A lot of thoughts

The silence of the derelict Kringle-7 deep-space freighter wasn’t peaceful, it was the ringing, metallic silence of a corpse. You were its sole passenger, a xenobotanist hitching a ride back to the Luna-Orbital Spire with a cargo hold full of dormant Frost-Poinsettias from Titan. The ship’s ancient AI had finally and catastrophically, given up the ghost two days ago, leaving you adrift in the ink-black void just beyond Jupiter’s orbit.

Life support was failing, the oxygen recycler wheezing like an old man. Christmas Eve, according to the static-fuzzed chrono on the wall, was in six hours. You were going to die to the sound of your own thinning breath, surrounded by flowers that bloomed only in methane atmospheres.

A heavy, resonant THUMP shook the hull.

You jolted, your heart a frantic bird against your ribs. A meteor? Debris? Another, more deliberate thud-clang echoed, followed by the sickening shriek of metal being peeled back. Boarders. In this lawless quadrant, that was worse than the silence.

You scrambled for the emergency panel, your fingers fumbling over the useless buttons. The inner airlock door hissed, its manual override groaning from the outside. You grabbed the only thing resembling a weapon, a heavy-duty soil trowel from your lab kit and backed against the wall, chest heaving.

The door slid open.

He filled the doorway, backlit by the emergency strobes of his own, much smaller vessel you could see magnetized to the hull. His flight suit was patched and worn, a faded leather jacket over it. His left arm wasn’t an arm at all, but a series of articulated, grimy hydraulic pistons and cabling, a mechanic’s rig, not a soldier’s weapon. Grease was smudged on his stubbled jaw. His eyes, a startling winter-sky blue, swept the corridor and landed on you, huddled with your trowel.

“Yelling ‘come and get me’ on all frequencies generally attracts two things” he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the alarm still blaring in your head. “Salvagers who’ll scrap your spine for the copper, and fools like me.”

“You… you heard my distress call?” Your voice cracked.

“The whole belt heard your distress call, sweetheart. I was closest.” He stepped in, his metal hand, a heavy-duty industrial grapple, reaching up to tear a panel from the wall. Sparks fizzled. He studied the nest of wiring with a critical eye. “Bucky. Bucky Barnes. Independent hauler and part-time idiot.”

He didn’t wait for your name. For the next hour, he was a storm of focused activity. He moved through the dead ship like he was part of it, his metal arm whirring softly as it adjusted torque drivers, re-soldered connections, and jury-rigged bypasses with a terrifying, elegant efficiency. You followed him like a lost comet, handing him tools when he grunted and pointing him toward the main engineering bay.

“The core’s fried” you said, despair creeping back in as you stood over the dead, dark sphere.

“Yep” he agreed, not looking up from a secondary console he was dismantling. “But the Kringle-7 is a Svalgaard-class. Built during the Asteroid Rush. They had redundant systems on their redundant systems.” His metal fingers traced a line on a schematic glowing on his wrist-comm. “There’s a tertiary ignition coil behind the environmental control. If we can hot-wire it to the aux solar battery from my shuttle…”

“Can we?”

He glanced at you, a faint, grim line that wasn’t quite a smile touching his lips. “Do you have anything better to do on Christmas Eve?”

The work was hard, physical, and desperate. You squeezed into access ducts behind him, holding glow-rods while he wrestled with carbon-scored components. You learned the language of his grunts, a short one for a plasma cutter, a longer one for the ionic spanner. He learned you didn’t flinch from getting your hands dirty, that you could read a schematic when you had to.

During a brief respite, sucking down recycled water from his canteen, you sat together in the dim mess hall. A single, small, battery-powered lantern from his pack cast a warm pool of light on the steel table.

“Why’d you answer?” you asked quietly. “You said it yourself. Could’ve been pirates.”

He rotated the canteen in his hand, his human one. The metal one lay on the table, fingers occasionally twitching as it ran a self-diagnostic. “Been the one sending the call before” he said finally, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the past. “Twice. First time, no one came. Second time… someone did.” He didn’t elaborate. The silence stretched, but it was different from the ship’s dead silence. This one was shared, layered with old ghosts.

“What’s in the hold that’s so important?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Frost-Poinsettias. I was documenting their adaptive mycorrhizal network on Titan. They’re… they’re beautiful. Like crystalline lace that sings when the solar winds hit them right.”

“Huh” he said, a real smile, small but genuine, finally appearing. “A poet-scientist. Dangerous combo.”

“What are you hauling?” you countered.

“Spare parts for hydroponic farms on Ceres. And…” he hesitated, then reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a small, carefully wrapped object in foil and placed it on the table. “This.”

You unwrapped it. It was a simple, ancient-looking glass ornament in the shape of a star, filled with a swirling, miniature nebula of gold and silver dust.

“It was my sister’s” he said, his voice softer now. “Every year, no matter where I am, I hang it up. Makes the ship feel less like a tin can and more like… a place.”

Something deep inside your chest, frozen with fear, gave a sharp, painful thaw. You looked from the fragile star to his weary, resolute face, smudged with engine grease and cosmic dust. He wasn’t a hero from the vids. He was a lonely man in a rattling ship, carrying a piece of home in his pocket, who’d stopped because he knew what it was like to be alone in the dark.

“Let’s get you home to hang it up” you said, your voice thick.

He nodded. “Yeah. Let’s.”

The final push was a symphony of chaos. You manned the console, following his barked orders from the reactor pit, rerouting power, praying to stars you didn’t believe in. The ship groaned around you. With a final, spark-showering connection from his metal arm directly into the main grid, the lights flickered, then blazed to life. A deep, healthy hum vibrated through the deck plates. The air recycler kicked in with a fresh, oxygen-rich gust.

You whooped, a sound of pure, undiluted joy. He emerged from the pit, his face smeared with new grime, his hair plastered to his forehead. He was grinning, a full, brilliant thing that lit up the harsh engineering bay.

“You did it!” you laughed, rushing towards him.

He caught you by the arms as you stumbled, his grip firm, real. “We did it,” he corrected. His eyes were crinkled at the corners. The joy in the air was sharper, more potent than oxygen.

Later, with the Kringle-7’s navigation slaved to his shuttle’s and a steady course plotted for the Spire, you sat together in the cockpit. The starfield outside was endless, brilliant. You’d raided the mostly-defunct galley and found two packets of synth-cocoa. It tasted like chemicals and warmth.

Bucky reached up and, with careful precision, hung the little glass star from a conduit above the viewport. It spun gently, catching the light from a hundred distant suns.

“Merry Christmas” he said, looking at it, then at you.

“It’s beautiful” you whispered. You weren’t looking at the star.

He leaned over, his movement slow, giving you every chance to pull away. The kiss was not what you expected in the cold sterility of a spaceship. It was warm. It tasted of synth-cocoa and sweat and a shared, hard-won victory. His metal hand came up to cradle your jaw, the actuators humming softly, the touch surprisingly delicate.

When you parted, your foreheads rested together. The infinite dark outside the viewport didn’t feel lonely anymore. It felt full of possibility.

“When we get to the Spire…” you began.

“My ship’s small” he interrupted, his voice a low murmur. “But it’s got a decent co-pilot’s seat. And the farm on Ceres always needs a good botanist. Their soil reclamation is a mess.”

You pulled back to look at him. “Are you offering me a ride?”

“I’m offering you a seat” he corrected, his blue eyes holding yours. “The view’s better with two.”

The clatter of dishes echoes around the kitchen, harsh fluorescent lights humming overhead. It’s the middle of your nightshift - another endless loop of scrubbing, rinsing, drying. Your body is exhausted, every muscle screaming for rest, but you keep moving. The rhythm is familiar, it’s something you can do without thinking, a small pocket of control in the chaos.

Then, suddenly, your manager’s voice cuts through the noise, shaky and confused. “Hey, uh… can I talk to you for a second? Outside?”

You wipe your hands quickly on your apron, heart pounding. The moment you step outside, the sight before you steals the breath from your lungs.

Two police officers stand near the entrance, their badges catching the streetlight like cold, hard warnings. Behind them, your parents - faces tight, eyes burning with a mixture of anger and something darker. You swallow hard.

Your manager’s voice trembles. “They’re here asking about you… I’m so sorry.”

Before you can even think, before you can move, rough hands grab your arm. Your protest is swallowed in the tightening of cold metal around your wrists.

Handcuffs.

The words don’t make sense in your head. You’re being taken away, your shift forgotten, your coworkers confused stares burning into your back as you’re led toward the waiting police car. The world spins sideways.

Hours later, you find yourself in a cold interrogation room. The fluorescent lights buzz above, too bright, too relentless. Across the table, your parents sit like judges, their faces hard and unyielding. The police officers exchange knowing glances, friends of your parents, it seems, wielding authority like a weapon.

Questions come in waves, sharp and accusing.

“Where have you been living?”

“Who are you with now?”

“Why did you leave?”

You stay silent. Not because you have nothing to say, but because fear has cemented your tongue. Tears threaten behind your eyes, but you swallow them down, holding tight to the brittle shell of control you have left.

You know the truth won’t save you here.

And deep down, you realize something else.

You probably just lost your job.

The room is ice.

Not from the temperature, but from the pressure. From the way your father leans forward like he owns the space, like you’re a child again. Like you’re a mistake made flesh. His voice doesn’t rise, it doesn’t need to. His words are precision blades.

“You think you’re clever? Hiding? Running off with your siblings like a goddamn criminal?”

Your mother scoffs from beside him, arms crossed tightly. “We gave you everything. And this is how you repay us? Stealing our children?”

“They’re my siblings” you snap before you can stop yourself. It slips out, raw and hoarse from holding too much back.

That’s when the cop on the left leans in, his mouth twisted like this is entertainment.

“You’re not the parent. You don’t get to decide what’s best for them.”

You look at him. Really look. His badge gleams under the lights, but his eyes are already made of rot. He’s not here for justice. He’s here because he was told to be. Because someone whispered in his ear and he nodded like a loyal dog.

“Maybe” your mother says coldly “if you hadn’t always been so dramatic. So needy. Maybe we could’ve helped you. But instead, you drag them down with you. Living in filth. Working like a rat in some back alley kitchen.”

The words hit like fists. You don't flinch. You don't let them. But your breath is shallow. Your jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

“They were happy” you say finally, voice cracked.

“Children don’t know what’s good for them” your father hisses.

And then the other cop stands. Walks to the corner. Speaks softly into a phone. Muffled words. Then silence. For a long time.

You sit there. Wrists red where the cuffs used to be. Shoulders shaking, but not visibly. You won’t let them see you break.

Then, the door creaks open.

“We’re done here” the second cop says.

Your parents look at him, confused. “What?”

“You can let them go” he says flatly. “There’s nothing to hold them on.”

Your father starts to protest, but the cop just walks out. No explanation. No apology.

Your mother narrows her eyes at you. “You’re making a mistake.”

You say nothing. You don’t give her the satisfaction of a single word.

By the time you step outside, it’s nearly dawn. The city looks bruised. Like you.

You're cold. You're tired. You're humiliated.

But you’re free.

And all you can think is.. You have to get home. You have to see your siblings. You have to see if Bucky’s still there.

And you have to figure out how to survive. Again.

The cold night air hits your face as you step away from the station, the city’s restless hum beneath your feet feeling heavier than usual. Your lungs burn with each breath, but you don’t turn toward home. Not yet.

Instead, you walk. Past empty streets, shuttered shops, and flickering streetlights, until you find the cracked, graffiti-stained phone booth you memorized from the week Bucky gave you his number.

You shove the door open with a tired hand, step inside, and close it behind you. The stale scent of old cigarettes and rust clings to the air. You lift the receiver with shaking fingers, pressing the worn buttons until his number rings through.

The line clicks.

“Bucky.”

Your voice is brittle, almost breaking. “I - They came. The cops… my parents. They - ” You swallow hard. “I’m not coming home. Not tonight.”

There’s a pause. Then his voice, steady and low, fills the small booth. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know.” The admission tastes like defeat. “I can’t go back. I can’t risk them finding the kids. You have to take care of them. Please.”

You hear the weight in his breath, the urgency rising beneath the calm. “I’m coming. Stay safe. Don’t do anything reckless.”

You close your eyes, trying to hold onto the pieces of strength you have left. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

“No. You don’t have to be.”

The line goes quiet for a moment, then.

“I’ll be there. Just hold on.”

You hang up slowly, your fingers trembling as the receiver clicks back into place. For the first time in days, a sliver of something sharp and bright cuts through the numbness.

You don’t know what comes next. But you know you’re not alone anymore.

You barely get the phone back on the cradle before the door of the booth swings open. Cold wind rushes in, carrying with it the faint but unmistakable sound of footsteps, quick, deliberate. Your heart hammers in your chest like a warning drum.

You swallow hard, stepping out into the empty street, trying with all your might not to let the tears spill. You’re so tired, tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of feeling like you’re never safe. Your breath catches in your throat, but you force yourself to keep it together.

Then, suddenly, rough hands clamp down on your shoulders, yanking you backward. Your body stiffens, shock spiraling through you. You’re spun around, and the cold eyes of your father bore into yours, filled with fury and accusation.

“Thought you could just walk away?” he snarls, shaking you like you’re a ragdoll, like you’re nothing.

You try to break free, but his grip tightens. Your knees wobble, breath coming in sharp gasps. Panic floods your mind, the desperate fear of what might come next, of losing everything all over again.

Your voice is barely a whisper, cracking under the weight of it all. “Please… don’t…”

But your plea is swallowed by the night.

And the nightmare isn’t over. Not yet.

Your father’s grip tightens around your arms, each shake sending jolts of pain through your bruised skin. The city around you fades into a blur of cold lights and distant sounds - the world shrinking until all that exists is his furious face and the sharp sting of helplessness rising in your chest.

You try to wrench yourself free, but exhaustion has leeched the fight from your limbs. Your knees buckle slightly, and your breath catches painfully in your throat. Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away fiercely, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Let me go” you manage, voice trembling but firm, though it feels like a whisper lost against his rage.

He leans in, voice low and venomous. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. You ran off. You betrayed us.”

The words cut deeper than any slap could. Betrayed. Like you’re the villain in a story you never wanted to be part of.

Suddenly, a heavy hand clamps down on your father’s shoulder, and a gruff voice cuts through the tension.

“Enough.”

You freeze. The voice is firm, unmistakably familiar.

Bucky.

Your father jerks away, eyes blazing with anger, but Bucky’s presence fills the space between you like a wall - solid, unyielding.

“You’re done here” Bucky says quietly, but there’s steel beneath his calm.

Your father glares, but something in Bucky’s stance stops him. The threat is clear: back off, or face consequences.

Slowly, your father releases you, stepping back with a sneer but no further action. Your body trembles, not just from the fear, but from the sudden surge of relief.

Bucky steps forward, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Come with me,” he says quietly. “You’re not safe here.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, you nod. Because maybe, just maybe, this time someone really is watching your back.

The train car smells of old leather and damp earth, a scent that clings to your clothes like a ghost. You slump in the seat, watching the skeletal trees blur past. Two weeks. Two entire weeks in your grandparents' sleepy, suffocating little town for the Halloween break. You’re twenty-eight, too old for this, but family tradition is a stubborn beast.

You’ve always hated Halloween. The garish orange and black, the shrill shouts of costumed children, the forced, performative spookiness. It’s all just noise and nonsense to you, a celebration of everything you find grating about people.

Your parents, of course, don’t get it. They’re already planning their visit to the local pumpkin patch.

The old house at the end of Hemlock Lane is exactly as you remember it: a gabled Victorian relic that seems to hunch its shoulders against the sky. The air is perpetually still here, thick with the smell of pine needles and decaying leaves. Your grandparents greet you with warm, papery hugs. Their eyes, however, keep flicking towards the overgrown garden at the back of the property.

“He’s been asking after you” your grandmother says, a cryptic smile on her face.

You don’t have to ask who. Bucky.

You first saw him three years ago. You’d been hiding from a group of trick-or-treaters on the back porch, scowling into the dark, when a figure detached itself from the shadow of the old oak. He was tall, impossibly so, and wore a burlap sack over his head, crudely stitched with two X’s for eyes and a lopsided smile. His clothes were patched and dusty, filled with straw that poked out at the wrists and ankles. A scarecrow, you’d thought. A very, very realistic one.

But then he’d moved, not with the stiff clumsiness of a man in a costume, but with a gentle, rustling grace. He’d tilted his head, and the burlap shifted. There were no eyes in those X’s, only a deep, velvety darkness that seemed to swallow the moonlight.

“The noise bothers you, too” he’d said, his voice the sound of dry leaves skittering across pavement. It wasn’t a question.

That was Bucky. He never explained what he was or where he came from. Your grandparents, strangely, accepted his presence without question. They’d leave out a slice of apple pie or a cup of dark, rich cider on the back steps, and it would be gone by morning.

Bucky is the reason your hatred for Halloween has… not faded, but transformed. With him, it’s not about the people. It’s about the thinning of the veil, as he calls it. The mystery that seeps into the world when the clocks turn back and the nights grow long.

He appears again on your third night, as the last sliver of sun bleeds away behind the hills. You’re in the garden, the cold seeping through your jacket, when the air grows still and heavy. The crickets fall silent.

A whisper of sound, like straw brushing against wool, and he’s there, leaning against the gnarled trunk of the oak tree.

“The town is loud tonight” Bucky murmurs. His burlap head turns towards the distant, faint sounds of laughter and fake screams. “They play at being frightened. They have no idea.”

“No idea about what?” you ask, your breath misting in the air.

The stitched smile on his sack seems to deepen. “What truly walks on a night like this. They see plastic ghosts and rubber bats. They do not see the Gentry in their ancient carriages, rolling down lanes that weren't there yesterday. They do not hear the whispers from the old wells.”

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold traces its way down your spine. This is the mystery. This is what Bucky shows you. He doesn’t make you like Halloween, he makes you understand that the holiday everyone else celebrates is a pale, safe imitation of the real, strange magic humming just beneath the surface.

“Come” he says, pushing off from the tree. “The Lady of the Thistle is holding court in the forgotten orchard. She appreciates a quiet guest.”

You follow him without a second thought. He leads you not down the lane, but through a gap in the hawthorn hedge that you’re sure wasn’t there an hour ago. The world on the other side is sharper, the moonlight a liquid silver that pools in the hollows. The trees in this orchard are twisted and bare, their branches clutching at the sky like bony fingers. And there, seated on a throne of woven roots and pale mushrooms, is a woman made of shifting shadow and thorny vines, her eyes like chips of frozen star-light.

This is your Halloween now. Not candy and costumes, but silent, awe-filled audiences with things that were old when the town was young. It’s the mystery Bucky offers, a secret world for those who find the public one too much to bear.

Later, as you slip back into the house, your grandfather is stoking the fire. He looks up, his wise old eyes meeting yours.

“See Bucky?” he asks, his voice low.

You nod, a thousand unspoken questions in your head.

He gives a slow, knowing smile. “Good. This town… it needs someone like him. And so, I think, do you.” He pokes the log, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. “He’s been the Spirit of this place since my own grandfather’s day. Only shows himself to the ones who are quiet enough to listen.”

You climb the stairs to your room, the weight of his words settling over you. You look out your window, down into the moonlit garden. Bucky is still there, a silent, stoic sentinel woven from burlap and shadow. He lifts a hand, a slow, deliberate gesture, and a single, perfect black feather drifts down from the oak tree to land at his feet.

You don't hate Halloween anymore. You guard its deepest, quietest mystery. And the mystery, it seems, has chosen you.

The following days take on a new, charged rhythm. The sunlit hours are a dull, sepia-toned dream spent sipping tea with your grandparents and nodding along as your parents enthuse about the charming "haunted" barn tour. You move through it all with a secret thrumming in your veins, the feeling of a coin tucked in your palm, its true face hidden.

Your grandfather finds you one afternoon, staring out the kitchen window at the old oak. He doesn’t speak at first, just follows your gaze.

“He doesn’t age, you know” he says quietly, as if commenting on the weather. “Not like we do. That burlap sack… my father told me a story. Said his own grandfather found a figure like that, out in the fields after a harvest storm. Just a sack and some old clothes, filled with nothing but straw and a single, smooth black stone. He put it on a post to scare the crows.”

He pauses, taking a slow sip of his tea. “The story goes that the first Halloween after that, the straw… stirred. It pulled itself together. And it’s been watching over this land ever since. It chooses its companions sparingly.”

A companion. The word settles deep inside you, warmer than the tea in your hands. It feels more right than anything else ever has.

That night, you don’t wait for Bucky. You go to the garden as the moon rises, a sharp sliver of bone in the sky. The air is cold and still. You stand under the oak, your hand resting on its rough bark, and you remember the black feather.

As if the thought had summoned him, the shadows at the base of the tree coalesce. Bucky steps forward, not from behind it, but out of the deep shade it casts. In his long, twig-like fingers, he holds the feather. It seems to drink the moonlight, reflecting nothing.

“The Gentry remember you” his leaf-rustle voice whispers. “They find your silence… agreeable.”

He extends the feather towards you. It isn’t an offering to take, but to touch. You reach out, your fingertips brushing against the vanes. A shock of cold, clean energy jolts up your arm, not painful, but illuminating. For a fleeting second, your senses explode. You can smell the frost on distant mountains, hear the secret, slow heartbeat of the hill the town is built upon, see the shimmering, ghostly trails of foxes and badgers that passed through hours ago.

The vision fades, leaving you breathless. Bucky retracts the feather, tucking it into the rough stitching over his chest.

“The borders are thinnest tonight” he says, his head tilting towards the woods that border your grandparents’ property. “The loud ones in their silly masks will be safe in their homes soon. Then, the true world will breathe out.”

