move at all. Just stood there, frozen, like he'd forgotten how to accept comfort.

Then, slowly, something in him gave way.

His arms came up, and she felt it, the faint shake of his fingers against her back. Then his arms closed around her, tighter than she expected, pulling her into his chest like she was the only solid thing in a world that had been shifting beneath him for days.

She felt the breath leave his lungs in a long, shaky exhale, felt the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen, increment by increment, like a rope slowly being untied.

"Okay," she murmured against his chest.

He didn't answer. Just pressed his face into her hair and breathed.

She stayed there, letting him hold her, letting him collect himself. Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through the strands at his nape, and she felt him shiver. Not from cold.

"Okay," she said again, softer this time. "Let's go then. Show me what you prepared."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his brow furrowing. "But you were going out-"

She almost smiled at the way he said it, all clipped and reluctant, like the words tasted bad.

"I was," she said. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "And now I'm not."

He blinked, confused, as she unlocked the screen and opened the messaging app. She tapped the voice note icon and held the phone up to her lips, watching his face as she spoke.

"Hey Ian, I’m sorry, but something came up, and I won't be able to make it tonight. Nothing bad, so don’t worry. I’m so sorry for the late notice. Tell Hannah I said hi, and enjoy your drinks!"

She pressed send and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"There. Done. It’s not like they need me as a third wheel."

"Third wheel?" he asked slowly, brows furrowed in confusion. "What would you do with a wheel in a pub?"

She laughed.

"That means you're the extra person when a couple goes out," she explained, caressing his back. "You're the third one. The one who's not part of the couple. It's a little awkward sometimes, because they're focused on each other and you're just... there."

His frown deepened. "Why a wheel? I don't see why it would be a third thing."

"It's just an expression." She smiled, stepping back just enough to take his hand. "I'll explain more on the way."

He didn't move at first, but then he gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

"Okay," he said.

She grabbed his hand and tugged him gently toward the door. "Lead the way. I want to see this date you planned."

As she followed him out into the cool evening air, she felt his fingers tighten around hers. She noticed, too, as they walked, that the tension in his shoulders had eased. His steps were steadier. His jaw, still set, had lost that sharp edge of worry.

There you are, she thought. There's my Bucky.

----

The path to the cave was familiar by now. She'd walked it enough times, in the golden glow of late afternoon and the gray hush of overcast skies. But tonight, something was different.

A faint glow spilled from the mouth of the cave, soft and blue, pulsing like a slow heartbeat against the darkening sky. She slowed, her hand tightening around his. The light wasn't harsh or artificial; it was gentle.

"What is that?" she whispered.

He didn't answer. Just watched her, waiting.

She stepped forward, drawn by the glow, and when she reached the entrance, she stopped.

The cave was transformed.

The pools that usually sat dark and still were now filled with liquid light. Blue and silver and white, shifting and swirling like captured stars, drifting in slow, hypnotic circles across the water's surface.

The light reflected off the wet stone walls, dancing across the ceiling in rippling patterns that made the rock itself seem alive. It was like standing inside a living constellation, like the night sky had decided to come down and make its home in the dark.

She couldn't speak. Couldn't find the words. Her breath caught somewhere in her chest, and she just stood there, drinking it in, letting the wonder settle into her bones.

Then she started moving, her feet carrying her deeper into the cave without conscious thought. The glow grew brighter as she walked, the light intensifying as she passed each pool.

Some were shallow, barely more than puddles of liquid starlight. Others were deeper, the blue so rich it seemed to have weight, like she could reach in and scoop it up in her hands.

And then she saw them, on a flat section of rock that overlooked the largest pool: a nest of blankets had been spread out. And on top of them, arranged with careful precision: a green Tupperware container, and beside it, a bottle of white wine.

She turned slowly, her heart too full for her chest to hold.

He was watching her. Standing just a few feet away, hands at his sides, his face unreadable but his body tight with tension, like he was bracing himself. Like he was waiting for her to tell him it wasn't enough. That he'd gotten it wrong. That she'd expected something different.

"Bucky," she breathed.

He didn't speak. His throat worked, a swallow he couldn't quite hide.

"It's-" She stopped, shook her head, tried again. "It's beautiful. It's so beautiful."

Something in his expression eased, a crack in the armor he'd been wearing for days. "I thought… you would like it," he said, and his voice was a little unsteady.

She crossed the space between them in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. "I love it. I love it."

His arms came around her, and she felt it, the release of tension, the way his whole body seemed to exhale. The grip of his arms was careful, still testing, but the rigid wall he'd built around himself was finally coming down.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, a smile spreading across her face. "You're the best mate ever."

He went still.

The words hung in the air between them, and she caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the way his breath caught for just a fraction of a second. His pupils dilated, just a little, and she saw the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.

"You're the best mate ever," she repeated, softer this time, and she watched him process the word. Mate. His word. His language.

His hand found hers, his fingers closing around her smaller ones, and she felt the slight tremor in them, barely there, but unmistakable. He squeezed gently, and pulled softly at her hand.

"Come," he managed. "Sit with me."

She hesitated a moment.

"Bucky," she said slowly, "don't you want to shift first?"

He stopped, and she saw the brief flicker of uncertainty cross his face. His mouth opened, then closed. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured.

"I thought... the idea was a date, as a human thing. I assumed you would prefer-"

She reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw. "I prefer you. Whatever way you want to be tonight. The date isn't just for me, Bucky. It's supposed to be for us. Both of us. I want you to enjoy it too."

He stared at her, processing, and she watched the conflict play out across his features. Then, slowly, a spark of his usual confidence flickered back to life.

"In that case..."

His hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, his fingers finding the buckle with deliberate ease. His eyes never left hers, and there was something in his gaze now, a hint of the old Bucky, the one who knew exactly what he was worth.

She stepped forward, her own hands reaching for his. "Let me help."

His breath caught, just slightly, when her fingers brushed against his, taking over the task of undoing his belt. Then she worked the button free, tugged the zipper down, and let the denim fall. He stepped out of them, and she pushed the fabric aside with her foot.

"You're not just saying that to see me undress?" he murmured, and his voice was low, amused, a hint of the teasing she'd missed.

She laughed softly, her hands sliding up his chest as she pushed his t-shirt up. "One thing is not mutually exclusive from the other."

He hissed as the fabric cleared his shoulders, and she took the opportunity to press her mouth to the curve of his neck, just below his jaw. He tilted his head back, a low sound rumbling in his chest, and her fingers splayed across the warm skin of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tightened beneath her touch.

Then his hands were in her hair, tilting her face up to meet his, and when his mouth found hers, there was nothing careful about it.

This kiss was hungry, deep, the kind that stole breath and made her forget where she ended and he began. His tongue swept against her lower lip, and she opened for him without hesitation, pulling him closer, her fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back. He tasted like salt and something darker, something that was entirely him, and she let herself drown in it.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her buttocks, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the heat of his body pressed against her through the thin fabric of her dress.

She whimpered against his mouth, and he answered with a low groan, his teeth grazing her lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, his forehead rested against hers, his eyes still dark and heavy-lidded.

"Turn around," he said, his voice rougher now, quieter. "I don't want you to see."

She nodded, but before letting go, her hands slid down to the waistband of his boxers, her fingers hooking into the fabric. "These too," she murmured, “you aren’t a cartoon, and they are not cheap.”

He let out a low sound, almost a growl of surprise, as she slid them down his hips, working the fabric past his thighs until he stepped out of them. Her eyes dropped for just a moment -she couldn't help it- before he gently turned her, guiding her to face the wall. Then he pressed against her from behind.

His body was warm and solid against her back, one hand bracing against the stone beside her head, the other splayed across her hip. His mouth found her ear, breath hot against her skin.

"Now," he said, low and rough. "Stay like that."

She felt the word vibrate through her, felt the heat of his naked chest pressed against her, and for a moment, her body screamed at her to turn around, forget about the date entirely and just climb him like a tree. The thought made her fingers curl against the stone.

She took a breath, steadying herself.

Focus.

But his hand was still on her hip; he was still warm against her back, and the ghost of his breath still lingered at her ear.

It took everything she had to push those thoughts away, to remember that this moment -the cave, the lights, the blankets- was about more than just her wanting him.

She pressed her palms flat against the cool rock and waited.

Behind her, she heard him take a slow, steadying breath, and then he walked away.

Then the sounds began briefly after that. A sickening crack. Bone shifting, rearranging, finding a shape that wasn't meant to be seen. She flinched at the sound, her fingers pressing harder against the stone, and she heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

He was trying to be quiet. She could tell. He was holding back the sounds he didn't want her to hear.

Another crack, wetter this time, followed by a low, gritted grunt that he couldn't quite swallow. Her eyes squeezed shut. She focused on the texture of the rock beneath her palms, on the rhythm of her own breathing, on anything but the sounds of his body pulling itself apart and putting itself back together.

Then came the soft, wet splash of his limbs meeting the stone floor. One, then another, and another after that, uncoiling into the water, the sound of suction cups releasing and reattaching as he adjusted to his true form.

"Okay," he said, and his voice was lower now, richer.

She turned slowly.

He was half in the water, his torso rising from the dark surface, and his limbs -black and blue and gleaming- curling around him in familiar, graceful arcs. The bioluminescence cast his features in soft blue light, shadows flickering across the angles of his face.

His chest was still heaving slightly, and she could see the fine sheen of sweat on his skin, the evidence of what the shift had cost him.

But he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and that look made everything else fall away.

She crossed the space between them, her hand reaching for his. He took it, and she let him guide her to the blankets, settling onto the soft fabric with him beside her.

The moment they were seated, his limbs moved with a quiet, possessive certainty. One curled around her waist, another wrapped loosely around her calf, and a third settled across her thighs, heavy and slightly moving. He pulled her closer without a word, and she felt herself relax into his hold, the tension of the past days finally beginning to ease.

Then his nose brushed against her throat. A slow, deliberate inhale. She felt the subtle graze of his lips against her skin, and a shiver traced down her spine.

Her hands found the Tupperware container, and she opened it, the scent of strawberries rising up between them. She pulled one out, holding it up to his mouth.

"Strawberries," she said softly. "You're so damn thoughtful," she added, and she watched a faint flush creep across his cheeks.

It wasn't obvious. Not like a human blush. But she'd learned to read him, to see the subtle shift in his skin, the way his gaze dropped for just a second. It made her heart squeeze.

He reached for the wine next, his fingers closing around the bottle. He examined it, turning it over once, his claws finding the cork. He pulled, once, and it slipped. A low grunt of frustration. He tried again, angling his claw differently, and this time it came free with a soft, satisfying pop.

He looked at the bottle, then at her, then at the cave around them.

"Didn't think of cups," he admitted, and there was something almost sheepish in his voice. Like he'd studied so hard and still forgotten something essential.

She smiled and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "It doesn't matter. I don't need cups. This-" she gestured at the cave, at the glowing water, at the blankets and the fruit and him, "this is more than I could have asked for. It's perfect."

His eyes searched hers, like he was trying to see if she meant it.

"Seriously," she added, and she let her gaze travel across the cave, watching the way the bioluminescence danced across the wet stone walls. The blue light rippled and shifted, casting moving shadows that made the cave feel alive. "It's beautiful. How did you do this?"

His chest rose and fell with a breath. "I found something I could give you," he said. "Something only I could do."

That was all he offered. No details.

She wanted to ask. She could see it in the slight tension in his limbs, the evidence of what the task had cost him. But if he didn't want to talk about it, she wouldn't push.

Because she knew him. Knew that if he wasn't bragging about the effort, it was because it had been more than he wanted to admit.

So she let it go.

----

He watched her take another strawberry from the box, observed the way her fingers closed around the soft red flesh, and he felt proud. His mate liked it. What he'd made. What he'd done. She'd called it beautiful, called it perfect, said she couldn't have asked for more.

She held the strawberry out to him, and he leaned forward, taking it from her fingers with his mouth. Her skin brushed his lips briefly, accidentally and electric. She smiled at him, with a knowing smile, and he felt the satisfaction washing away the exhaustion.

In his world, you didn't press food into someone's mouth and watch them taste it, didn't wait for their expression to shift with pleasure. Didn’t indulge. It was not necessary. It was, plainly worthless.