You follow him into the woods. This time, the path is different. The familiar pines and oaks give way to trees with silver bark and leaves that tinkle like glass when they brush against your shoulders. The air smells of ozone and wet stone. In a clearing ahead, you see flickering, will-o’-the-wisp lights, and hear the low, melodic hum of a language that has no words for “trick-or-treat.”

Bucky stops at the edge of the clearing. He doesn’t need to tell you that this is as far as you go. You are a guest, an observer, not one of them. You stand in the shelter of a great, moss-covered stone, watching as shapes of light and shadow, of thorn and mist, move in a slow, stately dance. This is the real celebration. This is the Halloween the world has forgotten.

You feel a presence beside you and look down. A small, fox-like creature with eyes of molten amber and a coat of living moss sits there, watching the dance with you. It doesn’t flee. It simply… acknowledges you.

After a time that feels both like a moment and an age, Bucky touches your shoulder. It’s time to go. The path back feels shorter, the ordinary woods seeming almost garish in their mundane reality.

As you step back into the garden, the first shouts of late-returning trick-or-treaters echo from the street. The veil has thickened again. The magic has receded.

Bucky stands by the oak, a silent sentinel once more. He gives a slow, deliberate nod, the burlap of his head crinkling. You don't need words. You understand. The mystery isn't just for you to witness; it's for you to protect. To hold in your quiet heart.

You don’t know how long you sit there, folded into Bucky’s quiet embrace. Time slips sideways - your body aching, your mind heavy with noise, but your breath gradually beginning to slow. His arms stay around you, unwavering, like he understands that right now, words would only bruise the silence.

When the tears finally stop - leaving your face tight and raw, your chest sore - you pull back, just barely. He lets you, hands loosening but still resting lightly on your arms like he’s not quite ready to let you drift away again.

You sit back against the wall, legs drawn up, head tilted to the side. Bucky sits beside you this time, not in front of you. Shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Solid.

You finally whisper, voice hoarse and barely audible “It was them.”

His head turns. He doesn’t ask who. He knows.

“I was off shift. I was walking home” you say, eyes fixed on the floor. “I heard my name. Not - my name now. The other one. The one I buried.”

Your breath shudders. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I tried to keep walking. Pretend I didn’t hear. But they were already too close. I didn’t even look. Just kept moving, but… they grabbed me. My - my arm - ” You look down at the faint bruises forming around your bicep. “I got away. Fell. But I ran.”

You pause. Your voice drops lower. “They know where I am.”

Silence stretches thin in the air.

Bucky exhales slowly through his nose. “Did they follow you?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. I took a long route home. Through alleys. Doubled back. I… I think I lost them.”

But you’re not sure. That uncertainty wraps around your spine like a vice. You feel it pressing on your lungs with every breath.

“I’m not ready” you murmur, almost to yourself. “I thought I was. But I’m not. I can’t move them again, not right now. They just started feeling safe again. I just got them in school. Got clothes. Got a routine.”

Bucky is quiet for a beat. Then he says, low and firm “Then we don’t run.”

You blink.

He’s looking straight ahead, eyes narrowed - not at you, but at whatever threat lies beyond the apartment walls.

“You’ve done more than most people ever could” he says. “You ran. You survived. You built something solid out of nothing. You carried three kids on your back. But you’re not alone anymore.”

He turns toward you, jaw set.

“You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

You almost laugh - short and bitter. “What does that mean, Bucky? What, are you gonna stand at the door with a knife and scare them off?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

You stare at him.

He’s not joking.

That quiet weight behind his voice - he means it. Every word.

“You can’t just fix this” you whisper.

“I know” he says. “But I can stand between you and the fire. And maybe it’s not enough, maybe I can’t stop them from trying to reach you - but I’ll sure as hell make it harder.”

The silence after that is different. Still thick, but less suffocating. Less hopeless.

Eventually, you murmur “The kids like you.”

“I like them too.”

“They miss you when you’re not around.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching your profile. “What about you?”

You hesitate.

The question hovers in the dark like a gentle touch against a bruise.

“I didn’t think I would” you say. “I didn’t want to. But I think I got used to you.”

Bucky smiles - small, but it reaches his eyes. “I’m okay with that.”

You nod, just once, gaze falling to your scraped palms.

“I should clean those” he says softly.

You don't stop him when he stands. You don’t flinch this time when he gently lifts your hand and guides you to the bathroom, the soft light flickering on like a sigh. You sit on the edge of the tub while he opens the cabinet, finds the antiseptic, the gauze, the bandages. His touch is careful, hands rough but warm.

The sting of the antiseptic doesn’t even compare to the ache in your chest, but you stay still. You let him tend to you. Let him see you.

And when it’s done - when your hands are clean, your skin wrapped in soft white strips - he doesn't move away.

He just says “We make a plan tomorrow. Okay? You sleep. I’ll stay.”

For once, you don’t argue.

You don’t say “you don’t have to.” You don’t say “I’m fine.” You don’t say “go home.”

You just nod, and whisper “Okay.”

And for the first time in what feels like years, when you crawl into bed, your body still aching, your heart still bruised - you sleep.

Not deeply. Not dreamlessly.

But you sleep.

And Bucky’s silhouette stays by the door. Silent. Watching. Unmoving.

Like a sentry. Like a wall. Like someone who isn’t going anywhere.

You wake up late. Later than you have in months.

The light slipping in through the cracked blinds is soft and golden afternoon, maybe. Your body aches in that deep, bone-tired way, but it’s not panic that greets you when your eyes open. It’s stillness. Strange, unfamiliar stillness.

You blink a few times, adjusting. Then the soreness in your shoulder reminds you of last night, the running, the fall, the way your name cut through the night like a blade.

You sit up slowly. There’s a blanket tucked over you, one you didn’t remember grabbing. Your bandages are intact. Your bedroom door is cracked open, the quiet sound of voices filtering in.

You strain your ears, heart skipping for a second.

Then you hear laughter. Your siblings. A muffled thud. Someone says, “No, no, don’t touch that - wait - ” followed by a chorus of giggles.

Bucky.

For a moment, all you do is sit there and breathe. Because the apartment is still here. The world didn’t crumble in your sleep. Your siblings are safe. They’re safe.

You get up slowly. Limbs stiff but moving.

When you step out into the hallway, the scene in the living room is something you never expected to become real.

Your littlest is curled on the couch, watching cartoons with wide eyes and a mouth full of cereal. One of the others is leaning over a coloring book, showing Bucky how they made the stars purple and the sky green “because space doesn’t have rules.” And the oldest is sitting at the kitchen table, working on a homework packet with a little furrow between their brows.

Bucky is… in the middle of it all. Barefoot. Wearing one of your too-small aprons you didn’t even know you still had. A pan of something cooking gently on the stove behind him. His hair is tied back. He’s listening to your sibling’s explanation with more patience than you’ve ever had time to offer.

No one notices you at first.

And you don’t say anything.

You just watch.

Because this - this scene, this impossible quiet joy - feels like a memory you never got to have. Something borrowed from a life you were never allowed to live.

When Bucky finally glances up and sees you, he doesn’t say anything. He just offers a small smile, nodding once. Like, you’re up. you’re here. good.

You clear your throat softly, and your siblings notice you too.

They don’t swarm you like they usually do. Your oldest glances over and gives you a quiet smile. Your youngest beams but doesn’t run. There’s a kind of unspoken understanding in the air - like maybe they know, in their own small way, that something cracked open last night.

You nod toward the stove. “You cooking?”

“French toast,” Bucky says. “Well. Attempting. One piece might be burnt but it’s… artfully done.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs, playfully defensive. “Okay, I forgot how hot the pan was.”

You press your lips together, something like a laugh catching in your throat.

Your siblings are distracted again, and you move a little closer to Bucky.

Low, so only he can hear, you say, “You stayed all night.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

You look at him for a long second. The tiredness still lives behind your eyes, behind your ribs, but something else is there now too. Not quite ease. But… something lighter.

“I don’t know what comes next” you admit.

“I do” Bucky says. “First? You eat. Then we talk.”

You blink. “Talk?”

He nods. “About what you want to do. How we make this place safer. What I can do to help. What you need. Not what you think you should handle on your own. What you actually need.”

You look away, unsure.

Then you whisper “I don’t want them to know.”

Bucky’s voice softens. “They won’t. Not unless you decide to tell them.”

“They’re happy” you murmur, watching them from the corner of your eye. “I don’t want to take that away.”

“You’re not” he says gently. “You’re just protecting it.”

The toast dings behind him.

He steps away to plate it, and you watch him - this man who should’ve just been another hour in your week. Another paycheck. Another wall. But somehow, over time, became something more.

You don’t call it friendship. Not yet. Maybe never. The word feels too small.

But when he sets a plate down in front of you, fork resting gently beside it, he doesn’t ask for anything in return. No explanations. No gratitude.

He just sits across from you and says, “Eat.”

So you do.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe that maybe - just maybe - you don’t have to keep running. Not alone. Not anymore.

You don’t finish the whole plate, but you eat more than you have in days. It’s not about hunger exactly - it’s about the steadiness of the room around you. The fact that no one is shouting. That the floor isn’t trembling under your feet from the force of old, cruel voices. That your siblings are here. Laughing. Arguing over crayons. And Bucky’s here, like some kind of strange constant - never too loud, never too close, but always present.

When you finally set your fork down, you exhale slow and deep. Like something inside you had been clenching tight for weeks and only now realized it could start to let go.

Bucky watches you, elbows resting on the table, a cup of coffee cooling between his palms. “You look like you slept a hundred years” he says, quietly amused.

“Feels like I did,” you admit, rubbing your eyes. “Still not enough.”

“Then tomorrow, you sleep in again.”

You don’t argue. You don’t have the energy to, and… maybe you don’t want to. Not this time.

Your siblings begin to drift from the table, one by one. A mess of sticky hands and tangled hair, grabbing at toys or dragging homework to the floor. The apartment is small, but somehow they’ve made it their kingdom. You let them move freely. You let them be.

Once the soft noise of cartoons picks up again in the living room, you glance at Bucky, voice low.

“I think they like you more than me.”

He raises a brow. “They’re allowed to have taste.”

You snort. It's weak, but it's a laugh.

Then quieter “They call you the ‘cool uncle.’ Did you know that?”

Something flickers across his face. A warmth that makes your chest twist a little, too sharp and too soft at the same time.

“I’ve been called worse” he says, smiling faintly.

You nod. Fiddle with your sleeve.

“I still don’t know what to do” you say eventually. “If my parents really do know where we are…”

“We’ll handle it.”

“What does that mean?”

He leans forward, forearms on the table, gaze steady. “It means we find out what they know. How they found you. We take that information and we build around it. Better locks. Cameras. People to call if anything happens. We make it harder for them.”

Your voice is barely audible. “And if that’s not enough?”

“Then I make sure they know they don’t get to come near you. Or your siblings.”

You stare at him. “You’d really do that?”

“I’ve done a lot worse for a lot less” he says simply.

It shouldn’t be comforting. But it is.

You both sit in silence for a while, the sounds of your siblings drifting in from the living room like soft static. Eventually, Bucky leans back, sips his coffee again.

“Have you ever talked to someone about what they did to you?” he asks, quiet but direct.

You freeze for a second. “Why?”

“Because you carry it. In your voice. Your walk. Your eyes. You survived, yeah. But you’re still bleeding, even if no one sees it.”

You say nothing. Not at first.

Then “I couldn’t afford to bleed. I didn’t have time.”

“I know” he says gently. “But you might now. Just a little.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t tell him to stop, either. That’s progress, maybe.

Eventually, your youngest crawls into your lap, thumb in mouth, eyelids drooping. The weight of their small body against yours sends another crack through your armor. You wrap an arm around them and rest your chin lightly on their head.

“They trust you” Bucky says.

“They shouldn’t have to” you whisper. “They’re just kids. They should have school and toys and scraped knees. Not escape plans.”

He nods. “That’s why we make sure they don’t have to run again.”

The room falls quiet again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the silence of two people standing on the edge of something terrifying - and maybe, maybe, something better.

Eventually, Bucky rises. Begins cleaning up without asking. You let him. It’s easier to let someone help when they don’t ask for permission. When they just do it.

As the evening bleeds into night, he stays. He stays through story time and brushing teeth and lost pajamas and nightlight arguments. He helps tuck each one in, listens when your middle child wants to show him a crayon drawing of a “protector robot” which you swear might actually be him. He smiles, and doesn’t deny it.

And later, when the apartment is quiet again - doors closed, lights dimmed - he stands by the window, eyes on the dark city outside. You stand beside him, arms crossed against your chest.

“What if this is temporary?” you murmur. “What if it all falls apart?”

“Then we build it again” he says, without hesitation.

You turn to look at him. His profile sharp in the low light. His eyes still watching the shadows. A steady shape in a world full of shifting ground.

You nod.

You don’t know what this is. Not friendship. Not yet. Not love. Not yet. But maybe it’s trust. Maybe it’s the start of something that could grow.

And for now, that’s enough.

Part 6

You're running.

The night clings to your skin like fog, the ground beneath you slick with leaves and blood and memory. The Hatter’s hand is locked around yours, his pace frantic, each breath a battle. Behind you, the Keeper’s shriek pierces the woods - feral, inhuman, but growing faint. You’re gaining ground.

“We're almost out” the Hatter says, though you don’t know where out is anymore.

The trees thin. The air grows colder. A distant humming crawls into your ears, like wind through wires, like electricity surging just beneath the surface of the earth. The forest opens into a clearing, moonlight painting the grass in silver streaks.

Then.. crack.

A sound like shattering glass, only it’s not glass - it’s reality.

You stumble.

The world splits in front of you, as if a great seam has opened in the sky, bleeding light and sound. Colors you don’t recognize. Shapes you can't name. The Hatter stops, his grip on your hand tightening until your knuckles turn white.

“No” he breathes. “No, not now.”

The rift opens wider.

He looks at you - through you. “They’re pulling you back.”

“Who?”

But even as you ask, you know.

You feel it - cold fingers dragging at your limbs, yanking you backward. Not physically. Not even bodily. It’s your consciousness. Your mind. Your self.

The Hatter grabs you, pulling you close, clutching your face between his trembling hands.

“You don’t understand” he says, his voice cracking. “They’re forcing you to wake up. They're trying to erase me again.”

Your body convulses.

A scream rips from your throat - but it’s not your scream. It’s your mother’s.

Then everything unravels.

You blink - And the world is gone.

Bright light sears your retinas.

Voices shout in panic.

Your body jerks against rough sheets. Something tightens around your wrists. Leather straps.

You hear sobbing. A woman crying.

“She’s seizing - get the meds - now!”

You can’t speak. Can’t breathe.

The room smells like rubbing alcohol and sterility and sweat.

And you remember. You remember everything.

You scream.

You thrash against the restraints, screaming his name, but it comes out as garbled noise, panicked and wild. A nurse straddles your arm, jamming a needle into your vein. You feel the burn of it almost instantly.

“No, please!” you gasp, voice hoarse. “I was there - he’s real! He’s real!”

Your parents hover just outside your field of vision. Your mother’s mascara is smeared, your father’s jaw clenched so hard his face looks carved from stone.

“They said she stopped taking her medication three days ago” a voice murmurs.

Everything is tilting, shifting.

You try to move your fingers, but they’ve gone numb.

The room dims.

The nurse whispers “You’ll feel better soon.”

But you don’t want to feel better.

You want to feel real.

The last thing you see is the ceiling above you spinning into darkness - and for the briefest, flickering second, a gloved hand reaching out from the corner of your vision.

But no one else sees it.

Just you.

------------------------------------------------

You wake in a chair.

Different place. Dim lighting. Musty smell. You’re dressed in a hospital gown, skin cold. Someone's speaking to you. A man in a white coat. A psychiatrist.

He’s asking you questions.

“Do you know where you are?”

You look past him.

To the window.

Outside is night. But something’s wrong.

The moon looks cracked.

You blink. And it’s whole again.

He keeps speaking. You're nodding.

But your fingers twitch.

You can still feel the Hatter’s touch.

A phantom weight on your skin.

They gave you the pills again. You can feel them in your blood.

But Wonderland isn’t gone.

You hear it - faintly - beneath the doctor’s words.

Laughter.

Somewhere in the static between heartbeats.

The sound of a teacup shattering.

A whisper in your mind, unmistakably him:

“I’ll find you. No matter how deep they bury you. I’ll break every mirror. I’ll tear through your dreams. You belong to me.”

And somewhere in your soul…

You hope he does.

--------------------------------

Three days.

That’s how long it’s been since they dragged you back.

Three days since you woke up to leather straps, metal trays, hushed conversations behind closed doors. Three days since the Hatter’s voice was ripped from your head like torn wallpaper - leaving only static in its place.

The pills come every morning now.

They watch you swallow them.

They check your tongue.

Smile when your eyes go glassy.

You're calm. Obedient. Safe.

They don’t know the truth.

They don’t know you're lying.

The pills don’t go down. Not anymore. You learned. You learned fast.

You hide them under your tongue, pretend to drink the water, and smile like you’re healing. Like you’re better. But each night, when the fluorescent lights click off and the ward grows quiet, you lie in bed and wait. Listening.

For him.

For a whisper.

For the scrape of a teacup against stone.

But so far, nothing.

Nothing but silence and stale dreams.

--------------------------------

Day Four.

You’re in group therapy. A circle of folding chairs and forced vulnerability.

A woman speaks in a monotone about anxiety and grounding techniques. Someone beside you is crying quietly. Another man rocks back and forth, staring at the floor. You sit perfectly still.

Outwardly fine.

Inside?

Fracturing.

The therapist says something about acceptance.

You hear: “Forget him.”

You clench your fists so tight your nails leave little crescents in your palms.

Your pulse quickens. You close your eyes, just for a second. Inhale. Try to find the thread. The thread that led you back before. The tether. The door.

Nothing.

Only darkness.

But it feels close. Like it’s just out of reach. Like a heartbeat behind the wall.

--------------------------------

Day Six.

Your dreams are empty.

Too quiet.

You wake with a scream lodged in your throat and blood on your sheets - small scratches down your arms. The nurses don’t ask questions anymore. They up your dosage instead.

You flush the pills again. You pray he’s watching.

--------------------------------

Day Nine.

You hear him.

Only for a second.

“Darling…”

The word echoes like wind through a canyon. Distant. Hollow.

But real.

Real.

You jolt upright in bed, eyes wild, chest heaving. The room is cold. The window’s cracked open - when did that happen? The curtains flutter like breath.

You rush to it.

Look outside.

There’s nothing but the hospital courtyard, empty and still.

But carved into the condensation on the glass - four crooked letters:

“RUN.”

------------------------------------------------

The next day, you start planning.

Not loudly. Not with words.

With glances. With patterns. With timing.

You map the hallways.

You smile at the guards.

You learn the nurse’s schedule.

You hide the real you in a quiet room behind your eyes - and let them believe the mask.

But beneath it, your mind is on fire.

Not broken.

Awake.

Searching.

--------------------------------

Day Eleven.

It happens in the shower.

The steam curls around your body and for one dizzy, glorious moment - you smell it.

Tea.

Jasmine and smoke.

Your knees buckle.

You close your eyes, gripping the tile.

And when you open them, there he is.

Not in the mirror.

In the reflection of the mirror, behind you, where no one should be.

Top hat. Wild eyes. That grin - broken and beautiful.

The Hatter.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t speak.

But he winks.

And then he’s gone.

But that’s enough.

That’s all you need.

Tonight, you won’t sleep.

Tonight, you’ll find the way back.

Even if you have to bleed for it.

Even if you have to break through the cracks of the world.

Because you know something now - something the doctors won't believe.

You were never sick.

You were stolen.

And Wonderland is waiting.

--------------------------------

Night. Day Eleven.

The pills rest beneath your mattress, where you’ve hidden them all week. You roll one between your fingers now. Chalky. Bitter. Harmless-looking. But you know better. You’ve seen what they do - how they smother thoughts, twist truth into delusion, trap Wonderland behind a chemical curtain.

You crush it under your heel.

This time, you’re not slipping back.

You’re tearing through.

The hospital is still.

Too still.

You’ve memorized the staff rotation. The nurse at the front desk will be watching a soap opera rerun. The security guard always takes a cigarette break at 3:27 a.m. You’ve timed it to the second.

You dress quietly.

Slippers.

Pale blue hoodie.

No alarms. No metal.

Just breath.

And a heartbeat that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you anymore.

You sneak through the ward like a ghost.

You pass Room 12 - the man who stares at the wall and whispers backwards.

Room 9 - someone screaming in their sleep about spiders under their skin.

You don’t stop. You don’t look back.

And then, just past the nurse’s station - you see it.

The door.

But not the exit.

No.

This door doesn’t belong.

It’s old. Warped wood. Brass handle shaped like a vine.

Not part of the hospital at all.

You blink.

It's still there.

A sign hangs crookedly from it: “NO VISITORS. NO WAKEFULNESS. NO RETURN.”

Your breath hitches. Every instinct screams to turn away.

You grip the handle.

It's cold.

It shudders under your touch.

And then -

It opens.

Wind slams into your face, hot and sharp like laughter. You stumble forward and fall - onto stone. Wet cobblestone, slick with moss and blood and tea leaves.

The sky is purple. The trees are bones.

Everything smells like memory and madness.

You’re back.

Somewhere in the distance, something screams.

You roll to your knees, shaking. A dizzy laugh bubbles from your throat. You made it. You made it.

But the forest doesn’t wait long.

A voice echoes between the trees.

Soft.

Cruel.