She took a sip from the wine bottle, her lips wrapping around the glass rim, and handed it to him. He lifted it to his own mouth, tasting the warmth, the faint sweetness that lingered where her mouth had been.

They talked. Nothing important. She asked about the human form again, about the things he'd learned to tolerate. He told her about shoes -how he still hated them, how they felt like cages for his feet- and she murmured soothingly at him, a sound that made his limbs curl tighter around her.

And beneath all the merriness, he could smell it.

Her arousal.

It was subtle, buried under the sweetness of the wine and the salt of the sea air. But it had been there since they kissed, building as the night wore on, a slow, steady heat that made his skin prickle and his thoughts scatter.

He tried to focus on her words. He really did. But his limbs, traitors that they were, had begun to move on their own. One slid higher up her thigh, the suction cups grazing her skin. Another curled around her waist, pulling her closer. He felt the heat of her body through the thin cloth, felt the way she yielded against him, and his jaw clenched.

This isn't how it goes.

He'd watched the movies. The humans in the restaurants, the candles and the wine and the careful rituals, or the walks in the park, or the theatre.

They didn't do what he wanted to do.

They sat across from each other, kept their hands visible, their bodies apart. They talked. They laughed. And when the male escorted the female to the door, maybe they kissed, and maybe they didn't.

But they didn't -he was fairly certain- get distracted by the taste of their mate's arousal while they were still eating.

He could feel his control slipping. His concentration, sharp and focused moments ago, was fracturing. He tried to pull his limbs back, to give her space, to remember the ritual she deserved.

But she shifted against him, and one of his suction cups brushed her inner thigh, and he couldn't. He couldn't.

His mind was spinning, caught between the Thal'kyr part of him that wanted nothing more than to pin her down and fuck her, and the part that wanted to prove he could do this right.

He opened his mouth, tried to form words, tried to remember what she'd been asking him-

"-ucky. Hey."

Her voice cut through the haze, and he blinked, focusing on her face. She was looking at him, her head tilted slightly, a small crease between her brows.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and the question was gentle, but there was something in her voice... concern?

His jaw worked.

"I..." he started, and stopped.

She shifted again, adjusting her position on the blankets, and the movement pressed her thigh more firmly against the limb that had been creeping upward. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat -barely a breath- but he heard it.

Felt it.

The last thread of restraint snapped.

"I want to have sex," he blurted. His eyes met hers, almost obligingly. "But that doesn't… happen on dates." He scowled, frustrated. "In the movies, they don't-"

She started laughing.

It wasn't cruel or mocking, and she pressed her hand to her mouth like she was trying to stop it. "Bucky," she said, and her voice was warm, amused, "maybe you watched a very vanilla catalogue of films. It depends on the movie."

He frowned at her, knitting his brow in confusion. "What do you mean, depends-”

She waved a hand, still smiling. "Let's just say-" She leaned closer, her hand finding his, her fingers curling around his, and she looked at him with a gaze that was anything but innocent. "Not all dates end with sex. But plenty do."

He stared at her. She was looking at him with those eyes, her scent curling around him, her hand warm in his, and he felt the last shred of his careful composure crumble.

"Plenty," he repeated, and the word came out rough, hungry.

"Plenty," she confirmed.

She lifted her free hand, counting on her fingers as she spoke. "You brought me to a beautiful place you prepared with care. We sat down. We ate. We drank. We talked."

Her free hand traced a slow, deliberate path across his chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

"I think the date already hit most of the steps." Her fingers splayed flat against his skin, warm and certain. "Which means we could easily move on to the part you're so interested in."

She leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"With the added bonus that you don't have to walk me home."

He didn't speak.

Couldn't.

Because she was looking at him like that, her scent thick and sweet in his nostrils, her hand warm on his skin, and every thought he'd been trying to hold onto scattered like fish fleeing a net.

He'd done well. He'd provided. He'd created something beautiful, something she'd loved, and now she was offering herself to him in return.

And he was going to take what she offered.

His instincts took control.

His limbs moved before he could think.

They wrapped around her, lifting her body, arranging her. One curled around her waist, another supported her back, and a third slid beneath her thighs, spreading them apart as he settled her onto his lap. She gasped, and then she was straddling him, her hands finding his shoulders for balance, her eyes dark and wanting.

He didn't need to lie her down. His limbs could hold her exactly where he wanted her, could maneuver her however he pleased, could keep her suspended and open and completely at his mercy.

And he wanted her exactly like this.

"Bucky-" she breathed, and he could feel the way her thighs tightened around him, the way her fingers curled into his shoulders.

He smiled. Slowly.

"I like you here," he murmured, his hands finding her hips, guiding her closer. "Right where I want you."

His limbs shifted beneath her, adjusting her position, spreading her wider. He could feel the heat permeating through the thin fabric of her underwear, and the knowledge that she was already so ready for him made him groan.

But before he could do anything else, her hands slid from his shoulders down his chest, her fingers trailing over his skin slowly. She leaned forward, her mouth finding the curve of his neck, and then she bit down, just enough to make him hiss.

His grip on her hips tightened.

"All night," he said, his voice low and rough, "I've been wanting to touch you like this."

Her teeth grazed his skin again, and she ground down against him, shameless and wanting. "Then stop talking about it."

He gently fisted her hair, throwing back her head.

"Patience, mate."

His mouth found her throat, and he breathed her in, slow and deliberate, letting her scent flood his senses.

"Bucky…" she breathed, and her hands came up to frame his face.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the expression on his face was pure, unapologetic satisfaction.

"You smell so good," he said, his lips brushing her jaw. "You've been like this all night. I could smell you while we were eating." A low sound rumbled in his chest. "You wanted me the whole time."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't let her.

His mouth covered hers, deep and possessive, and her hands tangled in his hair, tugging; her hips never stopping the grinding against him. His limbs moved with purpose now, one sliding the hem of her dress higher, another finding the edge of her underwear.

He didn't rush. He savored. Every inch of skin he uncovered, he tasted. Every sound she made, he cataloged.

When his mouth finally left hers, trailing down her throat, she gasped his name.

"Tell me," he murmured as his lips grazed her cleavage. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want," she breathed, almost whining. "I want you."

His teeth grazed her skin, just enough to make her gasp. "Good."

One of his limbs found its way under her panties, the suction cups grazing the sensitive skin, and she arched against him with a soft cry. He watched her face, watched the way her eyes fluttered, the way her lips parted as he teased her wet, little pearl. He was in control now. He had her exactly where he wanted her.

His mouth found her ear, his voice low and rough.

"Does this happen on dates?" he asked, and there was amusement in his tone now, a hint of the teasing that had always been there beneath the surface. "Does the male do this-" his limb pressed down in a soft, deliberate stroke against her entrance, and she gasped, "-and the woman still eats?"

He pulled back to look at her face, heated and wanting, and he felt pure, unapologetic, masculine smugness.

"Because I don't remember seeing that," he continued, his teeth grazing her lower lip, "in any of the ones you showed me."

She chuckled, breathless, her hands tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan. "Told you, it depends on the movie."

His limb pressed higher, more insistent now, and she moaned against his mouth, her hips rolling desperately against him. Her hands slid down his chest, across his stomach, and he felt her fingers brush against the slit where his cock was still concealed. He grabbed her wrist and removed her wandering hand, with a hiss.

Not yet

"Then I think," he murmured against her lips, "you're going to have to show me that movie later."

His mouth found hers again, hungrier this time, and the rest of his limbs moved with purpose. One slid her dress higher, bunching the fabric around her hips. Another found the edge of her underwear, and started to tug it down with unhurried precision.

His free hand found the strap of her dress, dragging it down her shoulder with more patience than the rest of him seemed to possess. When her breast came free, he didn't reach for it right away, just looked at it, the way she'd looked at the glowing pools. Then his palm covered it, squeezing as a separate limb, uninvited, curled up along her sides to join it, sliding down the fabric covering her other breast, the ring of suction cups closing gently around her nipple.

She gasped at the double sensation -warm palm, cool pull-  and he made a low sound, pleased with himself.

She was so wet. Of course she was. He'd been smelling it all night, had been tasting it in the air between them. But feeling it -feeling the slick heat of her against his suction cups- made something feral rise up in his chest.

"All night," he murmured against her skin, his lips trailing down her throat again, "you were like this. While you ate. While you talked to me." His teeth grazed her collarbone.

She opened her mouth, but whatever she'd been about to say dissolved into a moan as a suction cup of the limb between her thighs closed over her sensitive pearl and pulled.

"So desperate," he said, and his voice was low, rough. "Even when you were eating strawberries and pretending you weren't thinking about this."

She tried to shake her head, but he wasn't having it.

"Don't lie to me, mate," he murmured. "I can always smell it on you. When you want me to take you. When you want my limbs tasting your body. When you want my heavy seed dripping down your delectable thighs."

His limb teased her, sucking and pushing inside, and he reveled in the way her body arched into his touch, the way her hands found his shoulders, the way she moaned his name.

And then, when she was trembling, when her breath was coming in short, little gasps, almost there-

He stopped.

She made a sound of protest, her eyes flying open, and he smiled at her, knowingly.

"Bucky-"

"I want to feel you come around my cock." he said, and his voice was gentle but firm.

He hadn’t let his shaft free on purpose, forcing himself to wait, so as not to end things too fast even if he craved it. Now it was time, so he finally let his concealing slit relax, and his poor, aching shaft pulsed free against her skin.  

He knew she felt it, heavy and throbbing against her belly, and shamelessly rubbed it up and down, wetting her sensitive skin, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You want it?" he asked, as he lifted her with his limbs, grabbing his cock and teasing her folds.

She just nodded. Couldn't speak.

He pressed his tongue against a fang and pushed into her, slowly as always, and observed her face as she took him. The way her lips parted, the way her eyes widened, the way her body yielded to him inch by inch. When he was fully seated inside her, he paused, letting her adjust.

"Fuck," she breathed.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her skin. "You feel so good."

He pulled back slowly, then pushed in again, and the sound she made -low, desperate- made his jaw clench.

"So perfect," he said, and his voice was rougher now. "My mate. My perfect mate."

She ground her hips against him, trying to take him deeper, to get friction, and he nipped her below her jaw.

"You like it?" he asked, finding a slow, deep rhythm. "You like me inside you?"

She nodded, breathless, and he smiled.

"I would usually ask you for words, mate. But since this is a special occasion, I’m not pushing you tonight," he murmured against her skin.

He started to move faster, harder, his limbs wrapped around her, holding her in place as he thrust up into her, teasing her little bundle of nerves with his limbs.

She was gasping, trembling, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and then he felt her starting to clench around him.

"Bucky-" she gasped.

"I know," he said. "I can feel you. I can feel you getting close."

He shifted the angle, pushing deeper still, and she cried out.

"I've got you, mate. I want to feel it. I want to feel what I do to you." He declared, the tip of a limb rubbing mercilessly against her clit as he fucked her.

She shattered around him with a cry, her body clenching, and he followed her over the edge, thrusting once, twice, before stilling and coming with a low, guttural groan.

For a long moment, he stayed there, buried inside her, his limbs wrapped around her, his face against her throat. His breathing was ragged, and he could feel her heart racing beneath his palm.

"Ok, that was-" she started, but she couldn't finish.

He smiled, satisfied.

"I know," he said.

He pulled out slowly, and she made a soft sound of protest. He felt a surge of warmth at the sound, at the way she still wanted him even now.

He settled behind her, his limbs curling around her, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed, pressing her back into his chest.

"That was a good date," he said after a moment, and she laughed, soft and tired.

"The best date ever." She conceded.

He felt his chest expand with something he couldn't quite name at the praise. Something deep and old.

"So I did good?" he heard himself ask anyway, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

She turned a little in his grasp to face him, her body still pressed against his, her limbs tangled with his. Her hands lifted, finding the line of his jaw, tracing along its edge before sliding down to his throat, that sensitive spot where she knew he loved to be touched.

He shivered, his eyes fluttering half-closed at the sensation.

"What do you think?" she murmured, her thumbs stroking slow circles along the column of his neck.

Her touch was deliberate, knowing, and he felt himself relax into it despite the question still hanging between them.

"I think," she continued, her voice soft, "you brought me to a place you made beautiful. You bring strawberries, the first food we shared. You gave me wine. You talked to me." Her thumb brushed over his pulse point. "You made me feel like I mattered."

He opened his mouth, but one of her hands reached his semi-hard shaft, giving it a playful squeeze, and he groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip.

"And then," she said, a small smile curving her mouth, "you proceeded to remind me exactly why you're the only one I want."

He felt the damn heat in his cheeks and knew he had blushed like an inexperienced pup. He found himself leaning into her touch like a creature starved for it, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in slow, uneven pulls.

"So yes," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You did good. You did so good."

He didn't answer. Couldn't. Instead, his hands and limbs started to wander along her body, fingers tracing the curve of her hip, suction cups grazing the soft skin of her lower back, other limbs curled around her thighs. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, and let himself feel the weight of her words in a language that didn't require saying things aloud.

But as always lately, his course curved toward the cliffs, toward the stretch of shoreline he shouldn't care about. His sharp eyes caught the faint glimmer of warm, golden lights breaking through the dark, leaking out from the lair perched above the rocks.

So. She was awake.

Bucky floated just under the surface for a long moment, and his tendrils gently shifted with the waves as he watched the flicker of the soft lights.

His gaze narrowed.

Why did he care? Why was he here, lingering under her cliffs like some lost pup?

But he couldn't shake it. Since the first time she sat by his shore, and even more, since she’d seen him -since she’d survived him- there was a thread of restless curiosity winding tighter and tighter around him.

She had been brave. Stupid, but brave. And now, against his better judgment, he was curious about her.

He shifted in the water, and his pale skin blended almost perfectly with the foam around him, only the inky tips of his tendrils betrayed his shape as they rippled through the waves.

His gaze lifted again toward her den.

There was where she hid when she left his cave. He had guessed, of course, watching the path she took to climb back up, sometimes seeing her form disappear behind the shrubs and stones. But now, seeing the lights, the proof of her human life so close to his domain, it tugged at something inside him he didn't want to name.

Why do you watch, like she’s yours to guard?

He huffed at himself, and the sound was swallowed by the wind over the waves.

Maybe it was because she had left something of herself in his cave, two somethings now, the odd square and that strange dangling creature of yarn, bobbing gently with the sea breeze.

Still, he should’ve scared her worse. Should’ve made sure she wouldn’t dare return.

But he hadn’t.

Because a part of him -the part that remembered too well what it was to be caged and hunted and scared- understood why she looked at him the way she did.

His gaze hardened again as he let himself sink deeper under the surface.

She wasn’t safe, lingering so close to his cave. And neither was he letting her. Still, he couldn’t quite make himself turn away, lingering there, watching the light dance on the cliffside, imagining her moving around behind those windows.

Finally, with a low rumble deep in his chest, he turned, cutting through the water and vanishing into the dark, but not before one last glance over his shoulder.

She was there. Still within reach.

And that thought should not make him feel anything.

Yet it did.

----

The morning air was cold as she made her way down the narrow road toward town, and the sea breeze still clung to her clothes and hair from the walk. Her muscles ached faintly, a reminder of the other day’s fall, and of everything that had happened after. She tried to tell herself it had been some kind of dream. Maybe she had hit her head harder than she thought.

So, today, groceries. Normal things. Things that didn’t include staring into dark pools and meeting mythological creatures.

And yet, as she passed by the tiny, cluttered craft shop, her feet slowed almost on their own, and her eyes flicked to the display window. There it was. That particular shade of blue, the color of shifting tides and ink-dark tentacles. She stepped in, the tiny bell above the door giving a cheerful chime that felt at odds with her thoughts.

"Back so soon, dear?" the old woman behind the counter asked, peering at her over her glasses with a knowing smile.

"Yeah," she said, managing to sound casual. "Ran out of some shades I need. And, uh, thought I might try something new."

The woman hummed, watching her too closely as she plucked up the skein of blue yarn. As she paid, she hesitated, then leaned her elbows on the counter, trying to keep her tone light.

"So… that cave by the cliffs," she began, letting her gaze wander to the dusty shelves as if she wasn’t too invested. "You told me to be careful around there, right?"

The woman’s eyes sharpened immediately, all pretense of nonchalance gone. "Mhm. And?"

She shrugged. "Just curious why. I mean, it’s a nice spot. A little wild, but… safe enough. So why the warnings?"

The woman leaned in, dropping her voice slightly. "Because nice spots sometimes hide the worst things, that's why."

She blinked, raising her brows. "What do you mean? Like, dangerous animals?"

The woman gave a short, humorless laugh. "Not animals, girl. Things older than that. Things that don’t take kindly to strangers poking around where they shouldn’t."

She felt her throat go dry but pressed on, giving a small laugh, trying to sound like she wasn’t fishing for specific information. "You make it sound like there are sea monsters down there or something."

The old woman’s gaze didn’t waver. "That’s what some would call them, I suppose."

Her fingers tightened around the paper bag as she straightened. "Monsters?"

"Old stories," the woman admitted, but her tone said she believed every word. "About creatures in the caves under the cliffs. I was a girl when some of the older men swore they caught sight of something down there. They never spoke much about what they saw, but..." She gave a meaningful pause. "People talked. About things that weren’t quite human. About folks who went missing near the water. Strange marks on the rocks, long grooves like claws or something worse."

Her heart gave a slow, heavy thump.

"Of course," the woman added, softer now, "the men who told those stories are gone. Some think they just drank too much. But others…" her eyes pinned her in place "know better."

"So... what? You think something’s still down there?"

"Mhm," the woman hummed, leaning a little over the counter, lowering her voice like someone might be listening. "Not just of creatures in the water, but of them coming up to shore. Walking around on two legs, like you or me. Posing as human. You’d never know, they say. Not unless you catch them wrong, or see 'em too close."

Her throat dried.

The woman gave a small, almost knowing smile, as if she had seen too much, or heard too many things that didn’t add up over the years. "Some say they’ve even lived among us from time to time. Took wives. Husbands. Some of those folks didn’t last long. Others…" she trailed off, her eyes darkening, "...never quite right again."

She tried to laugh it off, though it sounded thin. "You mean like… selkies? Mermaids?"

"Not like the pretty stories," the woman snapped gently, but firmly. "Not those sweet things in fairy tales. They don’t want to be found."

Her heart thudded hard in her chest.

As the silence stretched, she forced a small smile. "Right. Well... thanks. I’ll keep that in mind."

The woman’s gaze persisted on her, as if she wanted to say more, but she simply nodded. "You do that."

With a soft murmur of goodbye, she left, the bell chiming behind her as she stepped out into the open air.

Her feet carried her through town on autopilot, but her mind was spinning. They don’t want to be found. The words echoed in her head, loud and clear.

As she made her way down the next street, she ducked into a small general store to pick up candles, she had learned the hard way during her first week that power outages happened more often than she expected near the cliffs. And with her luck lately, she'd rather be prepared.

She grabbed a few groceries as well -easy stuff to cook, snacks, tea- anything to avoid another trip for a while. Her thoughts stayed fixed on what she now knew as she checked out and carried her bags toward home.

----

Bucky was already at the shoreline when she arrived a couple of days later. He had waited, half-expecting -half-daring- her to show up at his cave one of those mornings. But clearly, she wasn't that foolish.

Still, foolish enough to eventually come back. To her usual rock, as if nothing had happened.

By the time she reached her usual spot, her mind was made up. She wasn’t going to give up her place by the rocks. It was her spot. Well, maybe not technically, but she had been coming here since she moved into that cottage, snd he hadn’t seemed to mind.

It was only when she wandered into the cave -his space- that things had escalated. She could admit that now. She had trespassed. And still, in the end, he hadn’t hurt her.

So, her logic went: if she stuck to her usual routine and didn’t go poking around in places she shouldn’t, she had nothing to worry about.

Right?

Still… she packed carefully before leaving the house. Her yarn, of course -and, after some internal debate- a box of strawberries.

And now, here she was, sitting on her usual rock like she hadn’t had the weirdest, most terrifying, most fascinating encounter of her life less than one week ago.

Hidden among the darker shadows of the stones, he watched her settle down, expecting her to start with her usual threading ritual. But instead, she pulled something unfamiliar from her backpack, some kind of translucent box that strangely caught the light. He narrowed his eyes as she popped it open and reached in, plucking something small and red.

His head tilted slightly as she bit into it, chewing slowly, with her gaze fixed on the waves. Meat? He sniffed the air. No, not flesh. It looked like some strange kind of coral, but soft... not from the sea. The scent carried to him on the breeze, sweet and sharp, something he couldn't place. Inland fruit? Something that grew in the dirt, far from his world.

He kept staring as she bit into it, juices wetting her lips, as her eyes lazily followed the waves without any care in the world. But then, damn that sun. He was being reckless. A cloud slid aside and a beam of golden light poured down, catching him squarely and turning his pale skin stark against the stone before he could shift his pigments.

Her eyes snapped to him, and for the first time, she didn’t pretend not to see.

She stared right back, unwavering, like she had half expected him. And then, casually as if they were old neighbors passing each other on the street, she waved again.

His throat rumbled, and a low hiss slipped through bared teeth before he could stop it, flashing the sharp glint of fangs.

But instead of recoiling or fleeing like she should, she just rolled her eyes, as if he was nothing more than some territorial gull trying to scare her off. A very dangerous, very deadly gull, but still.

Then, to his confusion, she lifted the container and tilted it toward him, as if offering to share its contents. He didn’t move from his place, half-coiled near the rocks, eyes sharp and narrowed as he stared at her, unmoving.

Still, some small, stubborn part of him, buried deep under layers of instinct and distrust, couldn’t help but feel... curious.

“They are good, you know? No spells or tricks, since I’m already eating them,” she said casually, her voice carried by the breeze, soft and calm, too calm for someone talking to a creature like him.

Bucky’s jaw tensed. His sharp teeth pressed lightly against each other as he stared at her, unmoving, suspicious.

No spells or tricks, she claimed.

As if he should just believe that. As if she hadn't already wandered too close, already seen too much.

To her surprise -and, okay, maybe a little bit to her terror- he started moving.

Slow, deliberate. Tendrils sliding over rocks in smooth, predatory grace. Getting closer. She fought the urge to scoot back, refusing to let fear dictate her actions. This was a game of trust now, wasn’t it? He hadn’t hurt her when he could have. And she had kept his secret.

She tilted her head at him when he stopped, popping another piece of the red thing into her mouth, watching him with an unfazed expression. Like she thought offering him this strange food would be enough to pacify him.

And yet...

The scent wafted toward him again. Sweet, sharp, foreign. It was tempting. Not because he trusted her, but because he had never seen something like it. Never tasted anything that didn’t come from the ocean depths.

Every instinct in his body screamed danger, screamed that this was a trap, that humans never offered something for free unless they wanted something in return. His narrowed gaze slipped from her mouth to the box, to her hands. If she wanted to trick him, she wouldn’t be sitting there like that... right?

A quiet, annoyed hiss slid past his teeth. He could take her down in an instant if she tried anything. Crush her fragile body, pull her under the water, and let the waves claim her before anyone knew.

So why was he hesitating?

He pushed forward, slow and deliberate. First, a tendril, curling over a stone. Then another, pulling him closer with a smooth, powerful movement. The closer he got, the more she tensed -he could feel it- but she didn’t move away.

A small, reckless part of him found that amusing.

The water lapped quietly against the rocks, and he paused just a few feet away, looming half out of the water, with his tendrils sliding in the wet sand and over the stone. His pale chest glistened where droplets clung to his skin, and his dark hair hung heavy and wild over his shoulders.

He looked from her face to the box again, narrowing his eyes.

“What is it?” he rasped, low and rough from the disuse of his voice, but the words were clear enough.

She blinked, surprised that he spoke, but then smiled just a little.

“Strawberries,” she said softly, holding one up for him to see. “They’re fruit. Sweet.”

He stared. Fruit. Something from the land...

He shifted closer still, curling his tendril around the rock at her feet, flicking his sharp eyes between her hand and her face as if daring her to move wrong.

“…Try?” she offered, gently.