“You took too long.”

Your blood runs cold.

You stand. Slowly.

The Hatter steps from the shadows like a ghost made flesh.

Same coat. Same eyes. Same hunger.

But something's wrong.

He looks… tired.

Fractured.

His coat is stained. His gloves torn. His fingers tremble like he hasn’t touched something solid in weeks.

His voice drops to a whisper. “They almost erased you.”

You take a step forward.

“I came back for you.”

“I know” he says, but there’s no joy in it. Only fury - hot and quiet. “You were gone too long. I couldn’t reach you. You left me in the dark.”

He walks to you. Slowly. Like he doesn’t quite believe you're real.

“You thought you were escaping a hospital” he murmurs, stopping inches from you. “But that was the trap. This is the truth.”

He reaches out. Fingers ghost your jaw.

“I missed you.”

You open your mouth, but the ground beneath your feet shifts.

The trees groan.

The sky cracks.

Something is coming.

Something followed you through the door.

“Run!” the Hatter growls, grabbing your hand.

You do.

You don’t ask where.

You don’t need to.

You run with him into the madness again.

Into Wonderland.

Into war.

And as the shrieking starts behind you, echoing through this broken forest, you finally smile.

Because this time, you didn’t get dragged out.

This time…

You brought something back with you.

The weeks pass slowly, at first like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never does. Instead, the days begin to stretch a little softer around the edges.

Bucky becomes… a presence. A steady one.

He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to take over. He just shows up - hands your youngest a jacket before school, helps with dishes when you’re too tired, makes pancakes on Sundays like it’s always been part of the routine. Your siblings adore him. You try not to look too closely at the way that makes something warm flicker in your chest.

You still work. You have to. But not at the cost of your health anymore. You let yourself sleep at least four hours a night, sometimes more. You’ve even started eating regularly, if only because Bucky started showing up with food and sitting at the table until you took a bite. You also still somehow work for Bucky even though you don't go over to him anymore he comes to you, you help him in your home with the things he doesn't understand yet. And you don't let him give you money for it, even though you would need it, he already does much for you.

He doesn’t ask you to be okay. Doesn’t push for more than you’re ready to give. He just… stays.

And eventually, staying becomes normal.

You catch yourself some evenings, sitting on the couch with him nearby, your siblings curled up against pillows, half-watching a movie. You see his legs stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his knee. Like he belongs there.

And it doesn’t scare you.

Not like it used to.

But then -

It starts small.

A strange voicemail from an unknown number. A piece of mail addressed with your real last name, even though you changed it when you left. A car you don’t recognize parked across the street for too long, too often.

You brush it off. At first.

But then your little sister comes home and says “There was a man asking where we lived. He had a clipboard and a suit. Said he worked for the school district.”

Your stomach drops. Even though your sister says she didn't tell him anything as you always had instructed.

You ask the school the next morning. They don’t know anyone by that name. There was no district visit scheduled.

That night, the panic takes root.

Hard. Heavy. Terrible.

Like it always does.

You can’t breathe right. You can’t think right.

They're close. They know. They're coming.

You go into lockdown mode instantly - socks on quiet feet, light switches kept off. You double-check the door locks three times before bed. You move your siblings backpacks closer to the front in case you need to run again. You start gathering documents, stashing a bag in the closet.

And through it all - you hide it. You have to. Because your siblings are laughing with Bucky in the other room, watching some superhero movie and arguing about whether it’s realistic that someone could actually fly with a metal suit.

They’re happy.

And you won’t take that from them.

You smile when you need to. You pack lunches like nothing’s changed. You listen to bedtime stories and fix ponytails and tape a broken shoelace instead of replacing the shoes.

But at night - when everyone is asleep - you sit on the kitchen floor, hands buried in your hair, chest pulled tight with fear that you’ve run out of time.

And still, you don’t tell Bucky.

You don’t know how.

You start sleeping less again. Not because you want to - but because you can’t not.

Every creak in the building makes your eyes snap open. Every unfamiliar noise on the street has you clutching your phone, breath frozen. You sit by the window some nights until sunrise, just watching. Listening. Waiting.

Waiting for them.

Your siblings don’t notice at first. They're wrapped up in their routines - school, homework, Bucky teaching your brother how to tie a proper knot because “it’s a basic survival skill” pancakes on Sunday mornings. You keep up the mask, keep your hands steady while brushing your sister’s hair, keep your voice calm even when your heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of your chest.

But Bucky notices. Of course he does.

He doesn’t say anything the first time he catches you staring at the front door like it’s going to explode. Or when he walks into the kitchen at 2 a.m. and finds you curled up in a chair, silent, face tight with exhaustion.

But the third time - when you burn dinner because you were too distracted by your phone and your shaking hands to notice - he speaks up.

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

You don’t meet his eyes. “I’ve had worse stretches.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t buy it. “Don’t lie to me.”

Your jaw locks. You hate how calm he sounds. You hate that he sees you.

And then, quietly: “Are they close?”

You freeze. The silence is louder than anything.

“I’ve seen that look” Bucky says. “The way you check the locks. The way your shoulders don’t drop even when you’re sitting down. You’re scanning for exits. You’re in survival mode again.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to lie. You want to say it’s fine. That it’s just in your head. That everything’s okay.

But it’s not.

So instead, you whisper “I think they know where we are.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t rush to ask how or when or why.

He just nods, slow and steady.

“Okay. What do you need me to do?”

You blink. “What? That’s it? You’re not going to tell me I’m overreacting?”

“No. Because I don’t think you are. I’ve seen enough to trust your instincts. So what do you need?”

You look at him - really look at him. He’s already scanning the room, like he’s planning three steps ahead. Like he’s not just someone staying over now and then. He’s already preparing to protect.

“I don’t want them to know” you say, voice breaking. “The Kids. I don’t want them to be scared.”

“They won’t be” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone says that - and you believe them.

You nod, swallowing back everything else.

And Bucky leans forward, voice low, certain.

“We’ll keep them safe. I promise.”

The days blur together in a strange new rhythm. Bucky’s presence weaves into your siblings’ lives like a steady heartbeat. Your youngest clings to him during storytime, begging for “one more” chapter. Your middle one tries to sneak pancakes out of the kitchen when Bucky’s cooking, grinning like they’ve just pulled off a heist. Even your oldest starts asking if Bucky will be around for their soccer game next week.

They miss him when he’s not there. You catch your little sister whispering “When is Bucky coming back?” after he leaves late at night. Your oldest brother asks if Bucky can stay over again, just so they don’t have to fall asleep in silence.

You want to feel relieved, that your siblings have found someone they can trust, but instead, your chest tightens. Because the more they get attached, the more you fear what will happen if they have to lose him too.

Then, one night, after your graveyard shift, you’re exhausted but barely thinking about anything except getting home. The street is quiet as you step out of the building, the cool night air brushing your face. Your thoughts are on your siblings, on the safe little fortress you’ve built around them.

Suddenly, a voice calls out your old name, the one you left behind with the past you’re still running from.

You stiffen. Try to keep walking.

“Hey! You! Wait!”

You quicken your pace. You don’t want to look back. You don’t want to deal with this now.

But a hand grabs your arm, firm and unyielding.

You whirl around.

There they are. Faces you’ve been trying to forget. Shadows from the life you fled.

Panic roars in your chest. You yank your arm free, but another hand clamps down on your shoulder.

Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure they can hear it.

Your voice catches, breath trembling as you whisper, “Please… don’t…”

They smirk, cold and knowing.

“Thought you could disappear, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just want to get away, fast.

But the grip tightens.

And the nightmare you tried so hard to outrun is suddenly right in front of you.

You go cold. Not the kind of cold that shivers down your spine. The kind that locks your joints, freezes your blood. A survival cold.

Your father’s hand is still clamped on your shoulder.

Your mother stands just behind him, half in shadow. Her smile isn’t a smile, it’s a baring of teeth.

“There you are” she says softly, like she’s talking to a stray dog. “Took us long enough.”

“We always knew you’d end up somewhere pathetic” she continues, taking a step forward. “But dragging the kids with you? Now that was low.”

You try to pull away, but your father’s fingers dig in deeper. Bruising. He always knew exactly how much pressure it took to leave a mark without breaking skin.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve” he growls. “Vanishing in the middle of the night like a coward. Taking our kids.”

“They’re not yours” you spit, twisting your shoulder. “You lost that right the first time you-”

He shoves you hard into the wall behind you.

Not a slap. Not a push. A calculated slam.

Your head bounces off the brick with a dull crack and your knees nearly buckle.

“Watch your mouth.”

Your mother tuts, shaking her head slowly. “Is that any way to talk to your parents?”

You gasp, sucking in air. Blood hums in your ears. “You’re not my parents.”

“We fed you.” Her voice sharpens. “We put a roof over your head. We made sacrifices. And this is how you repay us? By stealing from us?”

“I saved them” you choke out. “You were destroying them.”

Your father leans in close. His breath smells like smoke and something sour. “You think hiding them with some metal-armed freak makes you a hero?”

“We know you’re hiding. Lying. Playing house with a man who has blood on his hands.” your mother snarls.

Your chest seizes. They know about Bucky.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

He laughs. A low, bitter sound. “He’s playing daddy now, huh? Cute. You think we can’t tear that little setup of yours apart?”

“You don’t know where they are” you whisper.

“Not yet.” Your mother steps closer, her voice almost tender. “But we’ll find them. Kids talk. Neighbors talk. You should’ve been more careful.”

You lunge forward - desperation, rage, instinct - but your father catches you by the throat. Slams you back into the wall again.

“You took something from us” he growls. “And we’re taking it back.”

Your fingers claw at his wrist. You can’t breathe. You can’t think.

Then, he lets go. Just like that. And you crumple.

You hit the ground, gasping, the pavement tearing at your palms.

They look down at you like they’re already celebrating.

“We don’t need your number” your mother says calmly. “We just need time.”

And then they’re gone.

Just like before, leaving wreckage in their wake. Like they never missed a beat.

You’re still on the sidewalk, coughing, trying to pull oxygen into your lungs.

Every cell in your body is screaming. Not in pain, in fury.

They touched you. They’re coming for your siblings. And you don’t have time to be scared anymore.

You get to your feet, eyes stinging, heart pounding.

-----------------------------------

The apartment is quiet when you finally return. Too quiet.

It’s well past midnight. Maybe even closer to morning. You’re not sure anymore - you stopped checking the time after the adrenaline crashed and left you hollow, shaking and scraped raw. You don’t remember the walk home. Just the pain in your knees, the stinging on your hands where the pavement tore into you as you scrambled away. You don't remember when the tears stopped either, somewhere between running and hiding, maybe. Somewhere between surviving and breaking.

The key rattles in the lock because your fingers won’t stop trembling. You have to try twice. Maybe three times. Then the bolt turns and you slip inside, closing the door as silently as you can.

You don’t turn on the lights. You don’t need to.

You’ve lived in this place long enough to know where the creaky floorboards are, which doors squeak, which lights buzz. You move in shadows like you were made from them, like you’ve been surviving in the dark your whole life.

The apartment smells faintly of something warm. Something comforting. Pancakes, maybe. Or soup. The air is still. Undisturbed.

They're asleep.

You know that before you check. You don’t check.

You can’t.

Because if you look at their peaceful faces right now, if you see their soft breaths and tiny fists curled in sleep, if you see the safety that they still believe in - you might fall apart. You might scream. You might shatter so completely you’ll never gather the pieces again.

So you don’t look.

You lock the front door instead again. Once. Then again. Then again.

Click. Click. Click.

Each sound is a shaky breath. A silent prayer. A frantic attempt at control.

You step away but then double back. Check the windows. Close the blinds tighter. Pull the curtains. Lock the bathroom window too, just in case.

Still not enough.

Still not safe.

You walk down the hallway like a ghost, stripped of purpose, just movement for the sake of motion. The edge of your shirt brushes the cuts on your side and you flinch, but don’t stop. Blood’s dried in patches on your palms and forearms. Your legs ache, and your left ankle is swelling. You don’t remember when you twisted it - just that you didn’t stop running.

You reach your room. The door's already open.

It’s dark inside. Familiar.

You sink to the ground beside your bed, not on it, never on it. You can’t lie down. You’re still shaking, even if your body refuses to show it. The tremors are deep now, somewhere behind your ribs, somewhere between the part of you that ran and the part that wanted to fight back.

You sit there. Knees drawn up. Forehead on your arms. Breathing shallow. Trying not to replay what happened. Trying not to hear that voice saying your name. Your real name.

They know.

They know.

And you don’t know if you’re strong enough to run again.

You don’t hear the footsteps.

You don’t hear the creak of the floor.

You don’t know Bucky’s there until—

A gentle hand brushes your shoulder.

You flinch hard, twisting back like an animal caught in a trap, heart slamming against your ribs so fast it hurts. You suck in a breath like you forgot how to breathe.

But it’s just him.

Just Bucky.

He’s kneeling in front of you, eyes wide with concern, hand frozen mid-air from where he touched you. His voice is soft, grounding.

“Hey. It’s me. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You stare at him like he’s not real. Like he can’t be. Your mind is still too full of gravel and blood and panic to process anything else. Your ears ring. Your stomach twists.

His voice comes again, quieter.

“I didn’t hear the door. I thought you were still at work… I was just checking on the kids.”

He stops himself. He sees it now.

Your scraped hands. The torn knees. The wild, haunted look in your eyes. The way your chest barely moves when you breathe.

His face shifts - goes from soft concern to sharp understanding. Not pity. Never that. But fear. For you.

“What happened?”

You don’t answer.

Can’t.

Because if you try, you’ll fall apart, and right now you have to stay together, even if only by a thread.

Bucky moves carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal that’s been hurt too many times. His hand hovers just above yours, not touching, just offering.

You’re still trembling.

“I can clean those” he says gently. “You don’t have to talk. Just let me help.”

You swallow hard.

Your throat burns. Your eyes do too.

You shake your head once - small. But it’s not a refusal. It’s not no.

It’s not yet.

“I’m here” he says again, voice steady. “Not going anywhere.”

That’s what breaks you.

Not the pain. Not the memory. Not the blood.

It’s the truth in his voice.

The way he says it like he means it.

Like he’s not going to leave.

You reach forward, not with words, but by resting your forehead against his shoulder. The movement is so fragile, so quiet, it could’ve been missed. But he feels it. You feel him shift, arms wrapping around you without pressure, without force - just presence.

And for the first time tonight…

You let yourself cry.

No sobbing. No wailing.

Just silent, shaking tears pressed into his shirt. Hands curled against your own ribs. The kind of crying that comes from deep survival. From fear held too long. From knowing they found you. From wondering if you’ll ever outrun what you left behind.

Bucky says nothing.

He just holds you. Steady. Warm. There.

And in that dark room - between blood, silence, and shaking breath - you feel something you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Not safety. Not peace.

But not alone.

Part 5

The next morning, the light filtering through the hospital blinds feels sharper than it should. You wake before anyone checks in, instinctively alert, because even rest feels like a stolen thing now. Something you can’t let yourself have for too long.

Bucky’s not in the chair.

For a second, your heart lurches-panic, automatic. But then you see the paper cup on the tray beside you. Coffee. Still warm. And a note, written in rough, familiar handwriting:

“Had to step out. Kids are good. Don’t go anywhere. – B.”

Your chest tightens. Not with panic this time, but something more complicated. Something closer to guilt.

You sit up slowly, your body still sore, head fuzzy with a dull ache from dehydration and the heavy sleep you’d fallen into. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You weren’t supposed to crack. Bucky’s offer was kind, too kind, but he didn’t sign up for this. Not the hospital. Not the reality of what your life really looks like behind the one hour you see each other once a week.

You reach for your phone and stare at the screen, unread messages piling up from work, missed shifts, automated reminders for overdue bills. The world didn’t pause while you rested. It just got louder.

You text Bucky.

You: “You don’t have to stay involved. I’ll handle it. I always do.”

It takes less than two minutes for the reply to come.

Bucky: “I know you can handle it. That’s not why I’m here.”

You stare at the words. You can feel the protest forming in your throat, even though you haven’t said it out loud yet. You’ve carried so much for so long that now, the idea of someone willingly stepping into the mess feels wrong. Like cheating. Like weakness.

You reply again, your fingers hesitating on the keys.

You: “I don’t want to drag you into this. It’s not your responsibility.”

You put the phone down, expecting silence or a gentle bowing out.

But instead, the door opens not a minute later.

It’s him.

He steps in quietly, holding a paper bag in one hand. His eyes meet yours immediately, and you can tell he already saw the message.

“Too late” he says.

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand.

“Look” he says, coming to sit at the edge of the chair again. “You think this is me being dragged in. It’s not. You think I’m doing this because I feel bad for you. I’m not. I’m here because I chose to be. You don’t get to decide that for me.”

You look away, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not used to people staying.”

“I know” he says simply.

There’s silence for a beat. The weight of everything you’ve said or haven’t said, sits between you.

Then Bucky leans forward and pulls something from the paper bag: a bagel, still warm. He hands it to you.

“You don’t have to let me in all the way” he says. “But you do have to eat something.”

You huff a tired laugh, blinking back something suspiciously close to tears.

“I don’t know how to let people help.”

“You don’t have to know” he says. “Just don’t shut the door when they knock.”

You take the bagel, hands still trembling slightly, and nod.

Just once.

Because even if you don’t know how to lean, or trust, or rest. Maybe this is how you start.

You take a slow bite of the bagel. It tastes like cardboard at first, your stomach still not used to the idea of food but then the warmth sinks in, the realness of it. And you realize just how long it's been since you actually sat down to eat, not just survive.

Bucky doesn’t press you. He just sits there, one arm hooked over the back of the chair, his eyes scanning the room like he’s expecting it to suddenly betray you. The silence between you isn’t heavy. It’s calm. Steady. The kind of silence that comes with someone who isn’t trying to fix you-just stay.

“I’m being discharged later today” you say after a while. “They said as long as I rest, hydrate, eat. You know, the things I haven’t done in weeks.”

He nods, like he already knew that. Like he’s been planning for it.

“Carla’s keeping the kids for another night if you need it” he says. “I told her I’d bring them to school tomorrow if you’re not up to it.”

You pause mid-chew. “You really don’t have to do all that.”

“I know I don’t” he replies without hesitation. “That’s not the point.”

You shift, the IV tugging slightly at your arm. “I don’t want them to get used to you helping and then one day you’re just… gone.”

Bucky exhales slowly and leans forward again, this time resting both arms on his knees.

“You think I’m gonna ghost because things are hard” he says. “Because that’s what other people did.”

You nod. Quiet. Honest.

“I’m not other people” he says. “I’ve seen hard. I live with hard. What you’re doing? The way you’re protecting those kids, working every hour you can stand, dragging yourself through hell just to keep a roof over their heads, that’s not a burden. That’s something I respect the hell out of.”

You look at him, really look at him. For a moment, he’s not just the guy who hands you too much money for one hour of quiet work each week. He’s not just the ex-soldier with sad eyes and a quiet way of existing.

He’s someone who understands what it means to carry a past that never really leaves. To keep surviving even when it hurts.

You swallow the last of the bagel. “So what, you’re just going to keep showing up now?”

“Yeah” he says. “I am.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

He shrugs. “Peace of mind. Company. Maybe someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m broken.”

You raise a brow. “You think I have time to care about anyone else being broken?”

He smiles, small but real. “Exactly.”

You sigh, letting your head fall back against the pillows. “This is going to get messy.”

“I’m not afraid of messy” Bucky says. “But if you ever need space, or need me to back off, you say the word. I’ll never push.”

You nod again, slower this time. There’s still a knot of guilt and fear in your chest, but something else, too something like relief. A tiny seed of trust, cautious but alive.

You don’t say thank you. Not yet. You don’t know how to, not in a way that feels big enough for all this.

But you say “Okay.”

And in that small, fragile word, you let him in, just a little.

Enough to begin.

You glance at him after a long silence, the weight of everything between you still pressing at the edges of your ribs. The bagel wrapper crinkles in your hand, forgotten.

Then quietly, but not accusingly, you ask, “Did you… research me?”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. He just leans back a little, like he expected that question eventually.

“Yeah” he says. No lies. No dancing around it. “After the first few times we worked together, I started wondering why someone like you only showed up for one hour a week, why you said you only have mostly time for one hour. Never asked for more time. Never said much. Always looked like you hadn’t slept.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, jaw tightening. “And you looked me up.”

He nods once. “Didn’t find much. You keep your name clean. No history. No accidents. No credit. That told me enough.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. “So you assumed the worst.”

“No” he says gently. “I assumed someone was surviving in silence. I’ve seen that before.”

You look away, throat tight. “We weren’t friends, you know.”

“I know.”

You twist the hospital blanket in your hands. “You didn’t owe me anything. You still don’t.”

“I know that too.”

There’s a pause, the air heavy with words unsaid. Then Bucky adds, quietly “I didn’t help you because we were friends. I helped you because I saw you. And maybe you didn’t need a friend. Maybe you still don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit back and watch you burn yourself out trying to carry everything alone.”

You swallow hard.

Because part of you wants to yell at him. Tell him he crossed a line. That he shouldn’t have looked. That he doesn’t get to see you.

But another part, quieter, more tired, knows that he’s the first person who ever actually did.

And stayed.

You shift your gaze back to him, voice low. “So what now?”

“Now” he says, “you rest. I’ll get the kids to school. You let your body heal, and when you’re ready, we figure out the rest.”

You stare at him. Not a stranger. Not quite a friend. Something else. Something growing.

“Okay” you say again. A whisper, but a real one.

And you let yourself lean back. Just a little. Just enough.

You lean into the pillow, muscles aching with a weariness sleep can’t solve. For the first time in what feels like years, the weight on your chest shifts, just slightly. Still there, but not only yours.

Bucky sits with you for a while, not saying much. He doesn’t ask more questions. Doesn’t pry. He just stays. His presence is quiet, like gravity, undeniable, grounding.

A nurse comes in, checks your vitals, mutters something about discharge paperwork and fluids. Bucky stays through that, too. Doesn’t flinch when the nurse throws him a curious glance. He just nods, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Once the nurse leaves, silence settles again. You watch the daylight crawl across the tiled floor. You’ve never had time to just exist in a moment. There’s always a clock ticking. Always the next crisis waiting.

But now, here, it’s just this room. Just your breathing. Just him.

Eventually, you speak again. Quiet, like testing the floorboards of a new house.

“I don’t know how to let people help” you admit.

Bucky’s voice is steady. “You don’t have to know. You just have to let me try.”

Your throat tightens. You hate how much that hits you. How much it means.

He looks down at his hands, calloused fingers folding slowly together.

“I’ve lost people before” he says. “A lot of them. And I’ve let people walk away thinking they had to carry everything on their own. I don’t want to do that again.”

You nod slowly. It's not permission, not yet, but it's a recognition. Of what he's offering. Of what you might want to accept someday.

A minute passes. Then you exhale and murmur “The hospital bill’s bad.”

“I figured.”

“I took another job. Graveyard shift. Cleaning offices downtown. I just… I had to.”

His jaw tenses. Not in judgment, just understanding. Painful understanding. “How long have you been running like this?”

You almost laugh, but it comes out brittle. “Since I was seventeen. Since I got them out.”

He doesn’t ask for details. Doesn’t ask about your parents, or the night you left, or the court papers you forged to keep your siblings in school. He just hears the truth in your voice and doesn’t look away from it.

“Let me help” he says again. “Not to fix it. Not to take control. Just to stand beside you for once.”

You shake your head slowly. “This isn’t charity, Bucky.”

“I know” he says. “And I’m not offering charity. I’m offering a place to land when it’s too much.”

You finally meet his eyes.

And what you see there isn’t pity.

It’s recognition.

It’s someone who knows what it means to fight for survival while pretending you’re fine. Someone who’s stood in the fire and didn’t ask for rescue but found a hand anyway.

“I don’t want to need anyone” you whisper.

“You don’t have to” he says. “But if one day you want someone? I’ll still be here.”

The silence stretches.

Then, for the first time, you let your shoulders sag fully into the pillow. No tension. No forced edge.

And you nod. Just once.

It’s not surrender.

It’s trust. Or the beginning of it.

Part 4

You wake up stiff and cold in the hospital chair. It’s still dark, maybe five in the morning, and the floor is quiet except for the soft shuffle of nurses’ shoes and the occasional beep from a monitor down the hall.

Your sister is still asleep, breathing slow and even. The swelling on her head hasn’t gotten worse. That’s something. That’s enough to keep you from unraveling, barely.

You stretch, your back aching, and glance at your phone. Low battery. One missed call -from the restaurant. No message. That’s not a good sign.

You’ll deal with it later. Right now, you’ve got about an hour before you need to get back to the apartment and make sure the others are up and ready for school. You still have to walk them there. You can’t afford another call home from the principal about them being late again.

You write a note for the nurse, just in case your sister wakes up while you're gone, and slip quietly out of the room.

The early morning air hits your face like a slap. You walk fast, hands jammed into your jacket pockets, already calculating what time you'll need to be back, how to fit everything in. Drop the kids at school. Run to your cleaning shift—thank God it's only three hours today. Then maybe swing by the restaurant and beg for your hours back. Then return to the hospital.

Your thoughts are spinning too fast when your phone buzzes again.

A new message from Bucky.

"You sure you don’t want help? I meant it."

You stop walking.

You shouldn’t reply. You don’t want to owe anyone. You’ve survived this long without leaning on anyone but yourself. But there’s something in your chest, tight, aching, exhausted, that wants to believe someone might mean that.

Your fingers hover over the screen before you type:

“What kind of help?”

The answer comes quick:

“Groceries. Watching the kids. Rides. Whatever keeps you standing.”

You stare at the message. You don’t know why it hits you so hard, but it does.

You want to say no. You almost do.

But instead, you text:

“Could you maybe… pick up the kids from school today? I just... if the hospital keeps her another night…”

You don’t even finish the sentence as you send it.

Bucky replies:

“Tell me where and when.”

That’s all.

No questions. No pity. No lectures.

You blink hard and wipe your face with the back of your hand, then start walking again, faster this time, because now, you might actually have a minute to breathe.

Not because everything’s okay. Not because it’s fixed.

But because for the first time in a long time… You’re not carrying it completely alone.

You make it back to the apartment just as the sky starts to lighten. Miss Carla is already up - she answers the door in a robe, her hair wrapped in a scarf, and gives you a soft look when she sees your face.

“They were fine” she says, nodding toward the kitchen where your other two siblings are eating toast. “Did their homework. Brushed their teeth. They’re good kids.”

You thank her, again, and she waves it off. “You just focus on your little one, honey. I got these two covered if you need me.”

You want to cry again, but you don’t. You’re past crying. Past tired. Right now, you’ve got things to do.

You get the kids dressed, pack their lunches with whatever’s left in the fridge, some crackers, a few pieces of fruit, peanut butter sandwiches. It’ll have to do. As you're zipping backpacks and tying shoelaces, your phone buzzes.

Bucky: “I’ll be outside the school at 2:45. Let me know if anything changes.”

You stare at the message a moment before replying.

You: “Thank you.”

Just two words. You wish you had better ones. Bigger ones. But you're still learning how to ask. Still learning how to let someone help.

After walking the kids to school, you sprint to your cleaning shift, running on fumes and vending machine coffee. You mop floors, scrub stairwells, collect trash bags heavier than they should be. Every muscle aches, but you keep moving. The hospital bill is coming. Rent is due next week. You don’t have the luxury of slowing down.

By noon, you’re back at the hospital.

Your sister’s awake, groggy but alert, and coloring in a kids’ activity book one of the nurses brought. She looks up and smiles when she sees you. “Did you eat today?” she asks in a small voice, and you almost laugh, because even concussed, she’s worrying about you.

“Working on it” you tell her, ruffling her hair gently.

The nurse says she might be discharged tomorrow, as long as the next scan is clean. You nod, say “thank you,” ask if there’s anything she needs. But your mind is elsewhere, already skipping ahead. Groceries. Medicine. A plan for tomorrow.

At 2:30, your phone buzzes again.

A photo from Bucky.

Your two siblings, backpacks slung over their shoulders, standing next to his bike on the sidewalk. Both smiling like it’s just another normal day.

Then another message:

“Got them. They’re safe. Dropping them off at Carla’s unless you say otherwise.”

You stare at the photo, heart twisting. They look okay. Better than okay.

It hits you, again, how much of your life you’ve spent holding everything together with raw nerves and duct tape. And now, for once, someone has reached into the chaos- not to fix it, but to carry just one piece.

You breathe in deep and text back:

“Carla’s good. Thank you again.”

Then, before you can stop yourself, you add:

“I owe you.”

The reply comes fast:

“You don’t.”

And somehow, that’s what finally makes your throat tighten.

Because you’ve spent so long believing that everything comes with a cost. That needing help means being weak. That survival means staying silent.

But maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t have to. Maybe surviving doesn't mean doing it alone anymore.

You take the new job without thinking too hard about it. You can’t afford to.

It’s night shifts, stocking shelves at a 24-hour convenience store two subway stops from your apartment. Midnight to 4 a.m. Five nights a week. It’s quiet, mostly. Just you, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the sound of boxes being opened, stacked, moved. You don’t even tell anyone you’ve taken it. Not your siblings. Not Bucky. Definitely not Miss Carla.

The hospital bill had come folded twice, like that might soften the blow. It didn’t. You didn’t even finish reading the second page before flipping it over and shoving it in your drawer next to the other ones. But it doesn’t matter. You’re going to pay it. Like you always do.

Somehow.

You rearranged everything again - like a puzzle with pieces that don’t quite fit but have to. You extended your siblings’ after-school programs. Convinced a friend’s mom to let them hang around after dinner once a week. Promised them all you’d be home for bedtime. Lied.

And for a while, it works.

You stretch yourself thin, live off black coffee and vending machine crackers. You skip breakfast, sometimes lunch. You forget dinner until it’s midnight and your stomach turns at the thought of eating. Your hands start to shake sometimes, but you keep going. You keep moving. That’s what you do.

Until one day, your body stops moving for you.

It starts small. You’re walking home from the morning shift at the diner, you added that one too, just once a week, and suddenly the ground doesn’t feel like it’s under you anymore. Everything blurs around the edges. You think maybe you’re dreaming, but then the noise comes back too loud, too bright. Your knees buckle.

And then everything goes black.

When you come to, you’re in a place that smells like antiseptic and metal. Again.

Another hospital.

A nurse is speaking softly, asking your name. You're too tired to answer at first, but you nod.

Dehydration. Exhaustion. Malnutrition. That’s what they say.

You try to argue, but it’s a whisper, and they just shake their heads. "You need rest" the nurse says, “More than anything.”

You close your eyes again, guilt flooding your chest. The kids. Who picked them up? Did anyone notice? Did they eat? Are they scared?

Your phone buzzes weakly in your pocket, and the nurse sets it on your tray.

Two missed calls from Bucky. One from Carla. Ten unread texts.

And one new message, just now:

Bucky: "You didn’t show up at the school. Carla says you never got home. I’m at the hospital now. They wouldn’t tell me much, but I’m not leaving until I see you."

You stare at the screen, throat burning.

Then another message pops up:

"You don’t have to keep killing yourself just to prove you’re strong."

It cracks something open in you.

Because for the first time, someone sees you not as a burden, or a fighter, or a survivor but just a human being. One who needs rest. One who needs help.

One who doesn’t have to do this all alone.

You let the phone fall to your chest.

And for once, you stop fighting the sleep.

Because someone’s out there. Watching the door. Picking up the pieces.

Just until you’re strong enough again.

You wake to the sound of a chair scraping gently against the floor.

Your eyes open slowly, the world swimming in and out of focus before it settles. You’re still in the hospital, still wearing the paper-thin gown, still hooked up to an IV. But there’s someone sitting by your bed now.

Bucky.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He’s leaning forward, arms on his knees, watching you with a look you’ve never seen on his face before, tired, sure. But there’s something else underneath it. Worry. Frustration. Something heavier.

“You scared the hell outta me” he says finally, voice low. “I thought-” He cuts himself off, rubs a hand down his face. “Never mind.”

You try to sit up, but your body protests immediately, everything aching deep in your bones. Bucky moves quickly, one hand out, not touching but ready to catch you if you fall over. “Don’t. Just… stay down.”

You let yourself sink back against the pillow, jaw tight. “The kids…”

“They’re okay.” His voice softens. “I picked them up from school. Carla’s with them now. They had dinner. I made sure they brushed their teeth. They're safe.”

The pressure behind your eyes gets worse.

“I’m sorry” you whisper. “I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t” Bucky says firmly. “You don’t need to apologize for falling apart. Not when you’ve been holding the whole damn world on your back.”

You blink hard, trying to stop the tears before they come. You’re too tired for pride, but part of you still wants to act like you’re fine. That you can bounce back like always. But you can’t. Not this time.

He leans back in the chair, studying you. “You didn’t tell me anything. Not about the other jobs. Not about the hospital bill. Not about how little you were eating, or how close you were to dropping.”

“I didn’t want to make it your problem.”

Bucky shakes his head slowly. “You’re not a problem. You’re someone doing everything for everyone else. And it’s eating you alive.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’ve never had anyone say it like that. With no pity, no judgment - just… truth.

“I’ve been trying to fix it” you say, barely audible. “I took more work. I figured if I could just hold out a little longer-”

“Longer until what?” he interrupts gently. “Until you break for good?”

You look away, ashamed. But then you feel something, warm, steady.

Bucky’s hand, resting over yours. Not pushing. Just there.

“Let me help” he says. “Not just for today. Not just when things fall apart. Let me be part of it. Not because I feel sorry for you. Because I see you. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

You close your eyes. And for the first time in a long, long while, you believe someone when they say they’re not going to leave.

Not when it gets hard.

Not when it’s messy.

You nod, once. It’s all you can manage.

And Bucky doesn’t say anything else. He just stays there. Quiet. Solid. A presence in a world that’s taken too much from you.

Tomorrow, you’ll go home.

Tomorrow, you’ll face bills and work and all the pieces you still have to juggle.

But tonight?

Tonight, you rest.

And for the first time, you don’t rest alone, because Bucky is there.

You wipe your hands on your jeans as you step out of the subway, the stale city air brushing against your face. It’s Friday. That means an hour with Bucky. Just one hour. Just enough.

You don’t say much when you knock on his door, and he never asks. He lets you in with a nod, his expression unreadable, maybe curious, but he doesn’t press. You do what he needs, small jobs, errands, sometimes helping him organize things he doesn’t want other people touching, helping him understand technology or social media. You’re good at staying quiet, at being invisible when you need to be.

The money he gives you afterward is more than you expect every time. He just slips it into your hand without looking and you never ask why. You don’t tell him it goes straight to rent, or that the second it's in your pocket, you're already planning how much of it will cover groceries, how much you’ll save for your little brother’s school uniform.

You’ve never told him that you have three other jobs, that right after this you’re heading to a restaurant to wash dishes until your fingers prune. That tomorrow morning you’ll be sweeping a building’s front steps and emptying bins until your back aches. That Sunday, before the sun even rises, you’ll be scrubbing bathrooms in a downtown office that no one ever really looks at.

You’ve never told him that you have three younger siblings waiting for you in a cramped one-bedroom apartment with peeling wallpaper and a window that doesn’t shut all the way. That you read to them every night so they don’t hear the sirens. That you teach them how to be small, how to stay quiet if anyone knocks who isn’t you.

You’ve never told him the real reason you left. That you ran. That the bruises weren’t fading fast enough, and your sister screamed too loud one night, and you knew you couldn’t stay, not even one more day. That now, every knock at the door makes you jump. That you live every day with the fear of being found.

You’ve never told him any of this.

You just take the money, thank him quietly, and leave. You carry it all alone, because if you stop to explain it, if you let even one word out, you’re afraid the whole fragile thing will shatter. And you can’t afford that.

Not when they’re counting on you.

_______________________

Your fingers hover over the call button longer than they should. You hate doing this. Cancelling means less money and less money means something else has to break. Food. Rent. Something.

But your youngest is in the hospital, and the message from the school was panicked, something about a fall, a head injury, a concussion. You saw the blood. You rode in the ambulance. And now you're sitting in the ER chair with a dry mouth and shaking hands, trying to figure out how the hell you're supposed to keep everything from falling apart.

You hit “Call.”

It rings twice before Bucky answers. His voice is gruff but low, familiar. "Yeah?"

“Hey” you say, your voice tighter than you want it to be. “I-I'm sorry, I have to cancel tonight. My sibling - my youngest- got hurt at school. We’re at the hospital. Concussion, maybe more, they’re still checking.”

There’s a pause on the line. You think maybe he’s annoyed. Or worse, cold.

But then he just says “Shit. Are they okay?”

“They’re stable. But I can’t leave them.” You glance over at the small figure curled up on the stretcher, IV in their arm, dried blood on their temple. “I have to figure out how to be here and also… take care of the others.”

You're rambling now. You hate it. “I still have to go to my other jobs - at least two of them, I can't lose those shifts. And I don’t know what to do with the others while I’m at work. One’s too young to stay home alone. I can’t afford a sitter. I don’t even know how I’m going to get dinner made tonight.”

You're trying to keep your voice down, but it cracks anyway.

You press a hand over your eyes. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t your problem. I just… I didn’t want to disappear without saying something.”

Silence.

You wait, thinking maybe he hung up, because you shared too much.

But then Bucky says, quieter now, “You need help.”

It’s not a question.

“I’m fine” you lie, because it's reflex.

“No, you're not” he says, and there’s no edge to it. Just a statement. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for details. But there's something in his voice that doesn't sound like judgment. It sounds like understanding.

You bite your lip hard and swallow.

“I’ll figure it out” you say.

And you will. You have to.

After the call ends, you sit for a moment, the fluorescent lights buzzing above you, your head full of schedules, maps, plans. You need to find someone to watch the younger ones. Maybe that older lady down the hall. Maybe you trade shifts with someone. Maybe you lie, say your sibling is your child, and see if you qualify for a hospital overnight voucher.

You start listing every backup plan you can think of.

Because that’s what you do.

You patch the holes. You hold the weight. You keep going. Even when your hands shake.

Because your siblings need you.

The doctor comes back before you can start panicking properly.

“She’s stable” he says gently, looking at your little sister, eight years old, too pale, too still. “She has a mild concussion. No skull fracture, but we want to keep her overnight for observation.”

You nod, because it’s the only thing you can do. Your voice is gone, choked under the weight of everything you're already planning. One night in the hospital means one night not home. One night not home means the others are alone. You can’t have that.

As soon as the doctor leaves, you pull out your phone again. You’ve got two numbers you can maybe try. One’s your neighbor, Miss Carla. She’s always been kind to the kids when she sees them in the hallway. The other is the dishwasher shift lead who sometimes covers for you if you bring him an extra sandwich.

You call Carla first.

She agrees. Says she’ll watch your other two tonight. You almost cry with relief. You give her the door code, where the extra food is, and apologize about a hundred times. She just says “They’re sweet kids. Don’t worry, just take care of your girl.”

You hang up and call the restaurant next. No answer. You send a voice message instead, trying to sound calm. “Family emergency. My little sister’s in the hospital. Please let me make up the shift, I can come early Sunday.”

You hit send, then sit back in the stiff hospital chair, breathing hard. Your sister stirs a little, her eyes fluttering open, dazed.

You stand and lean over her immediately. “Hey. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

She whispers something you can’t make out, and then her eyes close again.

You brush the hair from her face, trying to steady yourself.

Your phone buzzes again.

It’s Bucky.

The message just says:

“Let me know if you need help. Not for the job. Just… help.”

You stare at it, surprised. Not because of the offer, but because somehow, he knows the difference.

You don’t reply right away. You don’t know how. You just tuck the phone into your jacket pocket, sit down and watch the machines beep gently beside your sister’s bed.

Tomorrow, the weight will still be there. The jobs. The rent. The school bills. But for now, you’re here. You did what you could. You’re still holding it all up.

Somehow. Still standing. Still surviving.

You don’t know exactly when the silence between you and Bucky stopped feeling like tension and started feeling like something warm. Maybe it was that night in Prague, when the power went out in the safehouse and the two of you sat in the dark, backs against opposite walls, not saying a word. You could feel the weight of his presence across the room like gravity. Neither of you said anything. You just listened to each other breathe and realized that the silence had changed.

It’s the same kind of silence now.

You’re standing side by side on a quiet rooftop in Croatia, just outside Split. The streets below are mostly empty, the kind of empty that only comes after midnight in a town this old. The mission’s over. You’re both technically off-duty. But you stay up here anyway, watching the flickering streetlights and the way the wind tousles Bucky’s hair.

There’s a gentle hum of tension under your skin, but not the bad kind. It’s the kind that makes you more aware of every movement, every breath. The kind that reminds you this man, who once could’ve broken nations with a single command, now chooses to stand quietly beside you. Not because he has to. But because he wants to.

You shift your weight and glance sideways, your voice light.

"If I were a cat" you say, "I'd spend all nine lives with you."

It’s meant as a joke, sort of. A way to break the silence that isn’t really uncomfortable but maybe just a little too charged.

Bucky turns to look at you, his expression unreadable for a second. Then, slowly, he steps closer. You don’t move. He takes another step. Now he’s just inches away, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body even through your jacket.

"And if I were a dog, princess" he says, voice low and slow, "I'd follow you to the ends of the world. For life."

You weren’t expecting that. Not from him. Not from the man who used to flinch every time someone got too close. Not from the Winter Soldier.

Your lips part in surprise, then curl into a quiet smile.

"Wasn’t expecting the Winter Soldier to flirt like a golden retriever" you murmur.

He chuckles at that, and the sound wraps around you like a blanket. Not the cold, bitter laugh you’ve heard him make in the field. This one is warm. Real. It vibrates deep in his chest and settles into your bones.

"Yeah" he says, shrugging "well, the Winter Soldier doesn’t. But I’m not him anymore."

He looks at you then, really looks, like he’s trying to make sure you believe it. His eyes are clearer now than they were when you met him. Less fog. Less fear.

You hold his gaze and nod.

"I know you're not" you reply softly. "I see you, Bucky."

That stops him for a second. He swallows, like the words hit harder than he expected.

"You’re one of the only people who does" he says, his voice almost a whisper.

There’s a silence that follows, but it’s not awkward. It’s full. Like the air between you is thick with all the things that haven’t been said. The pain. The healing. The slow, aching hope that maybe this life he’s building can actually be real.

You sit on the edge of the rooftop and pat the spot next to you. He joins you without a word, his shoulder brushing yours. For a while, you both just sit like that, looking out over the darkened city.

"I used to think I didn’t deserve any kind of peace" Bucky says after a while. "Not after everything I’ve done. Every time I tried to get close to someone, it felt like I was dragging my past into their life. And most people… they looked at me like I was a weapon waiting to go off."

You glance over at him. His eyes are on the horizon, faraway.

"But you don’t" he continues. "You never have."

You nudge his arm gently.

"That’s because I don’t see you as something broken. I see you as someone who survived. Someone who fought like hell to come back from something most people wouldn’t have."