His gills flexed along his ribs, unsure. But he was closer now. And he was already here. A long pause, then one pale hand reached out, and plucked the small red thing from her fingers, careful not to graze her skin, though his knuckles brushed her wrist like the brush of seaweed in passing.

He held it up to his face, inspecting it, sniffing it warily. Soft. Strange. Smelled like nothing from the sea. Still watching her from the corner of his eye, he slowly brought it to his mouth and bit, sharp teeth slicing easily through the tender fruit.

Sweet. Tart. Strange.

His brows furrowed slightly, as though confused. But he didn't spit it out. He ate it quietly, and sat back on his tendrils, as though deciding whether he liked it or not. When he swallowed, his dark eyes returned to hers, searching.

“…More,” he finally said, rough, reluctant.

Her lips twitched in the faintest smile. “Sure,” she said, nudging the box toward him.

He took another, slower this time, watching her like a hawk. Because she was dangerous. He knew that. But, so was he.

----

He ate three more, and she began to wonder if maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to offer him fruit in the first place. After all, she had no clue what his body could handle. His digestive system couldn’t possibly be the same as a human’s, what if too much made him sick?

"Um... maybe that's enough for now," she said carefully.

His eyes snapped to hers, narrowing in a way that sent a chill down her spine. As if to challenge her, he deliberately plucked another one from the container and ate it, watching her like he was daring her to object.

"You may get sick," she tried again, frowning a little.

The moment the words left her lips, she saw his entire demeanor shift. His expression darkened, storm clouds gathering behind his eyes, and one of his tentacles smacked the water with a sharp thwap, making her flinch.

Clearly, he had taken that as a threat.

"No, wait! I'm not threatening you," she quickly clarified, raising her hands in a calming gesture. "You’ve never eaten this before... I’m just saying, maybe if you eat too much, it could..." she hesitated, searching for a word, "...hurt you."

His gaze focused on her, unblinking. She could almost feel him analyzing her words, weighing them.

Then, to her surprise, he pressed a hand to his stomach as if considering her warning. "Bad?" he asked, voice rough and uncertain.

She relaxed with some relief when she realized he wasn't angry anymore, just wary, like a wild animal trying to figure out if she was lying. "Maybe," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about it when I offered. I guess I thought... I don't know, some pet fish eat fruit..."

Her attempt at explanation was met with a sudden outrage.

"No fish!" he snapped, slapping a hand hard against his chest in an unmistakable display of indignation. His eyes blazed, and he leaned forward like she had insulted him on a deeply personal level.

"Okay! Okay!" she blurted out quickly, raising her palms in surrender. "You're not a fish. Definitely not a fish.”

He kept glaring at her for another long second, as if making sure she understood the gravity of her mistake.

"I'm sorry," she added, softening her voice. "I didn’t mean to offend you. I just... I don’t know what you eat."

That seemed to deflate some of the tension. He clicked his teeth, almost thoughtfully, though she could see how his fingers kept turning the last berry over and over, inspecting it like it might reveal a secret.

"You eat...?" she asked, carefully, realizing it might be a loaded question.

He didn't answer right away, but his eyes sharpened, reading her easily, as though he could see the direction of her thoughts.

"Hunt," he finally grunted, jerking his chin toward the sea. "Meat."

Yeah. She had figured that much, but hearing him say it so bluntly still made her pulse jump a little.

"I just thought..." she tried to clarify, gesturing to the almost empty container of fruit. "Too much of this could make you feel bad. It's not meat. It’s fruit. A plant."

He seemed to consider that, glancing down at the berry he still held. With a low grunt, he flicked it into the water, watching as it bobbed away.

"Good," he muttered at last as if grudgingly admitting it.

Then he fixed her with a sharp look, touching his chest, and repeating firmly, "Not fish."

Her lips twitched in a faint smile. "No. Not a fish."

Something in his expression shifted, softening slightly, not quite a smile, but something that hinted at less hostility.

----

They looked at each other in silence, a strange quiet that neither seemed to know how to break. His eyes never left her, sharp and assessing, while her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the container, unsure of what to say next. Then, suddenly, something clicked in her mind. A small revelation that maybe, maybe, could help bridge the strange gap between them.

She gave him her name and extended her hand toward him, palm up, in a soft, tentative gesture that made him tense immediately, tendrils twitching warily against the rocks.

His eyes flicked from her hand to her face, confused.

"You're supposed to give me your name and shake my hand," she added with a small, nervous smile. "It's how we... humans, you know, introduce ourselves. To say we're not enemies."

Still, he didn't move. His gaze dropped back to her hand, watching it like it was a trap, like if he touched her, she would somehow bind him with her strange land-dweller magic.

She could see him thinking, the way his jaw tightened, how his pupils thinned as though weighing something dangerous. Names, she realized, were probably no small thing to him. Names held meaning. Names gave power.

But... she had given hers freely. She watched as slowly, very slowly, he seemed to come to a decision.

His hand, larger and rougher than hers, reached out. He wrapped his cool fingers around her smaller hand with a carefulness that surprised her, as though unsure how much strength to use.

"...Bucky," he murmured at last, voice hoarse and reluctant.

Her smile brightened, though she kept still, not wanting to spook him. "Hi, Bucky," she said softly, like a small victory.

He gave her hand a single, brief shake -awkward and stiff, but it was more than she thought she would get- before pulling away again, retreating slightly like he was unsure why he had agreed to it the first place.

"So..." she ventured, cautious but curious. "That’s how we do it. But what about you? How do your kind greet each other?"

For a moment, his brow furrowed, and the sharp line of his jaw tightened as if the question brought something heavy to mind. His kind. It had been so long since he'd seen anyone like himself if any were left at all. Still, after a moment of silence, he moved.

Slowly and deliberately, Bucky lifted his hand and pressed the palm gently to his chin, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw. Then he turned the hand outward, offering it to her, open.

She blinked, watching the fluid motion with growing fascination.

"Oh," she murmured softly, processing it. "Like this?"

She mirrored the gesture, touching her chin and then extending her palm toward him. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, almost playful but respectful.

His sharp eyes studied her, tilting his head slightly as if appraising her effort. Then, to her quiet surprise, the tension in his posture seemed to ease. They had shared something. Something old, something from his world.

Bucky gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval, though his tendrils still curled and flexed over the rock like restless cats' tails.

She let the silence stretch a little longer, watching as his gaze flicked out toward the horizon, where the sun was dipping low and painting gold over the waves.

"So... Bucky," she ventured softly, careful not to spook him, "how long have you... um, lived here?"

His eyes snapped back to her, sharp and unreadable. The question seemed simple, but something in it made him tense, tendrils pausing their slow movements. Still, he tried. His jaw worked for a moment before he rasped out, "Long."

She nodded, encouraging. "Long like... a lot of years?"

His brow furrowed, and his lips pressed into a tight line. His hand came up, spreading his fingers as if trying to measure something in the air before giving up with a small frustrated snort.

"Before," he said at last, voice rough. "Before... them."

Her brows drew together, but she didn't press on that yet. Instead, she offered a soft smile. "Okay. Before. Got it."

He watched her, weary, but there was a faint sense of surprise too, like he hadn't expected her to accept so little.

She decided to keep it light. "Do you always watch people from the water? Or am I just special?" she teased gently, tilting her head, trying to coax some response.

His eyes narrowed a bit, but not in anger, more like confusion, as if unsure if she was mocking him. "Watch," he said simply, tapping two fingers under his eye, then gesturing at her. "You... strange."

Her laugh escaped before she could stop it, light and breathy. "I'm strange?"

He tilted his head again, tendrils curling a bit tighter. "Sit alone. By sea. Make... things." His eyes flicked toward her bag, where her yarn peeked out.

"Oh... the crocheting." She smiled and reached to pull out a small ball of yarn, holding it up. "Yeah, I guess that's strange. Most people don’t hang out near creepy caves and make jellyfish coasters."

Bucky’s gaze followed her fingers, watching the yarn, but he didn't respond. His hands flexed slightly, and she wondered if it was nerves or restlessness.

"Why?" he asked abruptly, startling her a little.

"Why what?"

"Why... here?" His voice was low, and rough, as if dragging words up from somewhere deep and unused.

She blinked, then smiled softly, realizing this was the closest thing to an actual conversation they had.

"I like the sound of the sea," she admitted. "It’s... peaceful. Easier to breathe out here."

His head tilted again, studying her like she was a puzzle.

She took a breath, feeling a little braver. "And you? Why do you watch me?"

He hesitated. His lips twitched, but no words came out. After a moment, he glanced away, as if embarrassed. "Don’t know," he muttered finally waving his hand. "You... stay."

She blinked, unsure what to make of that. "Yeah... I stay," she echoed gently, offering him a small smile. "You noticed that, huh?" She hesitated, but curiosity pushed her forward. "Bucky... what do you call yourselves? Your kind, I mean. Not what humans say."

His expression darkened instantly, sharp as a blade. The calm manner in which he’d been watching her moments ago turned to something heavier, and his mouth pressed into a tight line.

"You call... ce-cecaelia," he said finally, like forcing the word out.

"Yeah, I know," she pressed gently, tilting her head, carefully. "But you. What do you call yourselves?"

For a heartbeat, she thought he might answer. His eyes flicked away, toward the water, the tendrils around him curling tighter, restless. Then, sharp and clipped, he growled.

"No."

The word cut through the air like a slap.

She froze, watching as his body tensed, and a storm brewed behind his eyes again. His gaze flicked back to her, colder now, as if warning her off the subject.

"Okay," she said quickly, lifting her hands in a soft gesture of surrender. "Okay. I won’t ask again."

The tension in his arms eased just a fraction, but the wall between them had been reinforced.

She sighed, realizing that, as much as they were starting to see each other, there were still oceans of distance between them.

Still, she stayed. And he didn’t make her leave.

----

"Well..." she said softly, reaching for her bag, "I’ll just work a little before I go."

Her voice was light, like she wasn’t sitting a few feet away from a dangerous creature, a creature who had just reminded her how little she knew about him and how much he could hide.

She pulled out her yarn and hook, choosing a soft neutral color this time, and set to work. Simple coasters, nothing fancy. Something she didn’t need to think too hard about, letting her hands work while her mind stayed alert to the figure near the rocks.

Bucky stayed where he was, watching her.

Conflicted.

Part of him felt… oddly disappointed. She was ignoring him now, turning away as if she didn’t care to know more. Well, it was him who made it happen. The questions stirred things in him he wasn’t ready to face. Memories that were better left at the bottom of the sea.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her hands moved gently, with a cadence that was almost… calming. Familiar, even, in a way that tugged at something deep in his chest.

He didn’t realize how close he’d gotten until a stray tendril brushed the edge of her bag, curling just slightly before he snapped it back with a small flick.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye but said nothing, as if pretending she hadn’t noticed.

Good.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to explain what he was doing there, watching her, hovering like some unsure shadow. Still, when her hands stilled for a moment to adjust the yarn, his eyes locked on them, fascinated despite himself.

So strange, these human rituals. But soothing to watch.

She felt it before she saw it, that subtle shift of the air, the faint scent of brine and salt-soaked skin. When she lifted her head, his face was right there, startlingly close, watching her hands work with a mix of curiosity and frustration.

Her breath hitched, and she blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by his nearness.

His gaze flicked from her eyes to her hands, then back again, and after a long pause, he tilted his head slightly and gestured at the yarn with a tendril that curled in the air, hesitant.

"...What?" he rasped.

"This?" she asked gently, holding up her half-finished piece so he could see.

He gave a sharp, impatient nod.

She smiled. "It’s a coaster. Something you put under a cup. To protect tables and stuff."

His brow furrowed. "Cup?"

She blinked, realizing that might not be something he had. "Um... to drink from?" She mimed holding a glass to her lips.

Understanding flickered in his eyes, though he still looked faintly puzzled.

She chuckled softly, glancing down at her work. "It's just... something small. Easy to make. Not dangerous, I promise."

He leaned in a little closer, inspecting it now, shifting his tendrils restlessly on the rocks beside her as if wanting to reach but not daring. For a long moment, he just stared at the piece of yarn art in her hands. Then, as if pronouncing the word was a battle, he murmured, "...Pretty."

Her eyes widened slightly, heat blooming in her cheeks at the unexpected compliment, or at least, what felt like one.

"Thanks," she whispered, meeting his gaze again, softer now.

His shoulders tensed, as though realizing he'd revealed too much, and he sat back a little, though not enough to create real distance. His eyes stayed on her hands, watching every movement like he was trying to decipher a language he used to know and had long forgotten.

"Want me to make you one?" she asked quietly, half-teasing but also a little serious, remembering what transpired in the cave.

At first, he didn’t seem to react to her offer. His gaze stayed fixed on her hands, following the slow dance of her fingers over the yarn. She thought he might not have understood, or maybe he just didn’t care.

But then, almost reluctantly, he gave a small nod. "Yes.”

She blinked, a little surprised. "Alright," she murmured, smiling faintly, "I'll make one for you."

As she worked, looping and pulling the yarn, she felt him shift beside her, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught the slow, deliberate motion of his tendrils stretching along the rocks.

At first, she thought he was just getting comfortable. But as minutes passed, she realized his long, powerful limbs were spreading out in a wide circle, inching their way around her. By the time she dared to glance up at him again, she realized she was nearly surrounded.

His tentacles lay sprawled on the rocky floor, not quite touching her, but close enough that she could feel the cool, coming off them. Like a living fence, fluid and silent, encircling her while she worked.

She swallowed, trying to keep her hands firm. "You are really into ignoring personal space, huh?" she muttered, half to herself, though her voice came out a bit more breathless than she wanted.

His eyes flicked to hers, tilting his head slightly, as if not understanding. Then, he just kept watching, unmoving, while his tendrils coiled loosely, some of them draping over the rocks just inches from her legs.

She licked her lips, glancing at his face. His expression was calm. Intense, yes, but not hostile. More like… he was studying her.

Letting out a quiet breath, she focused back on her work. "Okay, big guy," she whispered under her breath. She tried to keep her breathing calm, moving her fingers carefully as she worked, but he was impossible to ignore.

Her eyes flicked sideways again, taking in the way one thick tendril coiled lazily around a jutting rock, as the tip twitched slightly like it had a mind of its own. Another rested just near her ankle, close enough that if she shifted even a little, she’d brush against it. 'Okay... stay calm', she thought, focusing on looping the yarn, 'he hasn’t hurt you. He let you go from the cave, remember?'

After a while, she dared to lift her head, only to find that his face was much closer than before. Close enough that she could see the little constellation of freckles scattered on his cheek near his ear, the slight shimmer of seawater still clinging to his skin, and the way his eyes -sharp, intense, and curious- searched hers for something. Her breath caught for a second, and she instinctively leaned back, only to realize there wasn’t much room left behind her.

His tendrils sprawled wide, blocking most of her easy escape paths. "It seems you got all comfortable," she commented with a nervous little smile curling her lips. Still no answer. Just that sharp, unreadable gaze. "Okay then..." she whispered, returning her focus to the coaster, though her fingers stumbled once before picking up their rhythm again.

----

What she didn’t know was that, for once, he was content. Or as close to content as he could remember being.

Because she was making something for him, without him asking, without him demanding it. She had offered. And that small gesture of willful giving, rather than fearful compliance, stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He told himself it was just boredom. Just curiosity. It had been so long since he spoke to anyone, even longer since anyone sat near him like this, acting like he was something other than a monster, even his own kind. Sadly, she was human. Fragile. Foolish.

Still, there was something about her that pulled him, like puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. A part of it was her scent. Something that made his senses prick with restless curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, watching her hands move with that odd grace over the yarn before something in him decided he needed to understand what that scent was.

So he did what felt natural to him, he leaned in, slow but deliberate, until his nose was just a breath away from her head, inhaling deeply.

The reaction was instant.

She jolted with a startled gasp. His own reaction was just as quick, pure instinct snapping into place, tendrils shooting forward to wrap firmly around her wrists, pinning them against the rocky surface before she could even think to pull away.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Her breath came fast, her heart pounded under her skin, and his grip tightened fractionally before he realized what he was doing.

Narrowing his eyes, he growled lowly -more at himself than at her- but didn’t release her immediately. Instead, he watched her face closely, as if searching for something in her wide, surprised eyes.

"...sorry," she breathed out, though she wasn’t sure why she was apologizing when he was the one with the tentacles wrapped around her wrists.

Her voice seemed to break through whatever fog had overtaken him. Slowly, reluctantly, the tendrils loosened and slid away, though they remained close, coiled with barely restrained tension.

"You startled me," she managed to say. "Getting that close suddenly without warning." she exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

He tilted his head slightly as if weighing her words, and something about her tone seemed to click in his mind. She could see it in the way his shoulders loosened a bit like he understood, and let her wrists go.

"Alright," she sighed, glancing at him sideways. "But what… what were you trying to do, anyway?"

For a moment, he looked like a child caught with his hand in a jar, a flash of something vulnerable crossing his features before he quickly masked it, trying to appear unaffected.

He raised a hand, almost stiffly, and gestured to his temple. "Scent," he said simply, watching her closely for her reaction.

"Oh," she breathed out. Okay… scent. That made sense. A lot of animals use scent to learn things about others. Maybe his kind did too. She blinked at him, then offered a small, almost amused smile. "Alright, I get it. Scent is important."

He seemed to relax a fraction more, but there was still a tense curiosity in the way he held himself, waiting to see if she'd bolt or scold him again.

She tilted her head slightly in thought, looking at him, then -deciding to leap- she reached up, sweeping her hair to one side and exposing the curve of her neck. "Well… now that I’m aware of your intentions," she said lightly, quirking her lips  into a half-smile, "do you wanna try again?"

The offer clearly caught him off-guard.

His eyes widened, and his pupils dilated slightly, and, for a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Watching her like she was some strange, fascinating thing.

What she didn't realize, was that to him, this wasn’t just an invitation. The way she tilted her head, exposing her throat so casually, and shifting her hair aside, was a gesture of trust and vulnerability. And, among his kind, a subtle but unmistakable signal of courtship, offering one's scent in a way that said look at me, know me, choose me.

His teeth clicked together once, a sharp little sound he barely managed to suppress.

She caught the sound and blinked, uncertain. "What?"

He shook his head quickly, though his eyes were still locked on the tender skin of her neck. Slowly, as if testing how far she would let him go, he leaned in again. This time, there was a different air in his movements, they were careful, deliberate. His breath ghosted over her skin as he inhaled, and one of his hands, hovered like he was tempted to grab her but didn’t dare.

She swallowed and felt her pulse fluttering fast under his gaze.

His nose brushed lightly against her neck as he drew in another breath, slower this time. When he pulled back, his eyes had softened just a little, though they were still sharp, and curious and there was something else, something she couldn’t quite read.

She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

"Better?" she asked, a little breathless.

He nodded once, never breaking the eye contact.

"Better," he echoed, low and rough.

She exhaled slowly, toying absentmindedly with the yarn in her lap, but her mind was already spinning with the moment they had just shared. Then, before she could think better of it, she found herself saying, "Well… since you got to smell me, I think it's only fair I get to do the same."

His eyes widened, blinking at her like he wasn’t sure he heard right.

"I mean…" she shrugged, a crooked little smile pulled at her lips. "Seems like the polite thing to do, right?"

He stiffened. His head tilted slightly, with a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

She noticed it, of course. "What?" she asked, teasing to soften the moment. "Are you scared?"

At that, his gaze snapped back to hers, sharp and narrowed. "No," he grunted, frowning, but there was a flicker of something else.

She leaned a little closer, amused now, "C’mon… it’s only fair," she said softly, holding his gaze. "I let you get this close, didn’t I?" She gestured to her neck, and her cheeks warmed at the memory of his breath ghosting over her skin. "It’s not like I’m gonna bite you."

He huffed through his nose and then, with an almost reluctant grumble, he shifted closer, but slower this time.

She smiled gently, trying not to startle him. "Okay… your turn," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly would shatter whatever fragile thing had formed between them.

Tentatively, he tipped his head forward, lowering himself just enough for her to reach. His hair was still damp, smelling faintly of salt and something sharper, darker, like deep water and stormy tides.

She hesitated for a moment, but curiosity got the better of her. She leaned in, mimicking what he had done, and inhaled gently near the side of his neck, careful not to touch him. The scent was strange but not unpleasant, wild and raw but surprisingly human.

When she pulled back, she smiled, tilting her head. "See? Not so bad. It was the fair thing to do, after all."

He stared at her, with unreadable eyes. Then he nodded, the smallest of motions. "Fair," he murmured.

She chuckled, and that seemed to make him relax just a fraction. Inside though, her heart was still racing, because she couldn’t ignore the way something electric had passed between them, something unsaid but very tangible.

And it seemed neither of them quite knew what to do with it.

Next Chapter

“People talked. About things that weren’t quite human. About folks who went missing near the water. Strange marks on the rocks, long grooves like claws or something worse."

I KNOW THEY EAT PEOPLE (which has now been confirmed for me so I WAS right)

"Not like the pretty stories," the woman snapped gently, but firmly. "Not those sweet things in fairy tales. They don't want to be found."

“Well... thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

I’m getting the vibe of those old people in rocking chairs in a horror movies. The ones that shout “Don’t go up that path ain’t nobody comes back” and ofc— she’s not gonna listen (I wouldn’t either, girl, it’s Bucky who are we kidding?)

Bucky was already at the shoreline when she arrived a couple of days later. He had waited, half-expecting -half-daring- her to show up at his cave one of those mornings.

If he had a tail— I know it would be wagging when he sees her again

A cloud slid aside and a beam of golden light poured down, catching him squarely and turning his pale skin stark against the stone before he could shift his pigments.

His throat rumbled, and a low hiss slipped through bared teeth before he could stop it, flashing the sharp glint of fangs.

🐈🐈

“…Try?” she offered, gently.

OH NY GOD not her getting on his level so he can understand her better and feel less threatened 😭😭😭

His eyes snapped to hers, narrowing in a way that sent a chill down her spine. As if to challenge her, he deliberately plucked another one from the container and ate it, watching her like he was daring her to object.

For someone who seems to resent all things human (including emotions) he is SHOCKINGLY petty. #sassymanapocalypse

"You're supposed to give me your name and shake my hand," she added with a small, nervous smile. "It's how we... humans, you know, introduce ourselves. To say we're not enemies."

I’m afraid sticking to small words is best for his poor seaweed brain

He gave her hand a single, brief shake -awkward and stiff,

Awkward— just how I like my men 😮‍💨

Part of him felt... oddly disappointed. She was ignoring him now, turning away as if she didn't care to know more.

…..

He didn't realize how close he'd gotten until a stray tendril brushed the edge of her bag, curling just slightly before he snapped it back with a small flick.

Still, when her hands stilled for a moment to adjust the yarn, his eyes locked on them, fascinated despite himself.

I swear to god he’s one chapter away from starting to purr 🐈🐈

So he did what felt natural to him, he leaned in, slow but deliberate, until his nose was just a breath away from her head, inhaling deeply.

😲 okay so we’re just sniffing people now, huh?

Her voice seemed to break through whatever fog had overtaken him. Slowly, reluctantly, the tendrils loosened and slid away, though they remained close, coiled with barely restrained tension.

RELUCTANTLY ?!?!

She gestured to her neck, and her cheeks warmed at the memory of his breath ghosting over her skin. "It’s not like I’m gonna bite you."

It's Not The Same River by @goldiwrites summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.

Drive You Home by @navybrat817 summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well. He can’t help but fall for you. But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy. He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore. He wants to be someone you can come home to.

Guilt of the Quiet One by @fromsil summary: your life was unraveling, little by little. bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. nothing made it easier, especially when one of metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.

Jump Then Fall @mcrdvcks summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.

Longing in Lane Three by @sunday-bug summary: You're spending your summer working at the local bowling alley and thirsting over your ex-best friend's dad, Bucky.

Manchild by @houseofhyde summary: bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.