He looks down at his hands. One flesh, one metal. The contrast has always been stark, but in this moment, he seems at peace with it. Or closer to peace than he’s ever been.

"I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like an idiot" he says, eyes still on his hands. "But I’d give up every one of my second chances just to be in your first."

The words hit you like a wave.

Your breath catches. You turn to look at him and find that he’s already watching you, eyes open and vulnerable and honest in a way you’re not sure anyone else has ever seen from him.

You want to say something poetic. Something that matches the weight of what he just gave you. But all that comes out is the truth.

"You’re already in it, Bucky. This is my first life. And you’re part of it. Whether you like it or not."

His lips quirk into a smile, a real one. Not haunted. Not half-hearted. Just soft and surprised and grateful.

He reaches out and takes your hand. Not the tentative kind of touch he used to give, waiting for permission, waiting for you to pull away. This time, he holds it like he means it. Like he believes he has the right to.

And you let him. Because he does.

You sit there like that for a long time. No more words. No more confessions. Just fingers laced together, shoulders touching, hearts beating in quiet rhythm under the stars.

Far below, the city breathes and moves and lives. But up here, it feels like time has paused just for the two of you.

And in that stillness, you realize something.

You’ve never felt safer than you do right now, with Bucky Barnes beside you, calling you "princess" and looking at you like you’re the one thing in this broken world worth chasing.

It’s Easter morning and you’re standing on the Barnes front porch, arms crossed over your light sweater as the spring air kisses your cheeks. The sun is just warm enough to make the day feel promising, and you can hear the sound of kids laughing a few houses down, probably already tearing through their Easter baskets.

Bucky opens the door, his hair slightly tousled and a shy grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He’s holding something behind his back.

“You came” he says, as if you’d ever miss an invite from him.

“Of course I did” you reply, smiling. “You said something about chocolate and possibly humiliating egg hunts.”

He chuckles, stepping aside to let you in. “Right. But before that…” He pulls a small, decorated basket from behind his back. “This is for you.”

It’s not fancy, woven wood, some pastel ribbon, and a few chocolate eggs nestled in fake grass but you can tell he tried. There’s even a little folded note tucked between a caramel bunny and a purple peep.

“Bucky…” You blink, touched. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know” he says, shrugging, cheeks turning pink. “But I wanted to. I, uh, made sure to get the kind of chocolate you like.”

You glance at him, heart fluttering. “How’d you know?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I pay attention.”

It hits you then, how he always seems to remember the little things. Like how you take your hot cocoa in the winter. Or the way you hum when you’re nervous. Or that time you mentioned your favorite candy in passing and he’d tucked it away like it meant something.

“I love it” you say, stepping closer. “Thank you.”

And suddenly you’re both standing there, in the quiet warmth of the living room, the scent of something sweet baking in the kitchen, and the world outside just a gentle blur. He’s looking at you with those blue eyes that never seem to hide anything and he swallows, like he’s building up to something.

“I was kind of hoping” he says slowly, “that maybe… after the egg hunt, we could hang out. Just us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like a date?”

He bites his lip, then nods. “Yeah. Like a date.”

You grin. “Only if I win the egg hunt.”

He laughs, eyes lighting up. “You’re on.”

_________________

The backyard is scattered with colorful plastic eggs and a few half-hearted decorations. Paper bunnies swaying from the porch rail and a handmade “EGG HUNT ZONE” sign hanging slightly crooked. There’s a table off to the side with cupcakes, mostly decorated as Bunnies but also as colorful eggs and sweet lemonade and a few neighborhood kids darting between bushes and flowerbeds in full sugar-fueled chaos.

You’re crouched low near the hedge, clutching a yellow egg in one hand and scanning for your next target. Bucky’s a few feet away, trying to act casual as he pretends not to be watching you but he’s terrible at it. You catch him peeking every time you glance over, his smile growing wider with each egg you find.

“You’re going down, Barnes” you call, holding up your latest prize like a trophy.

He raises a playful eyebrow. “You sure about that? Cause I’ve got five and a half eggs.”

You squint. “Half an egg?”

He opens his palm to reveal a cracked one, candy leaking from the seam. “Battle scars” he says with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll never be the same.”

You roll your eyes, laughing, but your heart skips all the same. There’s something about how he looks at you, like this whole silly egg hunt could stretch into forever and he wouldn’t mind one bit.

Eventually, the game winds down. You end up winning by two eggs, which you don’t let him forget for a solid ten minutes. He pretends to be outraged, even demands a rematch next Easter, but he’s smiling the whole time. And then, when the yard quiets down and the sun starts to dip behind the trees, he pulls you aside nervous again, but determined.

You’re sitting on the porch steps, your basket between you, the note he gave you earlier still tucked inside.

“Hey” he says softly, brushing his shoulder against yours. “Remember the deal?”

You glance at him sideways. “The date?”

He nods. “If you still want to.”

Your chest feels warm, not just from the fading sun. “I do.”

He beams full-on, teeth and all and your breath catches a little because he’s actually beautiful when he lets himself shine like that.

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that feels warm and charged instead of awkward. The sun’s dipping lower in the sky now, casting a golden glow over the yard. Somewhere behind you, someone turns on a radio, soft music drifting through the spring air.

Bucky reaches into his hoodie pocket, pulling out a tiny chocolate egg wrapped in silver foil. “Then I officially owe you this” he says, holding it out. “Winner’s prize.”

You take it, fingers brushing his and suddenly his hand is holding yours for just a second longer than needed. He’s still close, eyes flicking from your hand to your face like he’s trying to memorize everything.

“I had this whole speech” Bucky says suddenly, voice low.

You blink. “A speech?”

He nods, eyes fixed on the horizon. “For today. Thought maybe I’d give you the basket, say something smooth. Tell you I… like you.” He winces, glancing at you. “That came out way less cool than it sounded in my head.”

Your heart does this flip-flop thing, and you can’t help but smile. “You don’t need a speech.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope.” You reach into your basket, pull out a little foil-wrapped chocolate, and hold it out to him. “You already got the message across.”

He takes the candy, brushing your fingers in the process, and smiles, slow, genuine, a little shy. “So… you like me back?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Kind of hard not to.”

“I like you too, Bucky” you say simply, to make him understand it fully.

His whole expression changes, like something clicks into place. He lets out a slow breath and smiles, not a wide, goofy grin this time, but something smaller. More real.

“Okay” he says, nodding, “cool. That’s... really cool.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day. He looks down, then back at you, nudging your shoulder again, gentler this time.

“You wanna come back inside?” he asks. “Ma made cinnamon rolls and I might share one if you say please.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Only one?”

“Well” he says with a smirk, standing up and offering you his hand “maybe two. Depends how nicely you ask.”

You take his hand and when he pulls you up, he doesn’t let go right away.

You walk into the flower shop, your footsteps quiet on the polished floor. The moment you open the door, a wave of floral scents greets you, sweet, fresh and calming. You pause for a second, just to take it all in. Flowers have always held a special place in your heart. They’re simple but full of life, just like the way you feel when you’re with him. Bucky.

You glance down at your phone. It’s been a few months now. Time has flown by, but in the best way. You and Bucky have found a rhythm, a connection that grows deeper each day. He’s no longer the stoic man he once was. Not entirely. And you… you’re no longer the person you were before he came into your life.

A smile tugs at your lips as you begin to peruse the shelves. The roses are beautiful, but not today. Not for him. You want something different, something that suits who he is, not just the conventional symbol of love. Your fingers brush against a bunch of white lilies, their petals delicate and pure, and you stop.

Perfect.

You pick them up carefully, admiring their simplicity. Their fragrance fills your nose, soft but with just enough sweetness to make your heart flutter. You take your time, adding a few sprigs of lavender and a couple of purple irises to the mix. It’s subtle, elegant.. like him. You know he’s not someone who needs grand gestures, but you also know how much he appreciates when people show they care, when they take the time to think of him.

The florist wraps the bouquet in soft tissue paper, tying it with a simple satin ribbon. You thank her, your hands cradling the flowers like they’re something precious, because to you, they are. You’re giving them to him.

When you reach his apartment, the nerves start to settle in. They’re not nerves from doubt, but more from the excitement of wanting to make him feel special. It’s not the first time you’ve gotten him something, but it’s the first time you’ve given him flowers. It feels like a big deal, like you’re taking another step together. You’re not even sure why you decided to do this, maybe just maybe because you saw them at the flower shop and thought of him, or maybe because you just want to see him smile.

You knock on his door and wait, your heart thumping in your chest. A few seconds later, the door opens and there he is. Bucky. Standing in his usual attire, a simple T-shirt, jeans and his leather jacket that fits him perfectly. The way he looks at you, his blue eyes lighting up when he sees you, makes everything inside you settle.

“Hey” he says, his voice warm, low and familiar. His gaze flickers to the bouquet in your hands. “What’s this?” he asks with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

You grin, a little shy now, but trying to keep your cool. “For you,” you say, holding them out to him. “Just because.”

Bucky blinks, his gaze dropping to the flowers. His metal hand twitches slightly at his side, like he’s not sure if he should take them or not.

“…You got me flowers?” His voice is cautious, like he’s expecting a punchline.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, that’s usually how this works.”

His brows furrow slightly in surprise, his lips parting as if he’s not sure what to make of this. His hand hesitates before he takes the bouquet from you, fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, his voice low but filled with genuine gratitude. “What’s the occasion?”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, though your heart is racing a little. “No occasion. I just thought you’d like them.”

Bucky stares down at the flowers, his expression softening as he takes in their delicate beauty. “They’re beautiful,” he says quietly. “But, uh… I’m not used to getting flowers.”

He looks at it like it’s some kind of unfamiliar artifact, turning it slightly in his hands, inspecting the mix of blue delphiniums, white lilies and a few sprigs of lavender.

“No roses” he murmurs.

“You don’t seem like a roses kind of guy.”

His lips twitch, the closest thing to a smile. “And I seem like a…?”

You shrug. “Delphinium and lavender kind of guy.”

Bucky lets out a small, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s a first.”

You chuckle, stepping closer to him. “Well, consider it as our first,” you tease. “I figured you could use something to brighten your day.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So, do I get a ‘thank you’ or are you just gonna stand there looking at them like they’re a bomb?”

He huffs a laugh but looks back down at the bouquet, his fingers tracing one of the petals absentmindedly. His expression softens, something unreadable passing through his eyes.

“I… yeah.” He clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Thank you. I just… no one’s ever given me flowers before.”

You tilt your head. “Never?”

He shakes his head. “Not really something guys like me get.”

You frown slightly. “Well, that’s dumb. Flowers aren’t just for girls. They’re for people you care about.”

Something in his expression changes, something subtle but deep, like he’s trying to process the weight of your words. He looks back down at the bouquet again, then exhales softly, almost like he’s letting himself accept it.

He smiles again, this time with a hint of something vulnerable. He looks up at you, his gaze searching, before he clears his throat. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t really know how to handle this.”

You chuckle softly. “It’s simple, Bucky. You just accept it. No need for a big speech or anything.”

He lifts the bouquet to his nose, inhaling deeply. For a moment, his eyes flutter closed and a quiet sigh escapes him. You watch him, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. It’s a simple thing, this gift, but you can already tell it means something to him. Maybe it’s not the flowers themselves, but the thought behind them. The fact that you were thinking of him, that you wanted to give him something. You know that his past has made him wary of affection, of kindness, but moments like this show that he's willing to let down his guard just a little more each time.

After a moment, he looks back up at you, his expression softer, more open than before. “Thank you. This... really means a lot to me,” he says, voice thick with something you can’t quite name.

You smile, relieved to see that he’s not rejecting the gesture, but genuinely appreciating it. “I’m glad you like them. I thought they suited you.”

He chuckles, a small, almost awkward sound and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just not used to this. People... doing nice things for me, just because.”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Well, you deserve it. You deserve to be treated well. And these” you gesture to the bouquet “are just a small way of showing you that.”

Bucky’s eyes soften and you notice the way he’s looking at you, like he’s seeing you in a new light. “You’re something else,” he murmurs, his voice full of awe, like he’s trying to process it all. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Your heart skips a beat and for a second, you don’t know what to say. You just stand there, looking at each other, a thousand unspoken words hanging between you. The vulnerability in his voice, the warmth in his eyes… it makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Well” you say, your voice teasing to break the tension. “Now that I’ve made you blush, I’ll take my leave.” You make a move toward the door, but before you can step past him, Bucky grabs your wrist gently.

“Wait” he says, his voice a little rougher than usual. “I want to thank you properly.” He pulls you back toward him, not forcefully, just enough to close the distance between you. His eyes search yours and before you can even react, he steps closer, leaning in to brush his lips against your cheek in a soft, lingering kiss.

You freeze for a second, your breath catching. He pulls away slowly and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. You glance at the flowers in his hands again, feeling a rush of warmth flood through you.

“You didn’t have to do that” you murmur, though you know it’s a lie.

“I wanted to” he says quietly, his thumb gently brushing the back of your hand. “You don’t know how much this means to me. You’re making me believe in things I didn’t think I could anymore.”

You look up at him, your heart full. “I’m glad,” you whisper.

“Come inside” he says after a moment, stepping back to let you in.

You follow him in, watching as he moves toward the kitchen, still holding the bouquet with a sort of hesitant reverence. He sets them down on the counter, staring at them for a second before glancing at you.

“So… what do I do with them?”

You snort. “You put them in water, grandpa.”

He glares at you, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I know that.” He pulls a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water before placing the flowers inside. It’s not the best makeshift vase, but it works. He stares at them for a long moment, then, almost absently, lifts one of the lavender sprigs and twirls it between his fingers.

“They smell nice,” he mutters.

You smile. “Yeah. Figured you’d like that.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second before he leans against the counter, looking at you with something unreadable in his expression. “You really just… got these for me? No reason?”

You shrug. “Do I need a reason?”

He shakes his head slowly, his thumb brushing over the lavender again. “No. I guess not.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something that makes your chest tighten. You don’t push, don’t press him to say anything more. Instead, you just step closer, resting your hip against the counter beside him.

Bucky exhales, running a hand through his hair before giving you a sideways glance. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You smirk. “I get that a lot.”

He huffs another soft laugh, then looks back at the flowers, something warm settling into his expression. “I like ‘em,” he admits, voice softer now.

Your chest warms. “Good.”

You're lounging on your couch, phone in hand, half-listening as your friends chatter excitedly in a group call. It’s the usual chaos... overlapping voices, inside jokes, and bursts of laughter.

Then, one of the girls sighs dramatically.

"Ugh, masked men are so hot. And cosplayers, too. I swear, they just... ugh!"

A chorus of agreement follows, punctuated by giggles and little screams of excitement. The conversation quickly spirals into an enthusiastic debate about which masked character is the hottest, and you’re only half paying attention... until, somehow, you let it slip.

"I have one at home who’d gladly cosplay for me anytime."

Silence. Then...

"Wait. WHAT?!"

The reaction is instant, voices overlapping in shock and curiosity. You realize too late what you just admitted. Your stomach drops.

"You HAVE ONE?!" one of your friends shrieks. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE ONE?!"

"Oh my god, are you dating a cosplayer?" someone else demands.

You try to backtrack, but it’s useless. They smell blood in the water.

"Who is it?!"

"How long have you been hiding this?!"

"Tell us EVERYTHING!"

You rub your face, debating your options. Lying? No chance. Playing it off? They won't let it go. And Bucky? Oh, he’s going to love this.

Sighing, you brace yourself. "Okay, okay. But you cannot freak out."

They absolutely freak out.

You run a hand through your hair, already regretting opening your mouth. The excited chaos in your friends’ voices is only getting louder.

“You can’t just say something like that and not tell us more!” one of them insists.

Your eyes flick toward the closed bedroom door. Bucky’s in there... probably asleep, if you’re lucky. If not, well… he’s going to make this even harder for you.

You lower your voice. “Look, it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?!” another friend practically screeches. “You just casually admitted you have a masked man at home who cosplays for you! That is literally the biggest deal!”

You groan, shifting on the couch. “I didn’t mean to say it like that... ”

“But it’s true, right?”

You hesitate. There’s no point in denying it now. “…Yeah.”

The explosion of reactions makes you pull the phone away from your ear. Someone is squealing. Someone else is demanding details. One of your friends sounds like they might actually combust from excitement.

“Who is he?”

“How long have you been together?”

“Does he wear the mask all the time? Oh my god, does he do voice impressions?”

You snort. “No, he does not do voice impressions.”

A slow creak from the bedroom door makes your breath catch. Your head snaps up just in time to see Bucky standing there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He’s shirtless, hair tousled, sleep still heavy in his eyes.

“…Who are you talking to?” His voice is raspy, thick with sleep.

You freeze. Your friends, however, do not.

“OH MY GOD, IS THAT HIM?!” someone screams in your ear.

Bucky blinks, then raises an eyebrow at you. “…What did you do?”

You sigh, pressing the phone against your forehead. “I might have… accidentally told them about you.”

Bucky stares at you for a moment, then huffs out a tired laugh. “Unbelievable.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you, stretching as he moves. “You’re terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Trust me, I know.”

He plops down next to you on the couch, peering at the phone in your hand. “So, what exactly did you tell them?”

You let your head fall back on the sofa head. “I may have let something slip about Mask and Cosplays..”

Bucky Chuckle amused. “Ah.. You love when I wear costumes for you, love.”

Your friends scream again. Bucky smirks.

You’re never going to live this down.

Bucky's smirk is downright dangerous. He knows exactly what he’s doing, leaning in close, his bare shoulder brushing against yours. His voice is still rough from sleep as he murmurs, “So… you told them I cosplay for you?”

You groan. “It slipped, okay? Slipped.”

Your friends are still losing their minds on the other end of the call. One of them is practically hyperventilating. “We need details, right now!”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this way too much. He plucks the phone from your hand with ease and lifts it to his ear.

“Hey there, sweethearts,” he says, voice smooth, teasing.

The reaction is instant. Absolute chaos erupts through the speaker... shrieks, gasps, one of your friends might’ve actually dropped their phone.

“OH MY GOD, HE’S REAL.”

“WHO IS HE? WAIT... THAT VOICE... ”

“IS THAT BU... ”

You lunge, trying to grab the phone back, but Bucky easily dodges, his smirk growing. “You know, I do own a few masks,” he muses, as if he’s considering it. “But I think they left out an important question.”

You hesitate. “…What question?”

His eyes flick to yours, something wicked dancing behind them. “What kind of cosplay do you like?”

Your entire body burns. Your friends scream.

You swear you hear one of them fall off their chair. “WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!”

Bucky chuckles, clearly thriving on the chaos. He finally hands you the phone back, but the damage is done. Your friends will never let this go.

You sigh, slumping against the couch. “I hate you.”

Bucky drapes an arm around your shoulders, utterly unbothered. “No, you don’t.”

And damn it, he’s right.

You’re this close to throwing your phone across the room. The screaming, the endless questions, the complete and utter chaos... you’re done. With a deep breath, you bring the phone back to your ear.

“Alright, that’s enough. We’re done here.”

“No, wait... ”

“You can’t just drop this on us and leave!”

“Tell Bucky we love him... ”

Click.

You hang up and toss your phone onto the coffee table, flopping back against the couch with an exhausted groan. The room is finally quiet... except for the soft sound of Bucky laughing beside you.

“That bad, huh?”

You shoot him a glare. “They’re insane. And you? You helped them.”

Bucky just grins, stretching his arms behind his head. “I mean, you’re the one who let it slip.”

You groan again, covering your face with your hands. “I can never talk to them again.”

Bucky chuckles and shifts closer, his hand resting on your knee. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “Bucky, they are never going to let this go.”

His smirk softens just a little, and he squeezes your knee. “So? Let ‘em freak out. You kept me a secret for long enough.”

You sigh, finally letting your hands drop. “Yeah, yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence, then...

“…So, what do you want me to cosplay as?”

Your face burns instantly. “Bucky!”

You groan, pushing him away, but he just laughs harder. You’re never living this down.

For weeks now, your dreams have been strange, vivid, and terrifyingly real. You've started seeing things no one else can, and it’s changed you. Worried and desperate, your parents sent you to a church-affiliated therapist, forcing you to take the pills they promised would "fix" you.

But last night, you didn’t take them.

Now, you find yourself in Wonderland.

You "wake" in front of the Mad Hatter’s house, but it’s nothing like the whimsical tales you remember. The walls are crooked, the windows shattered and a faint sound of manic laughter seeps into the cold air.

The Cheshire Cat perches on a low branch, its grin unsettling. Its glowing eyes seem to pierce through you.

“It all started with you, you know,” it says, its voice both amused and grim. “The Hatter wasn’t always like this. But when you started losing yourself, so did he. Now, he’s dangerous. Violent. We don’t go near him anymore. And Alice? She ran away before things got this bad…”

The Cat’s gaze sharpens. “You’re connected to him, somehow. If you want answers, you’ll have to go inside.”

"Me? Going inside a house, I don't know?"

You tile your head. "Since when do cat's speak?”

The Cheshire grins, showing off its sharpened fangs.

“In Wonderland, many things aren’t quite what they seem, my dear. You’re not the only one going mad here.”

The laughter drifts closer, louder this time, and the Cat’s eyes dart toward the house.

“But you better make up your mind quick. He’s getting restless.”

With another sharp-toothed smile, the Cat leaps from the branch and disappears into the overgrown hedges.

You stand alone, the abandoned house casting its shadow over you. Somewhere inside, the Hatter laughs. It’s closer now, angry, manic, edged with madness.

You let out a weary sigh as you approach the door.

Stepping inside, your fingers brush lightly against the shelf, tracing its edge.

You step through another door, wincing as the floor creaks underfoot.

The house’s interior is equally ruined. The once-beautiful furniture is smashed or overturned, and the walls are stained with something dark that looks suspiciously like blood.

As you pass the shelf, you notice a large crack in its wooden surface. A small picture hangs on the wall above it, partially covered by a piece of cloth.

The house bears no resemblance to the ones you’ve read about in books or seen in movies. Its atmosphere feels unfamiliar, almost unsettling in its simplicity. 

You take another step forward, letting curiosity guide you further inside.

The house’s destruction continues into the next room, broken chairs, tables and other trinkets litter the ground, covered in torn fabric and scattered tea leaves.

As you pass a smashed mirror, you catch your reflection. Your eyes look a little bit wider than usual and you wonder if you’re starting to look as crazed as this place.

The laughter echoes off the walls, sending a chill down your spine. You have the odd sense you’re being watched and you’re getting closer to the Hatter.

As your fingers graze something on the shelf, you freeze, drawn to its strange presence. In an instant, another vision ‘one of those haunting dreams’ overwhelms you. Pain sears through your skull, sharp and relentless, forcing a gasp from your lips.

Your vision swims, the world spinning around you, leaving you off-balance. 

Gasping, you jerk your hand away and stagger back.

Just as you're about to hit the floor, a strong pair of hands catches you.

You look up and find yourself staring into the face of the Mad Hatter. He holds you steady until you’re balanced, but he doesn’t let go just yet.

His grey eyes rake over you, studying you like a puzzle he's trying to solve. 

A smile slowly spreads across his face.

“You’re here,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. 

His eyes roam over your face greedily, taking in every freckle and contour. He almost seems…excited to see you. And a bit insane.

He still hasn’t dropped your hands, but his grip tightens slightly. For some reason, you can’t quite seem to pull away.

"I'm here.." you repair instinctively.

The Hatter's smile widens in apparent satisfaction. 

"Good," he says simply, his gaze never leaving your face.

He looks like a man starved of something.

He lifts one of your hands, examining your fingers. When he bends down and puts your forefinger in his mouth, you realize he seems fixated on your hands.

He continues to run his lips over your fingers and his tongue touches your fingertip for just a moment. 

The sensation makes you shiver, and you realize something very important in that moment: the Hatter feels familiar, almost like…you already would know him, what's impossible.

"You do taste good," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin.

He lifts your hand higher and puts your finger in his mouth again. This time you feel his tongue move more deliberately, more… hungrily.

He sucks on your finger briefly before releasing it. He grins at you.

Your eyes trace over him, a flicker of recognition stirring deep within you. It feels impossible, but you’re certain you’ve seen him before, perhaps in one of your dreams. You recall him there, urging you to stop taking the medicine.

It wasn’t the first time he’d appeared. Back when you were losing control, spiraling into fear and confusion before your parents forcefully gave you the pills, he was there. Despite the madness surrounding you, his presence brought a strange sense of comfort, easing the storm inside you and making you feel safe.

The Hatter lifts his own hand and gently touches your face, his touch almost reverent.

"You do remember me," he murmurs, his eyes gleaming. "I knew it."

He takes a half-step closer, and now you're so near to each other you can feel the heat of his body. 

He leans down, his breath warm against your ear.

"I always knew you’d come back.”

“Back?” you echo, confusion lacing your voice.

The Hatter laughs again, but this time it sounds almost…pleased.

"In a matter of speaking," he says, his voice low and quiet. 

He moves his hand so his thumb is resting on your bottom lip, and you feel a shudder run down your spine.

"I suppose you don't remember much about me. You weren't... in the right frame of mind, the last time we met.”

He looks slightly regretful for a moment, but his eyes brighten again as they roam over your face. 

"I've thought about you … a lot," he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, but in the still room, it seems to echo in the air. 

"Every time you took one of those damned pills, I could nearly feel myself fading away." 

He looks at you now, his eyes sharp and almost desperate.

"Fading away?... I don't get it," you murmur, your voice uncertain and bewildered.

The Hatter lets out a soft sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

"I'm not exactly surprised. No one in your world would understand. Not your parents, not the doctors, not even Alice," he says. He almost spits out her name, almost as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He looks away, as if he's trying to regain his composure.

"Your mind was losing its grasp on reality. And I was losing my grip on you.”

"Alice?" Your thoughts spiral.

"You mean the Alice from the book Alice in Wonderland? Isn't she supposed to be looking after... Wonderland?"

The realization hits you, this doesn’t feel like a dream at all.

The Hatter scowls, his eyes darkening.

"Ah, the book," he mutters, almost to himself. 

He shakes his head. “No. I’m afraid that version isn’t much more than a fairy tale. My Wonderland is nothing like that wonderland. And Alice is…”

He pauses, and then lets out a bitter laugh. 

“She’s more trouble than she’s worth. A liar, a thief, a traitor.”

A sharp pain flashes in your head, as if something long buried is pushing its way to the surface. The Hatter’s harsh words twist around you, his voice fading into the storm of confusion and forgotten memories rising inside you.

Without warning, the house groans, the walls buckling as though reality itself is unraveling. The ground shifts beneath you, and with a strange, shattering sound, a rift appears in the air.

It’s not a break, but something deeper, space itself warping, bending as if it cannot hold what’s beginning to emerge. The rift widens, pulling at you, as if the very fabric of the world is reaching out to consume you.

The Hatter’s usual composure cracks as the rift widens, fear flickering in his eyes. He lunges forward, his hands cradling your head with surprising gentleness. "Stop," he pleads, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with urgency. 

"This isn’t how it was meant to happen." His grip tightens, his gaze frantic, trying to anchor you as the world around you both begins to tear apart.

The World around you continues to break apart. The walls ripple in and out, threatening to collapse any second. You can feel the pull of the rift, the very fabric of space-time fighting to stay intact.

The Hatter's hands on your head grow more urgent, and for the first time since you met, his confidence wavers, replaced by panic.

"Snap out of it," he snaps. "You can't let your mind wander now. You have to focus.”

In an instant, a wave of calm washes over you, and everything falls back into place. Your fingers grip Hatter, your breath coming in sharp, rapid gasps.

The world stabilizes just as quickly. The walls stop shaking, the air grows still, and the rift…shrinks.

For a moment, the Hatter says nothing as he watches you, his hands still gripping your head, his fingers intertwined with your hair. 

Finally, he lets out a breath, his fingers loosening fractionally.

"You did better this time," he mutters, his voice edged with relief.

"Huh?" you mutter, confusion thick in your voice.

The Hatter releases his grip on your head, but his hands remain near. He seems reluctant to let go, as if the brief moment of calm might shatter like glass.

"That," he says, gesturing around you, "is what happens when your mind starts wandering. Or when something tries to break in."

His eyes drift to the spot where the rift had appeared, his expression guarded.

"In both cases, the outcome’s bad. Very bad.”

"That wasn’t me…"

"It can’t be... I just want to wake up... I shouldn’t have stopped taking the pills..."

"Is this all in my head again? Just another damn dream..."

The Hatter catches your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him.

"This isn’t a dream," he says firmly. He grips your chin a bit tighter, as if the thought you’d dismiss it as a passing fantasy annoys him.

"You’re here. We’re both here and it isn’t in anyone’s mind.”

The Hatter releases your chin, but his hand lingers, his finger tracing along your jawline gently. It’s a contradiction in the way he moves... Tender and almost loving, yet possessive.

He lets his hand fall to your neck, his fingers wrapping around the skin as if he’s testing if you’re real, if you’re truly here.

"This isn’t something that just ‘happens’," he says quietly. "You being here is a sign of something else. Something that shouldn’t be possible.” 

He lets his fingers brush over your pulse, feeling the thrum of your life’s blood against his skin. He looks almost mesmerized, lost in some deep, unknown thought.

His eyes dart up to your face, his gaze darker than you’ve ever seen it.

"This isn’t a fairytale, and you’re not a character from a children’s book. You’re a real person from a real world, and yet... you’re here, in Wonderland, against all laws of the universe.”

"You speak as if Wonderland is actually real," you scoff.

The Hatter’s eyes flash in irritation.

"Because it is," he snaps back, his voice harsh. "You think you’re the only one who’s been touched by something abnormal? You think I’m not real?"

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. His shoulders slump, his annoyance giving way to something more resigned.

"Wonderland has always been real. This world isn’t like yours. There are rules and magic and things that don’t follow any sense at all.”

He lets his hand fall from your neck. The absence of his touch leaves a strange emptiness.

He shakes his head. “But you wouldn’t believe me,” he says grimly. “You’ve spent your whole life being told my kind don’t exist, that the stories your parents read you are just that… stories.”

He looks at you, and for a moment he almost looks regretful.

“But you still felt something, didn’t you? Even before I spoke to you in your dreams.”

"Was it really you in my dreams?"

The Hatter nods. “I could only reach you when you slept,” he says. “I’d speak to you in between your nightmares, trying to steer you the way I could.”

He looks at you, regret and understanding in his eyes.

“But you weren’t in a good place then, and our time together was…” He makes a distasteful sound in the back of his throat. “Disrupted. Distorted. You didn’t believe much of what I said.”

His expression turns grim. “Then you started taking those pills from your parents. Suddenly, my voice was too faint. I could barely touch your mind, and every time you took another, I could feel my connection slipping.”

He takes a step closer, his eyes fixed on yours.

“Those doctors gave you something to block reality. They numbed you and shut me out.”

The Hatter reaches out and grabs your hand, pulling you close. He lifts your hand to his chest, and suddenly your palm is resting over his heart.

You can feel it beat against your palm rapidly, as if it’s trying to escape.

"I ached for you, even when you couldn't hear me," he says softly, his voice edged with a desperation you’re unaccustomed to hearing.

"You were slowly walking away from me, and I couldn’t follow. You were sliding out of my reach.”

His grip on your hand becomes firmer, just short of painful.

“But you didn’t leave me completely," he continues. “There was still the faintest connection, the tiniest thread. It was enough to keep me alive, to keep me from…”

His voice trails off, as if there are no words for what his fate would have been without you.

"But then, one day, you didn’t take the pills," he says, his eyes almost searching yours now. "You let me back in.”

"Is it my fault that you’re so... well, the cat said you’re violent..."

The Hatter gives a short, bitter laugh.

"The cat has always had a habit of exaggeration," he says dryly. "I’m not violent. I've just been..."

He lets out a breath, as if searching for the right word.

"I’ve been irritated lately. Impatient. And your prolonged absence didn’t help.”

You nod slowly.

"But why are you tied to me? Why did you start appearing, and what's with these headaches, the dreams, the daydreams..."

The Hatter hesitates for a moment, as if debating whether to answer your question.

"I was always connected to you," he says finally. "Every time you’d imagine something or make up a story, a part of me would feel it, even if you didn’t realize. You gave me ideas, ideas I shared with the others, that brought us fun, made us happy."

"Then, one day, there was a nightmare and I could speak to you."

He pauses, looking at you thoughtfully. 

"That was the first time you heard my voice.”

He lets his grip loosen on your hand, but he doesn't let it fall. Instead, he brushes his thumb lightly over your knuckles.

"But when you started taking those pills, I had to work hard to find you," he says quieter now, his voice almost thoughtful. 

"Every time I finally reached you, everything was too hazy. Like you’d fallen under a heavy curtain.”

As the Hatter's words settle over you, the weight of his gaze intensifies. His fingers, still gently wrapped around yours, twitch with a strange energy, almost as if he’s ready to pull you into the depths of some forbidden truth. His next words are low, almost as though he’s choosing them carefully.

“I’m afraid that Wonderland isn't the only place you've been connected to, my dear,” he says, his voice both soft and heavy with meaning. “The things you’ve seen... they’re not just figments of your imagination.”

You freeze at the mention of the monsters, the creatures you’ve glimpsed through the corners of your eyes, the ones lurking just beyond the edges of your consciousness in the real world. You had thought they were just shadows, illusions that came from too much stress, too many fears. But now, standing in the wreckage of his house, surrounded by the wreckage of your own thoughts, the idea of them being real doesn’t feel so impossible.

“You mean..?” You start hesitant.

The Hatter watches you carefully, reading your reaction, before continuing.

"They're real. Not the way you see them in your world, but they exist just the same. They’ve been... hunting you."

You swallow hard, trying to make sense of this. You want to question him, to demand answers to every part of this nightmare. But something in his eyes stops you, a silent warning that there's more to all of this than you can comprehend.

"The pills your parents gave you," he says, his voice sharp now. "They weren’t meant to heal you. They were meant to keep you blind. They numbed you, kept you from seeing the truth, kept you from seeing them."

Your heart skips a beat. You recall the strange, terrifying creatures you had glimpsed when you dared to look outside the boundaries of your normal life. A flicker of something unnatural darting across your field of vision, shadows in the corners of your room, the whisper of something just beyond the veil of reality. Those things, they had been real, and the pills had shielded you from them.

You open your mouth to speak, but the words catch in your throat. What could you possibly say? The Hatter isn’t just talking about a fairy tale anymore.

He leans in, his breath warm on your skin. “They’ve been following you. Watching you. Waiting for the moment you stopped taking the pills, when you let your mind wander again.”

He pulls away just enough to look at you with a knowing expression. “You thought you were losing control, but what you were really doing was letting them in. The pills you took, they suppressed them for a while but they were lurking for the perfect moment to come back. The moment you let go of that crutch your parents gave you, you opened the door again. And they’ve been pushing through ever since.”

The ground beneath your feet shifts again, as if something unseen is stirring beneath the surface, pulling at your thoughts. You instinctively step closer to the Hatter, the only person here who seems to understand what’s happening.

“You’ve been marked,” he continues, his voice now a soft, eerie whisper. “You’re tied to both worlds. This world and your own. But something’s happening, something strange. The rift between them is opening wider. And you’re standing right in the middle of it.”

For the first time since you arrived in Wonderland, a real sense of urgency overtakes you. The Hatter’s earlier calm has cracked, and now you see the depths of his fear.

“You don’t understand yet, do you?” he mutters. “You were never just dreaming. What you saw.. the things that stalked you in the corners of your mind.. they’re part of this. Part of them. They’re as real as I am, and they’re closer than you think.”

The walls of the house groan again, but it’s not just the building, it feels like the world itself is groaning, aching as something begins to shift around you both.

The Hatter pulls you toward him, his grip tightening around your wrist. His eyes flicker to the darkened corners of the room, his expression unreadable but tense. “I think they’re here.”

You open your mouth to ask who they are, but before you can speak, the world distorts again. The ground shifts beneath your feet. The air grows thick, suffocating, and a loud, blood-curdling screech echoes through the house.

The Hatter’s eyes flash with recognition. His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “We have to leave. Now.”

But before you can even process what he means, a shadow emerges from the darkness. It’s large, shifting unnaturally, its form distorting as though reality can’t quite contain it. It’s humanoid in shape but twisted, its limbs too long, its body jagged and broken, like something that’s never meant to be.

“Oh my god..” the words escape in a breathless, horrified gasp.

Your heart races, the reality of what the Hatter’s been saying crashing down around you.

“What… What the hell is that?” you manage to whisper, voice trembling.

The Hatter’s eyes harden as he steps in front of you, his hands raised, his body tense. “It’s a Keeper. One of the things that’s been hunting you.”

The creature lets out another screech, and the floor beneath you shakes as it moves toward you, each step a promise of something far more dangerous than anything you’ve ever faced.

"You must focus," the Hatter growls, turning to face you with wild eyes. "The only way we’ll survive this is if you let go of your fear. It’s the only thing they can smell.”

You blink, the air growing colder. The Keeper steps closer, its form rippling like it’s made of smoke, yet the fear it emits is as tangible as any weapon.

The Hatter’s voice drops again, softer this time, almost pleading. “You need to fight it. Focus on what’s real. Fight them, or they’ll consume both of us.”

Your breath quickens. The world feels like it’s collapsing again, but the Hatter’s words stay with you. 

The Keeper's screech rips through the air like nails on a chalkboard, vibrating through your chest as the creature's distorted limbs extend toward you. Its long, jagged fingers scrape against the floor, a sickening sound that makes your skin crawl. The Hatter moves fast, shoving you aside just as the Keeper lunges, its mouth opening wide, revealing rows of teeth too sharp to be real.

You barely manage to steady yourself as the Hatter’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you toward a doorway that’s now barely visible through the growing dark. The Keeper follows, its movements frantic and unnatural. Each time its foot strikes the ground, the very house seems to buckle and tremble, the walls groaning as if they, too, are afraid of the creature's presence.

“Move!” the Hatter orders, his voice sharp and urgent. His grip tightens, pulling you with him down a narrow hall that seems to stretch on forever, the door to the outside world just a few feet away. You can hear the Keeper’s screeches growing closer, its presence a suffocating weight in the air, pressing in on you both from all directions.

You trip, stumbling over your own feet as the world around you starts to warp, flickering like a broken film reel. The walls shift and sway, becoming less like solid objects and more like shadows themselves, as if the very structure of reality is coming undone.

"Focus! Focus!" the Hatter yells, his voice strained but insistent. His hand slams into a wooden panel, triggering a hidden door that swings open just in time. He shoves you through, barely avoiding the Keeper's claws as they swipe toward you, missing by a hair.

The air on the other side is colder, heavier, and for a moment, you're disoriented. But the Hatter doesn’t stop. He grabs you by the arm again, dragging you down a steep, winding staircase that seems to go on endlessly. Each step echoes in your ears like a drumbeat, too loud and too fast, blending with the distant, echoing shrieks of the Keeper above.

The Keeper’s screech rips through the air again, louder this time, a harrowing sound that shudders through your very bones. The ground beneath your feet trembles, as if the earth itself is breaking apart. The Hatter yanks you forward, but before you can process what’s happening, he shoves you into a small, hidden alcove in the stone walls. It's barely wide enough for the two of you to fit and it’s dark.. too dark to see but you can feel the air thick with the scent of dust and something ancient.

The Hatter’s breath is sharp and quick, his chest rising and falling as his hand instinctively moves to your head, pressing gently but urgently as if to keep you still, to keep you quiet. His fingers are warm against your scalp, grounding you as you press your back to the rough stone behind you, heart pounding in your throat. 

The Keeper's screech rends the air once more, a sound so unnatural, so inhuman, that it feels as if the world itself is screaming. It claws at your mind, leaving a cold, suffocating pressure in your chest. The darkness around you seems to thicken, suffocating, pressing in from every direction. You can feel the air grow colder, and every muscle in your body tenses, ready to flee, but you can't move. You're trapped.

The Hatter’s hand on your head is the only thing anchoring you. His fingers splay wide, digging into your scalp, holding you in place. His body is trembling against yours, but his grip doesn’t falter. He’s too close, but you don’t dare pull away. The fear in the air is so thick, you feel like you might choke on it. His breath is shallow, but steady, as though he’s trying to hold onto control, for both of you.

You hear the scrape of claws against stone, closer now. Too close. The Keeper’s presence is overwhelming, its unnatural breath a foul stench that fills the narrow space between you and it. You don’t dare move, don’t dare make a sound. Every part of you is screaming to flee, to run, but the terror holding you in place is like iron chains.

The Hatter’s voice is a sharp whisper, barely audible against the pounding of your own heartbeat. “Don’t make a sound. Don’t move.”

“Don’t make a sound, please” he breathes, his voice barely audible, a warning laced with urgency. “If it hears us... if it knows we’re here…”

You nod quickly, your throat tight with the panic choking you. The Keeper’s presence is suffocating, like a storm gathering overhead, ready to crash down. The air around you grows thick, each breath harder to take, and the longer you stay still, the more you feel like you might suffocate. But the Hatter’s hand remains firm, unyielding, keeping you in place. His body shakes with fear, but he doesn’t pull away. Not yet.

The Keeper’s claws scrape again, this time right outside the alcove. You can hear its breathing, wet and ragged, like something ancient and wrong. It’s so close now, you can almost feel the heat of its breath on your skin, like it’s inspecting every inch of the space, searching for any sign of life. You hold your breath, praying it doesn’t find you, praying it doesn’t sense you.

The silence stretches, unbearable, oppressive. Then, just as you think you can’t take it any longer, you hear it, the faintest sound of movement. The Keeper is retreating, but you don’t dare exhale, don’t dare let your guard down. The Hatter’s grip tightens once more, his fingers digging into your scalp with a silent command.

“Now,” he hisses, his voice low and strained. “We go. Now.”

You don’t question him. The terror that has been boiling in your chest finally bursts into action, and you stumble backward, trying to move without making a sound, your feet feeling like they’re stuck in mud. The darkness around you feels heavier with every step and you can feel the walls closing in, the house itself pressing in on you, trying to trap you in its twisted labyrinth. Every creak, every shift of the wood, every groan of the stone beneath your feet feels like a warning, like the house is alive, awake, and hungry.

The Hatter pulls you along, his grip never loosening, his pace quickening. You move faster now, your heart pounding in your chest, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The door is within sight now, the only escape, the only hope. But as you approach, the ground shifts beneath you, the very foundation of the house groaning as though it’s alive, enraged.

The Keeper’s screech echoes through the space, a horrible, shrieking wail that shakes the very air. It’s coming back, faster than you anticipated. The door is right there, but you know you don’t have much time. The Keeper is closer, and it’s moving toward you with terrifying speed.

With a surge of panic-fueled strength, the Hatter shoves you through the door, his body crashing into yours as you both tumble into the night air. You gasp, tasting the freedom in the cool night air, but you don’t stop. You can hear the Keeper’s clawed feet scraping the ground behind you, its breath coming in sharp, wet bursts. You push forward, your legs burning with every step.