I feel it Turning into Addiction by @sinner-as-saint summary: He was too old for this. Crushing on his next door neighbour? Unbelievable. He should leave the poor girl alone. But fuck, he couldn’t. Could he? After all, you were so sweet, and gentle, and kind, and always baked things in the middle of the night and left boxes and baskets filled with sweet-smelling treats at his doorstep for him to find almost each morning. And what did he do in return? He imagined all the sinful ways he could make you whine and whimper for him. He was bad for you, he knew that. People called him all sorts of things: criminal, gang leader, outlaw. Bucky Barnes was bad news. But did that stop him? No. You being so forbidden just solidified his addiction. Bucky Barnes never claimed to be a good man, so he’d do whatever it takes to get whatever he wanted. And all he wanted was you. good girl by sinner-as-saint summary: You come home all sad and upset after a horrible date, and your two best friends cheer you up in the best way ever. 

dark desire and tainted bliss by sinner-as-saint summary: Hiring you as his assistant was the best and the worst thing Bucky had done. He knew he shouldn’t be doing the things he was doing. He knew he shouldn’t have offered you to just live in the tower because it’s easier. He knows that this obsession of his will only breed problems. But the heart wants what it wants. And what Bucky wants, he gets.

Declassified by @dreamwritesimagines (another fav congressman!bucky fic) summary: Politics is a game that requires secrets, just like love.

Red Star Bruise on Tour by w1nter-fairy (rockstar bucky is my guilty pleasure)

summary: So, you've found your way to Backstage. This is the kind of tour that leaves marks: good, bad. Depends on the night, really (and how much of Bucky Barnes you can handle when the house lights go down and the after party's just getting started) Different by @quiteamessbabes summary: Clark is different. Different from your ex he can't stop thinking about, different from the men who couldn't make you cum.

It's not what you think by @alrisyl summary: clark cancels on you again for ‘work’ but it was a lie..

but he doesn't like me, does he? by fromsil summary: there was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain : clark kent didn’t like you. not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. but you could feel it. his body language and attitude gave everything away. your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

Partition by @kimoralov3 summary: bucky's campaign is going smoothly, or as smoothly as it could go for someone who technically was a former assassin. but the real crime is bucky standing in front of you and looking so good, when you couldn't get your hands on him yet.

Checks and Balances by @pellucid-constellations summary: Your boss was an ass—you knew it, the office knew it, the entire country knew it. Working for Senator Brown was never easy, but you had managed it for the better part of three years and didn’t want to see your career go up in flames. Unfortunately for you, Bucky was slowly falling in love with you, and Congressman Barnes didn’t think managing it was enough.  If We Talked by pellucid-constellations summary: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.

who did this to you? by @buckysleftbicep summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

bent and bruised by buckysleftbicep

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears.

Washington's Finest by @flofaiiry summary: Congressman Barnes has heard the stories from his colleagues on committee, he knows the stereotype that politicians in Washington often hire women to pursue their extracurricular activities- but he never expected to be the one to be in the need of such... services, much less the kind of man who'd actually seek them out

I Thought We Were Already Dating by @danysdaughter summary: you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it). I think I Love You by danysdaughter summary: You agreed to keep it casual—just sex, no feelings. But when loving Bucky in silence begins to break you, walking away is the only thing you can do… even if it destroys you both.

still yours by danysdaughter summary: bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost. when the sun hits (it matters where you are) by @rosesaints summary: it’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!)

reckless fever, lover girl by rosesaints

summary:you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now.

all mine, baby by @buckyseternaldoll summary: You crossed a line to finish the mission. Bucky saw it. Now he’s going to remind you who that pussy belongs to—with his mouth, his cock, and his name on your lips. use me. you're all mine. by buckyseternaldoll

summary: You were too sore to move. Too fucked-out to think. Good thing Bucky never minded doing all the work. eighteen hours. by buckyseternaldoll summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release. Every Time We Almost by buckyseternaldoll

Summary: Every time you almost had a moment—life got in the way. Night shifts, missions, exhaustion, missed calls and missed chances. But tonight, the universe finally gave you the time. And Bucky? He’s not wasting a second of it.

sergeant's magic mouth by buckyseternaldoll

summary: You thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. Then you overheard Steve teasing Bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. Bucky gets flustered. You get curious. A week later, he proved he’s still got it.

Dead-End Heat by buckyseternaldoll

summary: After his divorce, John Walker hides out at the end of a dead-end road — quiet, wrecked, and alone. Until his new neighbor starts dancing naked by the window. And he stops pretending he’s not watching.

We Couldn’t Stop by @societyfolklore summary:  During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.

heavy in your arms by @buckytakethewheel summary: Bucky has big arms. And you've been dreaming about losing yourself in them since you saw him for the first time.

research purposes by @cursedheartsclub summary: What starts as “sex ed” with your shy, curious best friend turns into something neither of you can deny. He wants to learn. You want to teach. But somewhere between the videos, the moans, and the way he says your name—it’s not just research anymore.

bound to burn by cursedheartsclub

summary: You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part?

bad idea by @barnesonly summary: Bucky can’t keep his eyes off you all mission and when you catch him moaning your name back at the safe house, you make sure to give him exactly what he’s been craving. Yearning by barnesonly

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

me and my husband by @venusheartsyou2 summary: bucky asks a lot of you. like that time he asked you to marry him, no-strings-attached, of course.

Busy Woman by @wbellab summary: You’ve always had a soft spot for Bucky Barnes. Shamelessly flirted just to see that annoyed look that made him look so good. He never gave you more than those quiet stares, jaw tight like he was holding something back. Fine by you. You had better things to do than wait around for a man stuck in the 40s. At least, that’s what you told yourself. A Thousand Times Before @marvelstoriesepic Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore. A Star Without a Sky by @vunblr summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Wanted by vunblr summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.

come back to me, please @little-miss-dilf-lover summary: bucky would never return home late from a mission, not if he could help it anyway. he would always give you updates and little texts when he gets the chance. though tonight he doesn’t message and all your texts go undelivered. you immediately think the worst and are left to wallow in your made up grief for hours before he returns back home to you.

Wanna Be Yours by @daddyjackfrost

summary: Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.

What's Left of Me is Yours by @pleasantlycrazyworld summary: You didn’t want Bucky to know about the stalking. Not just because you were scared but because you knew what it could cost him. What it would pull out of him. But the second he finds out someone’s been watching you… he gives you a truth that chills you deeper than the fear ever could.

Firsts by pleasantlycrazyworld

summary: Bucky takes your virginity.

With All My Heart @street-smarts00 summary: You never thought Bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.

come back to me @peterparkive summary: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did. mrs. walker, if you're nasty by cursedheartsclub

summary: You never meant to fake marry your ex-fuckbuddy-turned-field-partner. But when the mission called for a believable couple, John Walker—with his old wedding ring still in a drawer and tension still in his jaw—was the only option Val had for you.

only you by cursedheartsclub

Summary: John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home. You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary. But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart.

bucky trying to help you forget about your ex, but can’t hold back his feelings anymore by cursedheartsclub

where the quiet lives by cursedheartsclub

Summary: You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house.

say it by cursedheartsclub

summary: You were always so careful with him. Always asked before you touched. Always pulled back when he got too still. But Bucky never pulled away. Not from you. Then you saw Sharon Carter touch him. Completely innocently. Now your hands are on his thighs, your mouth is at his throat, and you’re making him say he wants you. (He does. He always has.)

outside by cursedheartsclub

Summary: Your ex used to talk shit about John Walker. You all ran in the same Army circle– never close, but you knew each other. Then one night at the bar, John saw you walk in wearing that dress… and decided that your ex didn’t deserve to say your name ever again.

sweetpea by @artficlly

summary: After the Riftborn War, Bucky Barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.

the art of pretending by artficlly

summary: being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely.

Lust by @barnesonly

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

need a ride? by @barnesandashes

summary: save a horse, ride a congressman. after waiting for congressman james bucky barnes to finish his emergency meeting— which lasted the whole night, he offers you a ride home, at the back of his motorcycle. like, what could go wrong?

Saying goodbye to your friends was harder than you expected. Seeing Tony and Bucky talk face to face with understanding and even empathy was something you had never expected to see. Steve and Natasha, openly holding hands, not in a combat form, or looking for prying eyes. Clint talking to his wife on the phone, promising to bring all the little monsters to come and say hi. You’d promise to make sure they had an actual place to sleep and not outdoors, where everyone was covered in bug bites. 

Sam stood with Neo; you could just make out the blush on his face, the way he rubbed the back of his head. He’d found a place only a few acres away from yours, where he could learn more about falconry. He was also planning to show how the falcon suit worked for T’Challa, a joint project. 

Pepper had hugged you extra tight, having you promise her that you’d come visit sooner rather than later. You couldn’t even imagine being in New York again. The life you lived now had slowed so much, compared to the bustling city. Even so, you knew in your chest that you’d go back. New York would always be your home, no matter how far away you were. James gave Steve a big hug. You hated that he had to leave so soon, but that was the nature of this life. Something you would never get used to. 

James came back to you, his fingers lacing with yours. He leaned down to kiss your cheek. You relished every intimate act he gave. Being around friends seemed to have made it easier, his mind and body finally coming to some kind of balance, where he felt safe enough to be with you.

“Going to be quiet,” He murmurs, as you both wave goodbye to your friends. 

You lean against him, relish his warmth. “I won’t mind a little privacy.”

Looking down at you, he raised an eyebrow, “Oh? Is that so?”

Face a flame, you can’t help the small smile. “Uh-huh, I need my boyfriend, and maybe not seeing another person for a few days.”

“I would like that,” James murmurs, pulling you close and kissing the top of your head. 

The two of you move back toward your hut, stopping by Sam and Neo. Sam was discussing the African Goshawk, talking about their ambush-style hunting and ability to take various prey. They had the ability to fly high and swoop down onto prey at astonishing speed. Neo seemed to take it all in stride, mimicking the bird's clicking sound with scary accuracy. 

“You really are a bird man,” James smiles, the two of you stopping for a moment. 

Neo smiles, “Sam learns extremely fast. We are going to be leaving for a few days. Put our hunters to the test.”

“Going to do some actual falconry. I am really interested to see how these hawks fly compared to American Goshawk. I actually worked with the American variety before, was one of my first hawks,” Sam explains, nervous excitement coming off of him. 

“That’s pretty cool, Sam. Have to tell us about it when you come back,” You smile, happy that he seemed to be enjoying himself. 

“Think we are going to take a week off, just spend some time with the chickens,” James replies, squeezing your hand. “Maybe start a garden.”

“Make sure your fence is strong, or the goats will eat it,” Neo chuckles, patting James on his shoulder. “We will see you both in a few days.”

Bucky places the large kettle on the outside fire pit. It was much too hot inside to run the small wood stove. Normally, cold water wasn’t a problem with the heat, but tonight Bucky wanted warm water. Inside, he could hear you cutting up vegetables for dinner; the chicken had been roasting in a small pot for most of the day. It smelt amazing, reminding him that he definitely was going to put that garden in. Even if the goats decided to eat it, it would make you smile.

Adding a few small logs to the fire, he left that, brushing his hands off on his pants. It wasn’t something he was used to yet. Your willingness to be near him, want to be near him. Enjoying his attention more than he thought possible. The memories of you being together, getting to know one another, the patience you had with him. It was all there. Despite that, it was like he was seeing you for the first time. This ethereal being made of light and stars, so full of hope, and yet you understood his pain. He knew that, knew that you saw him in ways that no one else had. Understanding it and accepting it was proving to be harder than anticipated. Bucky had promised himself, and you, that he’d learn how. Hopefully, this was a step in the right direction. 

Grabbing the finished chicken, Bucky heads inside, carefully putting the pot onto the counter. You grin at him as you toss the veggies in a salad bowl, sprinkling salt and pepper on it. The two of you move around the kitchen with ease, grabbing plates, forks, glasses. Bucky cuts the chicken into pieces, scooping, yams, carrots onto the plate with it. 

“This smells amazing,” You comment, adding the salad onto it. “What were you putting on the fire?”

Bucky takes the plate and grabs a jug of tea, “Water, for later.”

You tilt your head as you both sit down at the small table, “What are we doing later?”

“It’s a surprise,” Bucky says before taking a bite, trying to play up more courage than he actually has. 