The door slams shut behind you both but it’s not enough. The Keeper is still out there, still hunting. The fear gnaws at your insides, making your chest tighten, but you don’t look back. The Hatter’s hand grips yours tightly and you both run, faster, harder, as the sounds of the house and the Keeper’s screeches begin to fade.

It isn’t long before your legs give way and you both collapse to the ground, bodies trembling with exhaustion and fear. You land hard on your knees, the cold, damp earth biting into your skin, but you hardly notice. Every part of you feels like it’s still running, still trying to escape the Keeper’s suffocating presence, though it’s no longer pressing down on you.

The Hatter’s arm catches you as you fall, pulling you close and twisting his body to shield yours instinctively. He lowers both of you to the ground, one hand cradling your head, the other clutching your arm as if afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His breaths come fast and shallow, each one ragged with panic.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The world around you is eerily quiet, the only sounds your gasps for air and the faint rustling of the wind through the trees. The Keeper’s screech is gone now, but the echo of it lingers in your mind, clawing at your thoughts like a phantom.

The Hatter leans his head forward, his forehead pressing against yours as he mutters something under his breath, a string of words you can’t make out, too soft and broken to follow. His grip on you tightens, grounding both of you in the stillness of the night.

“You’re okay,” he finally whispers, his voice trembling as though trying to convince himself. “We’re okay. For now.”

You swallow hard, trying to push down the knot of fear that still clings to your chest. “Is it gone?”

His head shifts slightly, his eyes scanning the darkness behind you both. For a long, tense moment, he doesn’t answer, his gaze flicking from shadow to shadow, as if expecting the Keeper to lunge out at any second. But then he exhales, the sound shaky and uneven.

“Not gone,” he says softly. “Just waiting.”

The words send a chill down your spine, but you force yourself to focus on the here and now. The Keeper may still be hunting, but you’ve escaped its immediate reach, for the moment, at least.

The Hatter pulls back slightly, his hands still on your shoulders, his wide, frantic eyes meeting yours. There’s fear there, yes, but also something stronger, a determination that refuses to break. “We can’t stay here,” he murmurs. “It’ll find us if we stop for too long.”

You nod, though every muscle in your body aches and begs for rest. “I know.”

With a groan of effort, he gets to his feet, pulling you up with him. The two of you stand there for a moment, swaying slightly, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you both. The cool night air brushes against your skin, and you take a deep breath, savoring the small relief of being outside, away from the suffocating grasp of the house.

“Which way?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

The Hatter hesitates, glancing around at the endless stretch of darkness surrounding you. His grip on your hand tightens, and a faint, grim smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Forward,” he says simply. “Always forward.”

And so, with your heart still racing and your body screaming for rest, you let him lead you onward, into the unknown. You don’t know where you’re going and you don’t know what’s waiting for you out there, but you trust him. For now, that’s enough.

You never asked for this life. Hydra had ripped you from everything you once knew, forced you into servitude and trained you to be their medic. It wasn’t a choice, it was survival. Day after day, you treated their soldiers, patched them up after brutal missions and erased the evidence of Hydra’s violence. Each new wound you sewed shut felt like another chain tying you to this cold, unrelenting place.

And then, there was the Winter Soldier.

When you first saw him, you thought he was just like the others, a weapon Hydra used and discarded, a tool without a soul. He rarely spoke and when he did, his voice was low and empty, devoid of anything human. His piercing gaze was cold enough to freeze you in place and the silence that followed him was oppressive. He frightened you at first, a living reminder of how dangerous this world was. But as time passed, you started to notice things about him.

You noticed the way his body would tense every time you touched his metal arm, how his jaw would tighten when you stitched a particularly deep wound, or the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. His eyes weren’t empty, they were filled with pain. Beneath the cold, detached mask Hydra had forced on him, there was a man struggling to survive. And somewhere along the way, he became more than just another soldier to you.

You started speaking to him softly while you worked, even when he didn’t respond. You gave him water when he came in exhausted and stayed with him longer than you should have, knowing Hydra would punish you if they caught you lingering. He never said much, but the way he looked at you started to change. The coldness in his eyes melted into something softer, something almost vulnerable.

What you didn’t realize was that those moments meant everything to him. You were the only light in his otherwise dark existence. The only person who saw him as more than a weapon. You weren’t just tending his wounds, you were giving him hope, even if neither of you fully understood it. He couldn’t tell you what he felt, Hydra would destroy you both if they found out, but it was there, buried deep in his fractured mind.

Then, one night, everything changed.

The alarms started blaring, their shrill cries cutting through the silence of the base. You sat frozen in your quarters as the walls shook with the force of explosions. The distant sound of gunfire grew closer, louder. You didn’t know what was happening, but it didn’t matter. You were unarmed, helpless, and there was nowhere to run.

Before you could even think of hiding, your door slammed open.

Winter stood in the doorway, his chest heaving and his hair wild around his face. His metal arm caught the dim light, and his expression was sharper than you’d ever seen it.

“We need to leave. Now” he said, his voice low and urgent.

“Leave?” you stammered, staring at him in shock. “What’s going on? Is Hydra under attack?”

“It doesn’t matter. The base is compromised and Hydra won’t recover from this. But we’re not staying to find out how it ends.” He stepped closer, his intense gaze pinning you in place. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Your heart pounded as you tried to process his words. “Winter…”

“You trust me, don’t you?” he interrupted, his voice softening for just a moment. His eyes searched yours, desperate for an answer.

Did you trust him? The man Hydra had turned into a weapon, the man who had been both your patient and your silent protector? You didn’t need to think about it.

“Yes” you whispered. “I trust you.”

Relief flashed across his face, though it was gone just as quickly. He reached out, his metal fingers brushing against your arm. “Good” he said firmly. “Stay close to me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Before you could reply, he pulled you into motion. The hallways were chaos, soldiers running in every direction, flames licking the walls, and debris raining from the ceiling. Winter moved with purpose, his grip on your arm steady and unyielding. You stayed close to his side, dodging falling beams and ducking past Hydra agents who barely noticed you in the chaos.

“Where are we going?” you asked breathlessly as you ran to keep up with him.

“Out” he said simply. “There’s a route I know. It’s not safe, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.”

You didn’t ask how he knew it, you didn’t need to. He’d always seemed to know the layout of the base better than anyone else. You let him guide you, trusting him with every step, every turn.

At one point, you stumbled, nearly falling as the ground shook beneath you. His metal arm shot out, wrapping around your waist to steady you. For a moment, his hand lingered, his grip protective. And it feeled so good.

“I’ve got you” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the chaos around you.

When you finally reached the edge of the base, the cold night air hit your face like a shock. Outside, the stars shone above, untouched by the destruction you’d left behind.

You turned to Winter, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. “What now?”

“We keep moving” he said, scanning the dark horizon. “Somewhere far away. Somewhere Hydra can’t find us.” He looked at you, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “We’ll be free.”

Free. The word felt foreign, almost impossible. But when you looked at him, you believed it. You nodded, stepping closer to him.

“I’m with you,” you said.

Something shifted in his expression, something raw and unspoken. He nodded, his resolve hardening again.

“Let’s go!” he said, and together, you disappeared into the night, leaving Hydra and the ghosts of your past behind.

__________________________________

The night was endless as you ran, the cold air biting at your skin and the weight of your decision pressing down on you. Every step away from the Hydra base felt unreal, as if the ground beneath you might give way and drag you back into the nightmare you’d just escaped. Winter led the way, his movements purposeful, his grip on your arm steady.

The sound of explosions and shouting from the base gradually faded into the distance, replaced by the quiet crunch of your footsteps against the frozen earth. Neither of you spoke, but there was a tension between you, an unspoken urgency that kept you moving.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Winter stopped. He scanned the dark forest surrounding you, his sharp eyes catching every flicker of movement, every shadow that didn’t belong. Satisfied you were alone, he turned to you.

“We’ll rest here” he said, his voice low but firm.

You nodded, too exhausted to argue. Your legs felt like lead, and your lungs burned from the cold air. As you leaned against a tree, you watched him pace the clearing, always alert, always ready for danger. He was like a coiled spring, his body tense, his eyes constantly scanning.

“Winter,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He froze at the sound of his name, then turned to face you. “What?”

“Are we safe?”

“For now” he said, though his tone didn’t offer much reassurance. “But Hydra won’t stop. They’ll come after us when they realize we’re gone.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. “Then why did you do this?”

His gaze softened, and for the first time, he hesitated. The cold, detached soldier you’d come to know seemed to waver, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.

“I couldn’t leave you there” he said finally, his voice low. “Not with them. Not after everything…” He trailed off, looking away as if the words were too heavy to say out loud.

Your chest tightened. He had risked everything, his life, his freedom, to save you. The man Hydra had turned into a weapon had chosen to defy them, not for himself, but for you.

“You could’ve escaped on your own” you said, stepping closer to him. “You didn’t have to come for me.”

“I did” he said, his voice firm. He looked at you then, his blue eyes intense and unwavering. “I couldn’t leave without you.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, the cold and the danger faded away. All you could see was him, this broken, haunted man who had fought so hard to protect you.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice trembling.

He nodded once, then turned his attention back to the forest. “Get some rest. We’ll move again before dawn.”

You wanted to protest, to ask him if he would rest too, but you knew he wouldn’t. Winter didn’t trust the quiet, didn’t trust the stillness. So you sat down at the base of the tree, pulling your coat tighter around you as you tried to fight the cold.

As you closed your eyes, you felt him nearby, his presence a silent reassurance. He stayed close, his metal arm glinting faintly in the moonlight as he kept watch.

The hours passed slowly, the forest alive with the faint rustle of leaves and the distant call of animals. When you finally opened your eyes, the sky was beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn creeping through the trees. Winter was still standing, his back to you, his body rigid as he scanned the horizon.

“You didn’t sleep” you said, your voice hoarse from the cold.

“I don’t need much” he replied without turning around.

“You should’ve woken me” you said, standing and brushing the frost from your clothes.

He finally looked at you, his expression unreadable. “You needed it more.”

There was no arguing with him, so you simply nodded. “What’s the plan now?”

“We keep moving” he said. “There’s a safe house I know of. It’s not much, but it’ll give us time to figure out what’s next.”

“Do you trust it?” you asked, your voice hesitant.

“I trust what I’ve seen” he replied. “Hydra doesn’t know about it.”

His tone left no room for doubt, so you followed him as he led the way deeper into the forest.

The trek was grueling, the cold biting at your skin and the weight of the unknown pressing down on you. But through it all, Winter stayed by your side, his presence a steady reassurance.

Finally, as the sun began to climb higher into the sky, you saw it, a small, dilapidated cabin hidden among the trees. It looked abandoned, the wood weathered and the windows cracked, but to you, it was a haven.

Winter approached it cautiously, checking the perimeter before nodding to you. “It’s safe” he said.

You stepped inside, the warmth of the enclosed space a welcome relief from the biting cold. It wasn’t much, just a single room with a rickety bed, a wood stove, and a few scattered supplies, but it felt like freedom.

As Winter closed the door behind you, you turned to face him. “What now?” you asked, your voice quiet.

“Now we rest” he said, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since you’d left the base. “And then we figure out where to go from here.”

You nodded, sitting down on the edge of the bed. For the first time in years, you felt a spark of hope, a chance at a life beyond Hydra.

And as Winter sat down across from you, his gaze softening as it met yours, you realized you weren’t facing it alone.

________________________________

The snow fell heavily outside the cabin, the wind howling through the forest like a distant cry. It had been weeks since you and Winter fled Hydra, but the fear of being found still clung to you like a shadow. Yet, within these walls, there was peace. A fragile, tentative peace that neither of you fully trusted but both desperately needed.

Winter sat by the fire, sharpening a knife with methodical precision. His metal arm glinted in the firelight, and his face was set in a hard, focused expression. He rarely spoke unless it was necessary, but in the weeks since your escape, his presence had become a constant.

You watched him from across the room, your fingers busy weaving together scraps of cloth you’d scavenged from old supplies. He didn’t ask what you were doing, but you caught him glancing at you more often than usual.

“Winter” you said softly, breaking the quiet.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours.

“What?”

“Do you remember Christmas?”

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he looked almost confused.

“Christmas?”

“Yeah. You know, the decorations, the tree, gifts… all of it.”

He shook his head slightly, his expression darkening. “I remember… bits and pieces. A tree. Lights. But it’s like looking through fog. Nothing clear.”

You felt a pang of sadness. Hydra had taken so much from him, stripping away not just his freedom but his memories, his sense of self.

“Well” you said, trying to sound cheerful, “maybe we can make some new memories.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Here? In the middle of nowhere?”

“Why not?” you said with a small smile. “It doesn’t have to be fancy. Just… something to remind us that we’re still human. That we can still find some good in all of this.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on you, something softening in his expression.

That night, while Winter went out to check the perimeter, you got to work. You didn’t have much to work with, but you made do. You used pine branches to create a wreath, hung scraps of fabric from the walls like garlands, and even carved a small star out of wood for a makeshift tree you’d cobbled together from fallen branches.

By the time Winter returned, the cabin looked transformed, simple but warm. The fire cast a golden glow over the decorations, and the air smelled faintly of pine.

He stopped in the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the room. “What is this?”

“It’s Christmas” you said, stepping forward nervously. “Or as close as we can get to it.”

For a long moment, he just stood there, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“You did all this?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You nodded. “I thought it might… help. Give us something to hold onto.”

He walked over to the small tree, his metal hand reaching out to touch the wooden star at the top. His movements were slow, almost reverent.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I wanted to” you said. “After everything we’ve been through, we deserve a little bit of light. Even if it’s just for one night.”

He turned to look at you then, and there was something in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. Not gratitude, exactly, but something deeper.

“It’s… nice” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Thank you.”

You smiled, relief washing over you. “Merry Christmas, Winter.”

He hesitated, then stepped closer to you, his metal hand hovering near yours. “Merry Christmas” he said softly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the wind howled outside, but here, in this small, makeshift sanctuary, everything felt still.

Without thinking, you reached out and took his hand, his flesh one. He tensed at first but didn’t pull away. Slowly, his fingers closed around yours, warm and steady.

“We’ll make it” you said, your voice firm. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

He nodded, his grip tightening slightly. “Together.”

The two of you stood there in the quiet glow of the fire, the makeshift Christmas tree casting long shadows against the walls. It wasn’t much, but it was enough… a small reminder that even in the darkest moments, there was still room for hope, for connection, for something more.

“I wanted to give you a reason to believe,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He took a small step closer, then another close enough now that you could feel the faint chill of his metal arm and the steady warmth radiating from his other side. His eyes softened, and he hesitated for a moment, as if wrestling with some invisible force.

Then, slowly, he leaned in. His movements were careful, deliberate, as though he wasn’t quite sure if this was allowed, if he could have this.

His lips brushed your cheek first, a light, tentative touch that made your breath hitch.

Then, before you could fully process it, he shifted ever so slightly, planting the faintest, softest kiss near the corner of your mouth.

It was barely a kiss, a whisper of contact, but it sent a wave of warmth through you that chased away the cold of the winter night. He lingered there for a heartbeat longer, his breath mingling with yours, before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

“I… I’m sorry if that…” he started, his voice faltering.

“Don’t apologize” you said quickly, your own voice trembling as you reached up to gently touch his face. “Don’t.”

He searched your face for a moment, as if trying to understand what you were thinking. Then, with a small, almost shy nod, he relaxed under your touch.

“Thank you” he said softly, his voice barely audible. “For this. For everything.”

And for the first time in years, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you were both finally free.

Inside the dimly lit tent, Elrond sat tense yet composed, his gaze fixed on the unsettlingly calm Adar. The distant crackle of fires and orcish murmurs filled the night outside, but his thoughts were solely on Galadriel, held captive nearby, as you and two elven guards stood watch behind him.

“You must release her,” Elrond demanded, his voice low but edged with urgency. “This fight is between us. She has no part in it.”

Adar’s lips curled into a bitter smile, his scarred face barely illuminated by the firelight. “No part? She is woven into the very fabric of this world's decay, just like you, Herald. Her light dims as the shadow rises.”

Elrond stepped forward, eyes hardening with resolve. “You may have twisted your own kind, poisoned them with your hatred, but you will not break her spirit.”

Adar stood slowly, leaning closer, his voice a dark whisper. “Spirit does not survive the darkness, Elf. It withers, like everything else.”

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, but Elrond remained a pillar of strength. “Not her. You underestimate what endures in the light.”

Adar’s eyes narrowed, his smile fading as silence filled the space between them. “Give me the Ring and we can finish Sauron.”

“It would be a foolish act to bring it here,” Elrond replied, his voice serious.

“You are a couturier. More suited to wielding a scroll than a sword,” Adar mocked.

“You’ve never seen me wield either,” Elrond countered.

Your eyes watch both discuss and then Your eyes flicker to your dear friend Galadriel.

Your form is mostly hidden under the cloak.

When she spoke, Adar immediately ordered, “If she speaks again, cut her tongue.”

You and the guards stiffened, hands instinctively moving to your sword handles, a strand of your hair slips from the cloak.

He lets his eyes move back to Elrond.

Elrond watched you intently, silently communicating a warning to keep your composure. His gaze flitted back to Adar, his expression stern and tense, his hands clenching into fists.

Adar leaned on a pole, eyes flickering to you, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “She’s quiet,” he drawled. “A rare quality in these lands.”

Elrond tensed further, anger flickering across his face. “Leave her out of this, Adar.”

Adar's eyes flicker back to Galadriel.

Under the intense gaze of Adar, Galadriel's eyes met his, a storm of defiance and anger burning within them. Adar let out a small chuckle, seemingly satisfied with the reaction.

As Adar walks, a pendant slips out from beneath his clothes, catching your eye.

The pendant, an unusual piece of jewelry, had your curiosity piqued. Adar had turned his attention back to Elrond, seemingly unaware of the item that had slipped out.

“That pendant…. who gave it to you?” The question lands with a weight that leaves little room for an answer.

The Pendant displays a trio of purple, blue, and green stones, seamlessly arranged and etched with intricate elven runes, exuding an air of mystical elegance.

The moment your voice cut through the tense air, Adar's eyes flickered towards you, his face hardening as he became aware of your attention on the pendant. He quickly shoved it back into his clothes, but the damage was done.

"It is none of your concern," he responded gruffly, his fingers still lingering on his chest, where the pendant was hidden.

"It's a rare elven Pendant and clearly doesn't belong to an Orc. From whom did you took that." You snarl.

It looks like the one you have made centuries ago. Could it be your's?

A brief flash of surprise crossed Adar's face as your words hit their mark. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face tensing as he contemplated how to respond.

"It was a... gift," he finally replied, his voice low and guarded. "From an old friend.”

You scoff, about to step forward, but Elrond’s hand catches your arm, grounding you. “Remember, we’re here for Galadriel,” he murmurs, steadying your resolve. With a quiet sigh, you hold back, though the curiosity in your gaze remains sharp.

Adar watched the interplay between you and Elrond, his expression guarded.

"Enough," Elrond said, his voice firm. "We're here to discuss the terms of Galadriel's release. Nothing else.”

Adar's eyes flicked between you and Elrond, his gaze lingering on you both. He took a few steps closer, studying the two of you.

"And what makes you think I'd let my prisoner go so easily?" he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Adar continued "You don't have the ring I want. I see no reason to give Galadriel back to you.”

Elrond took a moment to process Adar’s words, his expression hardening with resolve.

"We cannot give you the Ring," he said firmly. "It is not an object to be used for trades and exchanges.”

Adar let out a bitter laugh at that comment.

"Ah, the honorable Elf. Always righteous, even in defeat," he taunted. "But you forget, this War isn't about honor. It's about survival.”

“If you have no intention of setting her free, then grant them a moment for a proper farewell,” you state.

Adar paused his gaze flickering between you and Elrond, weighing your words. After a long moment, he waved a hand dismissively.

"Very well," he said grudgingly. "Let them say their goodbyes.”

———————————————————

You and Elrond exited the shadowy tent, the cool night air a welcome relief from the suffocating atmosphere within.

His face was drawn with concern, eyes cast downward as you walked silently beside him.

With the guards, you made your way away from the Orc camp.

Soon after, you settled into a tent at the elven camp, where Elrond soon walked in.

You sat quietly in the simple elven tent, the silence broken only by the rustle of fabric and the quiet breathing of the guards stationed outside.

As Elrond entered the tent, his usually composed face now lined with tension and worry. He sat down across from you, his eyes meeting yours, a wealth of unspoken thoughts reflected in them.

Elrond glanced at you, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes as he realized you had momentarily lost sight of Galadriel’s plight, distracted by the pendant Adar wore.

His gaze searched yours, revealing his concern. He knew you well enough to notice how your attention had shifted, captivated by the pendant instead of focusing on Galadriel's fate.

"You focused more on the pendant than Galadriel," he said quietly, his voice betraying a hint of frustration.

“Galadriel is safe. You gave her the key along with your farewell kiss, so she’ll be here shortly.”

Elrond let out a surprised huff at your comment, his frustration replaced by a touch of amusement. "You're more confident in my tactics than I am," he replied, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

You slightly chuckle. "You are smart, Elrond. You should have more thrust in yourself.”

Elrond's smirk softened at your words, a hint of warmth in his eyes. "Coming from you, that's quite the compliment," he said, the teasing tone back in his voice. "You've always believed in my abilities more than I have myself.”

The atmosphere between you and Elrond shifted slightly, the tension from earlier melting away in the quiet tent. Elrond leaned back, his gaze softening further as he looked at you.

"Speaking of sharp minds," he said with a touch of wry humor. "You're awfully interested in that pendant.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you reply.