“Your ears are red, James Barnes,” You tease, suppressing a grin with your cup. “Or would you prefer Sargent Barnes?”

Bucky nearly drops his fork, unable to stop his own smile. Looking away, he tries to compose himself; he didn’t remember you being such a flirt. Not that he minded. At one time he was just as much a flirt. Licking at his lips, he lets out a shaky breath. 

“You always flirt this hard with your patients, Doc?” Bucky tries; you nearly snort your water out of your nose, Bucky has to hid his face behind his palm.

“Oh god, we are so bad at this,” You cackle, putting your water glass down with a giggle. 

Bucky shakes his head, “You started this.” 

“Did I?” Your eyes narrow as you pretend to think. “I think you asked me to go to the library.”

He swallowed, remembering that day; it hadn’t gone as he wanted. Even if it had been the start of something special, that came with never-ending misunderstandings and a mission that went awry. Still it had all worked out, you were still here after all. 

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Bucky rubbed at the back of his head. “You gave me the confidence to try.”

Your face flushed. “Just needed a nudge in the right direction. You would have found someone.”

Bucky stood, moving over to you. He crouched down and cups your face, “No. It was supposed to be you. I don’t know how, or why- luck, something. But it was always going to be you. I don’t think anyone could have broken through to me like you did.”

“Going to make a girl cry,” You lean forward to press your forehead against his. 

“None of that,” Bucky mutters, standing and wrapping himself around you. “Come with me.”

Without hesitation, you stand with him, mostly eaten food abandoned. He scoops you up, your arms wrap around his neck, as his arm goes under your legs. Holding on, Bucky walks you over to the bedroom, you open the door, and he places you on the bed. The sheets are comfortable and cool. Bucky leans in and kisses you quickly before heading back to the door.

“Hold on, going to grab a few things,” Bucky whispers, making you pout for a moment.

A second dish was filled about halfway with cool water. Before going outside, he grabs the now bubbling hot pot of water, tipping it carefully into the cold bowl. Carefully, he feels the water, making sure it's the right temperature. Happy with that, he moves back inside, gathering towels, and a soap bar that smelled like the flowers you liked. Bucky pauses and looks at the door, or lack of door; it was just a curtain. He’d have to see about getting an actual door soon, last thing he wanted was someone coming over unannounced. Just the thought mad ehis ear flame.

That out of his mind, he brings all the bits into the room he shares with you. It had just been sharing; Bucky had kept a mindful space between you and him; despite wanting more, wanting to push the boundaries. Somehow, tonight he was going to try and cross that line. He needed to let himself enjoy this life.

Opening the door, you lay where he had left you, having kicked off your slippers and taken down your hair. You gave him a nervous smile; the fabric of your wrapped dress shifted as you crossed and uncrossed your legs. Bucky grabbed a chair that you used to dress sometimes, placing the towels on the back, bowl on the seat with the soap, and a lotion bar beside it, then sliding it next to the bed.

You sat up, shifting so that you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. “What's the plan, handsome?” 

Bucky carefully knelt beside the bed and chair, looking up at you; reaching to rest his hand against your hip. It’s not a position he’d usually liked to be in, lower than someone, vulnerable. That wasn't how he felt. Your hand carefully cupped his face, eyes sparkling; Bucky could lean forward and rest his head on your lap, and you'd just hold him like that for as long as he wanted.

“I’d like to wash you,” Bucky asks, nerves in his chest rattling out. “If you don’t mind.”

“Okay,” You say softly, running your fingertips over the stubble. “How’d you like me?”

He let his hand run from your hip down over your thigh, under your knee to cup your calf. Lifting, he position your foot to sit against his thigh. “This works. Let me know if it’s too hot.”

You nod, relaxing; your toes wiggle a little. He shifts, barely feeling the packed dirt floor under his knees. Squeezing the water out, he starts with your feet; it’s difficult with one hand, but he makes it work. You help by lifting one foot and placing the other where it was. His hands shake as he moves up your calves. The only sound to be heard is water, bugs, you shifting against the bed. It wasn’t uncomfortable so much as it was loaded, a palpable shift between you both was happening. 

Every bump, mole, texture, he noted, letting his hand remap the skin he had grown accustomed to. Listening to how your breath changed, when his thumb swirled just behind your knee. How your knees were rougher, not just from surgery, but working outside. The dirt embedded around old scars making them stand out like lightening strikes. Small freckles that raised just a little form the skin, a bit darker then it was around it. He wanted to commit every detail to memory, to never forget what was infornt of him, what he had. You were his rock, the person who stood beside him no matter what, and he refuesed to forget it again.

Pushing up the fabric of your dress, Bucky looks up, making sure it’s okay to continue. Not hesitating, you pull up the fabric, so that he has easy access to the upper part of your leg. His heart skips as he runs the cloth over top of your thighs, your lip catching in your teeth as the water trickles over the skin. Not meaning to, he can smell you, how your body reacts to being touched so intimately. It makes him have to pause, his hand resting just above your knee, his own body reacting. It was normal, had happened before, too many times before. Didn’t make any less embarrassing.

Bucky nearly jumps when you reach for his face, fingers carefully cupping face. “We can stop,”

“I don’t want to stop,” His voice is rough, betraying his own feelings, his eyes focused on the pattern of your dress. 

You lean down to kiss Bucky, his hand tightening around the towel, as he pushes against your lips. The taste of dinner faintly there, how your heart flutters as his fingers slide up to your hip again. Fingers digging into plush flesh he found, a small whine leaving you. He takes the opening to lick inside your mouth, tongue tangled against one another. God. Bucky could get addicted to how you taste, the sounds you make from just him being in front of you. You reacted to every bit of movement like you’re starving for him. Cupping your face he angles you so that he can nip at your lips, sucking at the plush skin making you shiver. 

Moving from your lips down along your jaw, carefully kissing each piece of skin. His skin breaking out in goosebumps, as his cock twitched, making itself known. Your hands slide down is side, pulling him closer, trying to drag him onto the bed. 

“M’not done yet,” Bucky pulls back, looking up at you. Your hands still at his waist having pulled him between your legs, eyes dilated, lips kiss swollen. 

“I can wait,” Your eyes close for a moment, he can see you pulling yourself together. “Can’t be dusty now.”

Bucky smirks before he moves his hand from your face down to your thigh, pushing up at the fabric. “Can you take this off, please?”

Your face flushes, “Only cause you asked so nice.”

He chuckles, helping you pull the dress off over your head; leaving you in panties and bra. Bucky can’t stop his eyes from roaming over your body. How your body curves, bends, folds just right. His eyes move up over your breasts and land on the scar above your collarbone from a bullet you’d taken. Then down your arm where a few marks lay along your arms and ribs from where you’d fallen. Older ones from your time as a medic. Each one brought back small memories. His fingers had to touch each one, remember them. Bucky was not going to forget them.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bucky whispers before looking up at you. Your face was dusted pink, as your hands grip the blankets, like you didn't know what to do with all the attention. 

“Leaving me without words,” You reply. He can hear your heartbeat pick up. The unique beat grounds him into the moment.

“Hands first,” He holds out his hand, and you place yours in it. 

Carefully he cleans each finger, around the nails, making sure to be careful around the small bumps and bruises. The idea of wrapping you in a protective layer came to mind, you weren’t clumsy, or careless, but that didn’t stop you from getting these little marks. The deep primal need to keep you safe was always surfacing. The Soldier made it clear that nothing would happen to you, he didn’t want you to be out of his sight. Any cut, scrap, bruise, and, or bump felt like a personal failure. Bucky knew that was ridiculous, that you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, the Soldier needed more proof. Meaning Bucky had to regularly remind him it wasn’’t the forties anymore. 

He moved up your arm, taking time to map each piece of skin. Right arm first, his fingers tracing the outline of muscles that were starting to develop and change. With you no longer having to use your crutches you had started to work out, moving pails of water and feed. Another thing the Soldier often scoffed about, you having callouses on your hands from doing chores. Bucky couldn’t help the small smile that crossed his face, the guy from the forties still held on inside. 

“What you smiling about?” You ask as he moves over to the left arm. Bucky had been purposefully trying not to stare at your breasts and how they moved as you talked.

“It seems silly,” Bucky murmurs, feeling nerves crawl up his chest. 

The hand Bucky is working moves to stop him, tipping his chin up so that he is looking at you. “Nothing is silly, not between us.”

Sighing he nods, continuing to work on your hand and up your wrist. The movement’s of his hand firm as he cleans you. “The Soldier.” Bucky huffs and cleans the towel in the water. “I know that we aren’t separated anymore, but he talks to me sometimes.”

You tip your head, not concerned, just curious. “Oh? What does he talk about?” 

Bucky’s face flushes even more as he goes up over your upper arm, “You.” He looks up, watching you hold back a grin. “He’s very protective of you. I think-” Another pause. “He’s old fashioned.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” You smirk, as he cleans the cloth again. “What else?”

“Thinks I, or us, I guess, don’t do enough. Shouldn’t have you working so hard.” Bucky shakes his head. “I know  you’re capable, strong, independent. Think he’d like to have you wrapped in paper and not let out of the house.”

A burst of laughter escapes you, “Not a fan of me getting bumps and bruises?”

He reaches up and traces over the bullet wound. “Think he’s worried about losing you.”

Your hand wraps around his over top of the now healed wound. “Well, you let him know that I don’t plan on going anywhere. I am also very capable of handling myself.” Your thumb runs over top of his hand, soothing circles that almost tickle. “I also have the best backup in the world.”

Shifting, he sits up more, the two of you looking at one another. Your eyes lit up, the small lamp on the side table making your features almost glow. He didn’t understand how he deserved you. How he was allowed to feel comfort and warmth, when all he’d known for so long was coldness. His eyes flick down to your lips, lips he loved to kiss, and yet this felt so much more intimate before. Like the first time all over again. Was that even possible? He’d just kissed you.

Leaning forward, you run a hand up into his hair, the long strands falling past his shoulders. “Can I kiss you?”

Bucky nods, remembering how careful you always are. The towel dropping into the bucket with a plop. One hand tangled at the back of his neck, the other tracing along the stubble, he could get lost in the way you look at him. Your lips press against his, the softness of them feeling almost sinful as he lets himself just feel. How you suck his lip into your mouth, fingers caressing against his cheekbone, as your other fingers tug against the hair. Enough that a small whine escapes him; you know what he is going to do and swipe your tongue against his. Bucky’s stomach tensed, feeling heat press against his spine. 

You pull at him, hand moving from his neck to his back, pushing him further in between your legs. The warmth and smell of your body were so overwhelming, intoxicating, and he needed more. Instinctively, he moved forward, crawling on top of you. A low whine leaves you as you fall back against the bedding. Bucky pushes your legs up, as your hands move underneath the wraps of his own clothes, too many clothes, and too many layers. 

Clothes were pushed off of him, your hands roaming over his shoulder, carefully tracing over the scars. Bucky barely held himself up, as his lips seemed attached to yours; he nipped and suckig at them. Brief memories of having you underneath him made his heart pulse. He shivered and pulled back, resting his face against your collarbone, letting himself relax on his elbow. Despite wanting to, his dick had other ideas and was not responding with its usual gusto. Of all times to have performance anxiety, he wanted to groan and put his fist into a wall.

Your hands rubbed soothing circles along his back, your own heart pounding fast in your chest. Legs splayed open so that he fit just right, could feel the heat and dampness there, and yet the thought of going further made him almost shake. You were everything he wanted, and needed, and god his body sure knew that. But he struggled to actually move, to not just lay partially paralyzed on top of you.  

“It’s okay,” You whisper, kissing the side of his neck, hands still moving gently against his skin. “We can stop here.”

He closed his eyes, hating how embarrassment flared up. This was you, someone he had been with on more than one occasion, many, fun occasions in fact. Sighing, Bucky rolls beside you, hand running into his hair, as his eyes squeeze closed. He hadn’t even gotten fully hard, what the hell was wrong with him? This should not be an issue.

The bed dips beside him as you roll to face him, your hand resting against his chest. He could feel your eyes looking him over, waiting for him, always so patient. You deserved so much better than this. A man whose mind wasn't betraying him. Who didn't struggle with intimacy. 

“You're over thinking things,” You lean to kiss his cheek, and then down to his jaw. “Do you want me to take over?”

Bucky can’t make himself say anything, just gripping at the roots of his hair like he could pull himself together by it. 

The warmth of your body makes him let out a small gasp, as you slide on top of him. You rest your elbow on his chest, head in your hands, as you look down at him. He couldn’t look up at you, not yet. Embarrassment still holds him hostage, while the Soldier marches back and forth on his forehead like an angry drill master. His other half seeming just as frustrated by the situation as Bucky was. 

Your lips press against his collarbone, small tiny kisses, fingers finding different scars and marks. Bucky’s heart starts to slow down, breathe evening out, the thumping of boots not stomping so hard. His hand loosens, letting himself just feel your weight, warmth, your smell wrapping around him. Kiss moves from his collarbone down along his chest, then up along his neck. Bucky finally opens his eyes as you look up at him. 

“Hey, handsome,” You say softly, leaning in to kiss him. A groan left him as you aligned your hips with his and rolled them gently. “I need to know you want this. Or I am going to stop, okay?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Bucky all but whines, trying hard to just feel. To not let his mind control how he felt, it was like arguing with a brick. 

Pausing you cup his face with one hand, the other holding yourself up. “You were stuck in your head for weeks. Now you have a new voice, that is you, but it’s got an opinion. It’s all new and amazing, but sometimes our bodies don’t know how to process it. It’s perfectly normal.”

“What do I do? I do not want this to be normal.” Bucky looks up at you, how your brows have scrunched a little, your hand so warm. He wanted this so badly. Could feel it in his chest, and lower stomach, yet it won’t translate further. 

“We can do a few things, can stop, get under the covers and cuddle,” You reply easily, offering solutions like options for dinner, and not laying mostly naked on top of your boyfriend. “We can lay like this, try moving and grinding together, see if that creates a reaction. Or I can try to touch you, with my hands, or mouth.”

Bucky groans at the thought of you touching him, his hips involuntarily moving upwards seeking you. That was a step in the right direction. Your face flushes, as you grind back in response. 

“The last one.” Buck pants, his hand going down to your hip. “Or something. Please.”

“Alright,” You rock your hips again; he can feel the slick and heat of you through the fabric, and it’s not enough. 

Leaning back, you slide down onto his thighs, your hands tracing across his chest, along the lines of his abdomen, to rest on his hip bones. Bucky felt himself tremble, wanting to melt into the bedding. Your fingers slide along the elastic of his boxers, making his stomach suck in automatically. If you noticed, you didn't say anything, instead continuing to tease along the edges of his underwear before sliding a hand down over top of his cock. His eyes rolled up as he bit his lip; goddamn, that felt really good. 

One hand went lower to cup his balls, rolling them across your fingers, making Bucky’s mouth fall open. The other caressing over his, now taking an interest, cock. It felt so wildly different than when he touched himself. Your bold hand flattening to cup and press against his shaft, fingers teasing along the slit as you rub up and then back down. Bucky closes his eyes, focusing on just the feel of you touching him, of knowing what he wants, and how he likes to be touched. Silencing everything but what he was feeling. The act is incredibly intimate, making his body start to twitch and push against the feeling. 

“Mmhmm,” You coo, pushing his underwear down so that you can release Bucky’s stiffening cock. 

Bucky swears several times, as you start to stroke him. Your hands are soft as you grip him, watching his face, which Bucky has to cover with his hand. He tries to just feel relaxed and enjoy the moment, but focusing on it so much makes him feel like he’s going to explode. The sensation had gone from zero to a hundred with such intensity his blood feels on fire. 

As you move over to one of his thigh, hips pushing down to rub yourself against his skin. At the same time your hands working on his cock, the free hand removing one hand to slide of your bra. Bucky’s mouth goes dry watching as your tits move and jiggle, making his hips pump upwards, thighs trembling. Reaching for you, Bucky tries to get you to move on top of him, wanting more direct connection. 

“Please,” Bucky pleads with you. “Want you on top.”

You quick to comply, letting go of him and slipping off your underwear and pulling his the rest off the way off. Grabbing his hand you place it on your breast, urging him to feel and focus. His mind pulled into several places: the heat pressing against his cock, your legs squeezing his hips, your breast in his hand, and the noise you made when you ground against him.

Hips moving in small swivels had Bucky feeling everything, the way your hair ground against sensitive skin, the heat and weight of you completely bare on top of him. His body finally caught on that this felt good, really good. Bucky squeezed at your breast, cupping it and massaging it. Your nipple goes hard underneath his palm. He moves himself more upright, hand grabbing your hip as he finds every piece of sensitive skin. Your reaction is instant, as he sucks a mark just below your ear, wetness slicking the way for the two of you to move together. 

“That's it,” You groan, as his cock continues hardens between you. 

It almost felt like too much, Bucky's body lighting up so fast. Heat rushed down his spine like fire, he couldn’t help the pathetic noises that escaped him. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, as his mouth nips below your collarbone, he wanted to cover you in marks. His marks, you were his, and he was never letting anyone else have you. 

Moving his hips with you, he flips the two of you over. A small oomph leaves you as you gasp up at him. Bucky moves your legs onto his shoulders, opening you up for him. He wanted his mouth on you, but his dick was demanding more. 

Looking up at you, “Can I?”

“Yes, please,” You begged, hips tipping up offering yourself to him with wanton need. 

Bucky had to close his eyes for a moment and breathe to not cum from hearing you like this. Leaning against your legs, he looks down at your dripping cunt, fuck, he shuddered, you were beautiful everywhere. Carefully he dragged his painfully hard dick through your lips, making himself slick. Notching himself against your hole, he slowly pushed in. 

“Oh fuck,” You keen, one hand finds his hip, the other digging into his thigh. 

The feeling narrowed everything, so warm, wet, and tight. It took all his control to not lose it again. This was the closest he'd ever get to heaven, Bucky decided right then. You underneath him, looking completely blissed out, his body lit up with pleasure he didn't know he could feel. All that as he slides deep inside of you. Having your stomach ripple as you squeezed around him with a small cry. 

You start to roll your hips, just slowly, your lip caught between your teeth as you took pleasure from using him. Bucky groaned, steadied himself on his arm, as your legs dragged him closer. Chest heaving as you moved against him, body shining with a thin layer of sweat, your fingers scratching and digging into as you used him.

“You're mine.” It slipped out so quietly he was certain you didn't hear it.

Then you fluttered around him, back arching, eyes catching his before replying. “I am yours, James Barnes.”

Whatever restraint he had snapped inside of him. The sudden unbearable need to claim you overwhelmed him. It was impulsive, reckless, and so primal it didn't feel like him, yet that was part of him. The part of him that could let go, be free, fuck you, and love you exactly the way he wanted to. To mark you, and take you, and make you his in every way. 

Sitting back, he pulled you up onto his lap, watching you keen as he slides somehow deeper inside you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck, his hand gripping your ass. Both of you start to move. Bucky thrusting up, as you move down, pelvis grind against the other. Your mouth smashed against his as you ride him, finding a rhythm easily. Bodies linking in interwoven pleasure that made his balls tighten, your pussy clenching around him as both of you make endless noises. There was no one to hear it, and Bucky doubted it would have mattered at this moment. 

“Ohohoh,” You chanted, forehead resting against his as your mouth fell open. “Jamesjamesohgod,”

Bucky squeezed your hip, urging you towards his own inevitable ruin. Your head tipped back as a guttural sound came out of you, your body shaking as you squeeze and pulse around him, your orgasm rushing forward. He is barely a breath behind you, his body jerking several times as he cums deep inside you. Your nails dig into his skin as you hold onto him, your face buried into his neck. It was like he couldn't breathe for a moment, just lost in the feeling.

A small sniff breaks him from the spell, pulling you gently away from him. Your eyes glimmer with fresh tears, sending panic shooting through him. 

“Oh god, did I- did I hurt you?” Bucky tries to push you off him, but your arms hold him firmly in place.

“Stop.” Your voice is rough as you squeeze him with your arms. “You didn't hurt me.”

He reaches up and wipes at the tears, not understanding what was happening.“You're crying-”

A small laugh slips out of you, “Yes, because I just got my world rocked by my boyfriend.”

Bucky’s face flushes immediately as the words wash over him. “Oh. Oh-”

You lean in and kiss him softly, “Yeah, oh is what happened.” You kiss him again, keeping your arms secured around his neck. “It’s happy tears, James, I promise.”

Leaning forward, he presses his head against yours, “You sure?”

“Yes,” You reply, “I would never lie to you.” He feels your body relax against his. “Just got to find were my brain disappeared to.” 

A smile cracks across his face, “Still got it.”

Both of you break out into laughter, your head tipping back as you hold onto him. His hand pressed against your lower back to keep you in place. The thought of staying here forever warms his soul; he was so lucky to be here with you. Someone who held onto him and understood him, let him be whatever he needed to be 

“Love you, James,” You say softly, nuzzling your nose against his.

“M’Love you too,” Bucky replies, relishing in the comfort of your being right against him. 

You wince a bit as you shift back, a reminder that he was still very much inside you and was a lot rougher than he normally had been. 

“Lay down,” He gestures with his head. “No arguments.” 

Doing as he said, you carefully slide off him. Your brows scrunch for a moment as he slips out of you; Bucky can hear how your breath catches. He worries at his lip, hoping that he didn’t actually hurt you with his recklessness. Trying his best to trust you, that won’t stop him from checking. 

Standing up, he wobbles for a moment, then grabs a bowl and towel off the chair. Moving quickly, he dumps the soiled water out the kitchen window before filling up the bowl with new water and grabbing a clean towel. He brings that in before leaving again to grab the pitcher of water and glasses; it’s awkward with one hand, but he makes it work. 

You lie on the bed, having adjusted the pillow and blankets to be more comfortable. Bucky moves over and pats your legs, getting you to open them for him. Relief floods him seeing no sign of injury except being a little swollen and tender. You grimace as he cleans you up, but don’t complain. 

“Stop staring at me like that.” You try to close your legs, which just makes him hold them open 

“Just making sure you’re clean,” Bucky grumbles before tossing the towel and moving the chair with the bowl away from the bed. 

“James.” You close your legs, reaching up to drag him onto the bed. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He grumbles, but curls himself against you, his head lying on your chest, arm tucked underneath you, holding you close. “I have to be careful. I wasn’t.”

Tipping his chin up, you look directly at him. “If I had told you to stop, would you have stopped?”

Shoulders sagging, he nods, “Yes, that’s not the-”

You put a finger to his lips, “You’re my whole world. I love you to the end of the universe. Stop being so stubborn.” You pause for emphasis. “That was probably the first time you just let yourself -” You chew on your lip for a moment; Bucky can see your brain try and find a way to say it. “Been able to experience sex without having to hold back.

“I’ve enjoyed our times together,” Bucky reassured you, fingers running along your skin, struggling to remain eye contact while talking about something so intimate.

“Yes, but this was different. This was just experiencing the act, enjoying it,” You keep going, almost vibrating with excitement. “I’ve always enjoyed being with you, but I knew you were being careful, gentle; you were always holding back.”

Bucky feels his face flush. “Was I that obvious?”

You kiss his forehead. “I knew you were nervous, and it was all new. It didn’t make me want to be with you any less. This was just different, another layer of armor removed.”

“And that was a good thing? It felt good, like really good.” Bucky feels like his face is burning at this point. 

A small giggle escapes you, “Yes, it was good, intense, but amazing.” You look away for a moment. “I wouldn’t say no to it happening again.”

This time, Bucky lets out a chuckle. “Nuh-uh. Not tonight. You need to sleep. You’re already going to be sore.”

You push at him playfully, “Oh, now you got an ego. Big dick Barnes.”

Bucky buries his face against your neck, “Please don’t give me that nickname.” 

“It’s accurate,” You tease, tickling his sides and making him squirm. 

“Average,” Bucky pushes back, blowing air against your neck, making you squeal. 

The two of you lay there, content in a happy haze, Bucky feeling sleep pull against his eyelids. You hold onto him like he means the world, and he does the same. 

Note: Aren't they cute.... be a shame if anything happened to them...

PART 37

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