Elrond raised an eyebrow at your denial, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't play coy," he replied, his tone a tad playful. "I saw the look on your face when you first saw that pendant.”

"It's like it held some secret, some hidden meaning," he continued, watching your expression closely. "Why were you so intrigued by an orcish pendant, anyway?”

"That’s an Elven Pendant," you nearly spat.

Elrond's eyes widened slightly at your sudden vehemence. He leaned forward, the previous lightheartedness gone from his expression.

"How can you tell?" he asked, an edge in his voice. "And why does it anger you so much?”

"You can't dismiss it as a filthy orc pendant when it's clearly elven," you retort.

Elrond's surprise at your reaction to the pendant slowly morphed into understanding. 

"But why does it bother you so much?" he asked, more gently this time. "It's just a piece of metal and jewels. Why does it matter so much to you?”

“It’s more than just a chunk of metal or jewelry. I created it,” you say, a hint of pain in your voice at being reduced to something so simple.

Elrond's eyes went wide with shock, his composure slipping for a brief second, before it returned.

"You made it?" he echoed, disbelief and realization dawning on his face. "You made that pendant?”

"Tell me, are you slow on the uptake or what? I said I did make it, what's so difficult to understand about that?”

Elrond shot you a glare at the blunt jab to his intelligence, but he took a deep breath, collecting himself before replying.

"No, I'm not slow," he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I just can't believe that you, of all people..." he trailed off, his mind still sorting through the implications of your revelation.

"What? Make jewelry. That was centuries ago.”

"I know it was centuries ago," Elrond said, his voice growing more heated. "But you never told me you made jewelry before, and now you're suddenly upset that someone is wearing something you made?"

He stood up, beginning to pace the small space of the tent, his frustration growing with every step.

“Because I gave it to my husband,” you say, frustration creeping into your voice, unaware that you've just revealed something you had intended to keep hidden. The weight of your words lingers in the air, shifting the atmosphere between you.

Elrond's pacing came to an abrupt halt, your words freezing him on the spot. 

"Your husband?" he repeated, his voice a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "You were married?"

He turned to look at you, his gaze intense and searching.

“I... What?” you breathe out, struggling to process your own words. A mix of surprise and confusion washes over you, leaving you momentarily speechless.

Elrond stared at you, his mind swirling with questions and realizations. 

"You were married," he repeated, a note of incredulity in his voice. "You, the fierce warrior who has been by my side through countless battles and dangers, you never thought to mention having a husband in all that time?”

Your stunned silence confirmed his suspicion. Elrond let out a long breath, his expression shifting from disbelief to something more resembling hurt.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice quiet but filled with a mix of disappointment and confusion.

Your mind is racing but you don't get a word out.

Elrond sees the turmoil in your eyes, the struggle to find an explanation written all over your face. His expression softens slightly, but there's still a hint of betrayal in his eyes.

"How many years have we known each other? Fought together, bled together, shared meals and tales and laughter?" he asks quietly, still waiting for an answer.

"Almost 1800 years." You answer with a sigh.

Elrond falls silent for a moment, processing the magnitude of that number. 1800 years. More than a millennium of friendship, trust, and adventures together.

"1800 years," he echoes quietly. "And you never thought to mention a husband. Why?”

You look over at the fire.

Elrond's gaze follows yours to the flickering fire in the center of the tent. For a moment, there's a tense silence, filled only by the crackle of the flames.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions before inquiring further. “Who was he?”

You exhale softly, lost in thought.

“He was a strong elf, mischievous, but with a kind and gentle heart.”

“He had black hair that always caught the light, shimmering like polished obsidian in the sun.”

Elrond listens intently to your description, his face betraying a mixture of emotions as he pictured the mystery man.

"He sounds like an impressive individual," he says quietly, his eyes still fixed on the fire. "And yet I've never met him, nor have you ever mentioned him before.”

“I had a mission to complete, and before I left, I gave him the necklace as a parting gift. Then I set off from the village. When I returned after the mission, I found the village in ruins, completely destroyed.”

Elrond's expression darkened as you related the tragic tale of your return, destruction and loss where there should have been home and comfort.

"You came back to find everything gone?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nod. " I found my parents body, his parents  but not him.”

Elrond's expression was grave as he listened to your words. The pain of losing your loved ones was clear in your voice, your eyes distant as you remembered that day.

"You never found him?" he asked softly.

"no, not a glimpse”

Elrond reaches out, a subtle gesture of comfort, his hand gently touching your arm. There's a look of understanding in his eyes, a painful empathy for the loss you've suffered.

"Do you..." he begins, his voice hesitant. "Do you think he survived?”

“That could be possible. He was always stubborn. I suppose it’s possible he simply has amnesia and forgot me or something along those lines. It’s hard to believe he wouldn’t remember.”

A small flicker of hope crossed Elrond's face at your words. The possibility of a loved one lost, but still alive, igniting a spark of optimism.

"It's possible," he said, his voice holding a note of comforting encouragement. "People have survived worse, with their memories intact. And if he's as stubborn as you say, then he may yet be out there, somewhere, waiting to be found."

“It unsettles me to see Adar wearing his pendant,” you say, a knot forming in your stomach. “Every glance at it reminds me of what I’ve lost and the memories I wish I could erase.”

Elrond nodded, his mind returning to the original topic of discussion. The fact that Adar wore the pendant you made was clearly weighing heavily on your mind.

"It must have been a shock to see someone else wearing something so personal," he said quietly, understanding the depth of your emotions.

“I didn’t forget Galadriel, but when it fell from Adar’s clothes, I thought I had lost it for good,” you say, your voice laced with sorrow. 

Elrond listened intently, his expression a mixture of sympathy and understanding. He knew you well enough to know that your feelings were complicated and deeply personal.

"I understand," he said softly. "You didn't forget Galadriel, but seeing that pendant brought back memories, emotions long buried.”

"I think you both would have been good friends..”

Elrond gave a small, bittersweet smile at your heartfelt comment. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes as he responded.

"I agree," he said quietly. "If he were still here, I think we would have gotten along well. And Galadriel would have liked him too.”

For a few moments, Elrond and you sat in silence, both lost in your thoughts. The memory of your lost love hung in the air, a poignant reminder of what had been lost.

Finally, Elrond spoke up, his voice soft and gentle.

"Can I ask you something?” You nod. 

Elrond looks at you intently, his gaze full of unspoken questions and emotions.

"Why haven't you ever spoken about him?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. "All the time we've spent together, through battles, feasts, and quiet evenings, you've never once mentioned having a husband, a love who you lost.”

“First of all, you never asked, and second, I don’t want to dwell on it. I searched for centuries and still haven’t found him.”

Elrond listened to your reasons, his expression unreadable as he took in your words. 

"I never asked because I never realized," he said quietly. "You're my closest friend, my sister in arms, and yet you've kept this part of your life hidden. I don't blame you for searching, but..." he trailed off, his eyes filled with a mix of understanding and melancholy.

"All those centuries of searching must have been so difficult," he continued. "Did you ever think about giving up? Moving on and finding someone else?”

“Moving on? No, that would feel like a betrayal to his memory and everything we shared.”

Elrond nodded silently, understanding the depth of your loyalty and devotion. 

"It must have been lonely, though," he said quietly. "All those years, alone and searching…”

“He could be alive somewhere, still thinking of me, longing for me, and unable to find me. I can’t break the promise we made to each other without knowing for sure that he’s gone.”

Elrond's heart ached at the depth of your devotion to your lost love. The idea that he could still be out there, somewhere, remembering you, aching for you, touched a part of him that understood loss all too well.

"I admire your loyalty," he said softly, his voice filled with both respect and sadness. "But the odds of finding him, after all this time…”

“I don’t want to hear that,” you interrupted, frustration rising in your chest. “It feels like giving up on him, and I can’t do that.”

Elrond fell silent, realizing that his words, though driven by concern, were not what you wanted or needed to hear. He changed tact, his voice softer now.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just don't want to see you hurt any further. But I can see that your spirit is strong, your hope unbroken. I will not question your path any further.”

A bit later Galadriel walks into the tent.

Galadriel's slender figure appeared in the opening of the tent, her gaze immediately falling on you and Elrond. She looked tired but unharmed, a hint of relief present in her eyes.

Elrond stood up, greeting her with a warm smile, his worry for her evident in his expression.

“So, Elrond’s little farewell kiss actually worked...” you chuckle softly, recalling the key he had given her. It had proven invaluable, enabling her escape when she needed it most.

Elrond shot you a look, his cheeks reddening slightly at your teasing comment. Galadriel chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Yes, his little trick came in quite useful," she said, a hint of amused gratitude in her voice.

Elrond rolled his eyes at your playful banter, his cheeks still slightly flushed.

"Well, I'm glad it helped," he said, trying to maintain a hint of dignity. "But let's not make a habit of using my romantic overtures as a tactical maneuver, shall we?”

"Why not?" You slightly giggle amused and make place for Galadriel by the fireplace.

Elrond shot you a mock glare, his lips twisted into a half-smile despite himself.

"Because it's humiliating," he replied, a hint of mock seriousness in his voice. "I have a reputation to maintain as a leader, not a pawn to be used in escape plans."

Galadriel joined you by the fire, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

“You can be both a leader and someone who knows how to share a kiss.”

Elrond stifled a laugh at your impudent remark, his cheeks reddening slightly.

"Is that so? I suppose I might have to start a new strategy, then: using kisses as persuasive tactics in war councils," he said, his tone joking but with a hint of challenge.

You laugh. "Would be a surprise for them.”

Elrond chuckled, his earlier embarrassment giving way to a light-hearted banter.

"Yes, it certainly would," he agreed, "imagine a council of hardened warriors being left with a bunch of blushing fools after a particularly effective...tactical kiss.”

The image of a bunch of flustered warriors stammering and blushing after witnessing a strategic kiss was too much. All three of you shared a hearty laugh, the tension of the day momentarily forgotten in the warmth of the fire and friendly banter.

————————————————————

A few days later, you slip away from the elven camp, moving quietly into the orc camp undetected. You make your way into Adar’s tent, finding it empty. As your eyes scan the space, they land on the pendant, and you reach for it, studying its details closely.

The familiar sight of the pendant lying innocently on a small table sent a wave of emotions through you. The delicate craftsmanship, the intricate patterns, all spoke of a past you longed for and a love that still echoed in your heart.

You picked up the pendant, cradling it carefully in your hands. The cool touch of the metal against your skin felt strangely familiar, as if it was your own heartbeat against your fingertips.

"the same metal and stones.”

You turn the pendant over, your eyes going over every detail. The metal, the setting, the stones - they were all so familiar, so deeply ingrained in your memory.

"The same," you murmur softly, your voice filled with a mixture of wonder and nostalgia. "As if not a day has passed since I made it.”

Before you can react, a hand seizes your hair, and a dagger presses against your throat. Adar's gaze roams over you, assessing your presence.

Your heart jumps into your throat as you feel Adar's hand grip your hair, pulling you back against his chest. The cold steel of the dagger against your skin sends a shiver down your spine. You had been so focused on the pendant that you didn't hear him enter.

"What are you doing in my tent?" Adar's voice is low and dangerous, his breath hot against your ear. He tightens his grip on your hair, the dagger's edge digging slightly into your skin.

"aren't you seeing what I'm doing?”

"Yes, I am seeing what you are doing," Adar replies, his voice cold and menacing. He gives your hair a sharp tug, forcing you to look up at him. "You're sneaking around in my tent without permission.”

Your eyes meet his. "That's true..”

Adar's gaze locks onto yours, his expression a mix of curiosity and malice. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin as he speaks.

"And why, pray tell, are you sneaking around in here, looking at my things?”

"The pendant is mine.”

Adar's eyes narrow at your assertion, his grip on you tightening. He gazes down at the pendant in your hand, then up at your face, suspicion in his gaze.

"You're claiming ownership of this pendant?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“I am. I crafted it myself,” you reply, standing your ground despite the danger.

Adar's eyes widen slightly at your declaration, disbelief and intrigue flickering across his face. He gazes down at the pendant clutched in your fingers, the realization of your connection to it sinking in.

"You...made it?" he asks, his tone laced with a hint of surprise.

You draw your dagger, but Adar is quicker, forcing you to your knees and disarming you with ease. The sudden shift catches you off guard, and a startled gasp escapes your lips as your dagger clatters to the floor.

The pendant, once clutched tightly in your hand, tumbles onto the pillow, its fragile presence contrasting sharply with the tense power struggle unfolding between you.

Adar stands over you, his tall figure imposing in the dim light of the tent. He looks down at you, a mixture of anger and interest in his eyes.

"You have quite the nerve," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. "Sneaking into my tent, trying to claim a pendant as your own, and then pulling a blade on me?”

Adar watches you closely, his eyes taking in every detail of your expression. He can see the frustration in your eyes, the anger and defiance in your body language.

He crouches down next to you, his hand reaching out to grab your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"Look at me," Adar commands, his voice firm and authoritative. "You're in my tent, you tried to steal from me, and then you attempted to attack me. And all because of a pendant you say you made.”

“Hold it to the fire, and the inscription will become visible.”

Adar's eyes narrow as you mention the lettering, his interest piqued. He releases your chin, his gaze flickering to the pendant on the pillow.

"And what does this lettering say?" he asks, his voice suddenly intense.

“In the quiet whisper of the wind through the trees, you may find what my heart dares not speak aloud,” you reply, feeling Adar’s heart lift slightly as he recognizes the words he once heard centuries ago.

As your words float through the tent, Adar's eyes widen, a flicker of recognition passing over his face. The inscription, the words you uttered, hold a significance that can't be denied. It triggers something in him, a memory, a feeling he thought long buried.

Adar's gaze remains fixed on you, his expression cautious, as he holds the pendant over the fire. The metal warms against the flames, and slowly, the familiar lettering begins to become visible.

With each flicker of the fire, the words he once thought forgotten are slowly revealed.

Adar's breath hitches in his throat as he stares at the now-visible lettering, his hand beginning to shake slightly. The sight of the words, written by your own hand, stirs something deep within him, memories and emotions long suppressed bubbling to the surface.

“The pendant isn’t yours,” you declare.

Adar's gaze snaps from the pendant, back to you. There's a flicker of anger in his eyes, as if your words have somehow insulted him.

"And it doesn't belong to you either," he says, his voice quiet but tinged with irritation.

He holds the pendant up in front of your face, the letters now fully visible against the metal's surface.

"This pendant was made centuries ago, yet you claim to be its creator," he says, his voice laced with a strange mixture of curiosity and doubt. "How can I be sure you're telling the truth?”

Adar's gaze roams over your form, taking in every feature, every detail. There's a hint of recognition in his eyes, as if something about you seems both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

His eyes linger on your features - your hair, your beautiful eyes, your elvish ears, your pale skin, your cherry-red lips. Something about your look triggers a memory, a feeling he can't quite place.

He reaches out, his fingertips lightly tracing the edge of your ear. The touch is almost tender, his fingers exploring the shape, the texture, as if trying to confirm his own suspicions.

Adar's touch causes your ear to twitch slightly, a small reaction that doesn't escape his notice. A hint of a smile touches his lips, as if he finds this small detail somehow endearing.

He continues to explore, his fingers tracing over your cheek, your jaw, as if committing every feature to memory.  

"You look so familiar.." he murmurs, his voice betraying curiosity and a hint of wonder.

As he studies your face, his gaze intent, he slowly circles around you.  

"Very familiar.." he repeats, his voice quieter now, as if he's speaking more to himself than to you.

His eyes roam over your hair, your ears, your slender neck, and a frown of concentration forms on his face. Something about you is stirring memories, awakening something in his heart he thought long dead.

He stops in front of you once again, his eyes boring into yours. The expression on his face is a mix of confusion and realization, as if the pieces of a puzzle are slowly falling into place.  

"Who.. Who are you?" he asks softly, his voice holding a tremble of uncertainty.

“Y/n”

Adar's eyes widen ever so slightly as you give your name, your simple answer triggering something within him.  

"Y/n.." he repeats, your name rolling off his tongue like a long-forgotten melody. The sound of it seems to ignite something deep within him, stirring memories and feelings he'd thought lost to time.

"the pendant, how did it get into your hands?”

Adar's expression hardens at your question, his jaw clenching as if you've hit a nerve.

"That's none of your business," he snaps, his voice sharp. "It belongs to me, and I don't have to explain its origins to you.”

“It belonged to my husband,” you snap.

Adar's eyes narrow, his anger tinged with a hint of curiosity.

“Your husband?” he echoes, disbelief evident in his voice. “You’re claiming this pendant was his?”

“Yes, I gave it to him before I set out on a mission,” you assert firmly.

What neither of you realize is that this moment resonates with a deeper connection, Adar had received a pendant from his own beloved before she embarked on her journey, but neither of you recognizes the shared history that binds you.

As your words sink in, the realization of their significance hits Adar like a ton of bricks. The way you describe giving the pendant to your husband, just as he had received a similar piece from his own loved one, sets something off in his mind.

His eyes widen as the pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.

"Who.. What was your husband's name?" he asks, his voice suddenly shaky.

“Sytal”

Adar's heart seems to skip a beat as you say your husband's name.

"Sytal..." he repeats, the name rolling off his tongue like a long-lost song. Memories, feelings, and realization swirl in his eyes, the connection becoming more apparent with each word you utter.

He takes a step closer to you, his gaze intense, studying your face with an almost desperate look.

"Describe him, your husband," he demands, his voice taut with emotion.

You frown slightly.

“He had black hair that shimmered in the sunlight, and a scar on his right ear from when my arrow grazed him. His mind was sharp, a true warrior like me... Mischievous, gentle, and kind.”

A wave of nostalgia washes over you as you remember the moments you shared, each memory a bittersweet reminder of what you’ve lost.

As you describe your husband, Adar listens intently, his expression becoming more and more captivated.

Each trait you mention ignites a memory within him, each word drawing pictures in his mind's eye. The description of the scar on your husband's ear, the one caused by your own arrow, hits him hard, awakening an ache in his heart.

"I have been searching for him, since centuries and now you have his pendant.."

Adar's eyes flicker with a mixture of guilt, anger, and confusion. The realization that the pendant he has cherished for centuries belonged to your husband - the same man you have been searching for - creates a maelstrom of emotions in his chest.

His grip on the pendant tightens, his knuckles turning white as his own memories of his loved one flood his mind.

"Who gave it to you?" You ask again.

Adar hesitates for a moment, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Reluctantly, he speaks again, his voice low and heavy.

"A female. A Warrior," he begins, his words slow and measured as if the memory is painful to recall. "She gave it to me before she left on a dangerous mission. She said she would return.”

You slowly stand up from your kneeling position.

"Do you have her name or a nickname?”

As you rise to your feet, Adar tracks your movements closely, his eyes wary and conflicted. At your question, he falters for a moment, as if the memory stings.

“Her nickname...” he begins, his voice rough with emotion. “I called her... moonshine... She adored it.”

“Because she lit up like the moon whenever she saw you, right?” you add, a knowing smile tugging at your lips.

Adar's eyes widen slightly, your words hitting him with an unexpected force. It's like you had read his mind, like you know the very thoughts he had harbored in his heart.

"Yes.. that's exactly why.." he responds, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

You look at him and move closer. You know it's a bold move but you cub his face and look at his right pointed ear, having a hunch.

As you approach him, Adar tenses slightly, unsure of your intentions. But your touch is surprisingly gentle, your gaze focused on his ear. 

He doesn't pull away, instead he allows you to inspect his ear, his heart hammering against his chest.

The sight of the healed but unmistakable scar on Adar's ear makes your blood run cold. It's the same scar you had inflicted on your husband, a mark as unique as a fingerprint.

"The scar.." you murmur, your voice tight with emotion. "It's the same..”

You meet Adar's eyes. "Who destroyed our village, my love. Who killed our parents? Who was the one that took you away from me?”

Your words strike Adar like a dagger to his heart. They're filled with a mix of anger, accusation, but also love and sorrow.  

His eyes widen as he realizes the truth you're hinting at, the words catching in his throat.  

"How... How do you know-”

"You are my Sytal.." 

Adar's eyes are wide and disbelieving, his mind struggling to process the truth that's crashing down around him. He looks at you, really looks at you, truly seeing you for the first time.

Your eyes, the color of which he could never forget. The way you hold yourself, the familiar curve of your lips... it all resonates with him so deeply, it's like a part of his soul that's been lost is finally being returned.

But alongside the realization, there's a deep well of guilt and self-loathing.

"You were once an elf, right? Centuries ago?" 

Adar nods slowly, his expression still one of shock and disbelief.  

"Yes... I was once an elf. Before..." he hesitates, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Before I was made like I am now.”

"and your elven name, do you remember it..”

Adar's eyes flicker as he calls upon the distant memories of his past life. It's been centuries since he's dwelt on them, and it takes him a moment to retrieve the name he once held before he was... changed.

"My elven name..." he murmurs, the syllables of his long-forgotten name coming to his lips. "It was Sytal.”

"You are him.. you're really him..”

Adar nods slowly, a mix of guilt and heartbreak etched on his face.  

"Yes..." he whispers, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I am... I am him."

The weight of realization settles between you, the truth of your identities and shared past crashing over you both. Emotions churn through you, too overwhelming to bear. Your vision blurs, and before you can steady yourself, everything fades to black.

Adar’s eyes widen as you sway unsteadily, then collapse. Reacting instantly, he lunges forward, catching you before you hit the ground. His arms wrap protectively around you, and he gently lowers you, his hands cradling your head in his lap.

“No... no, no...” he murmurs, his voice filled with panic and regret. He strokes your hair, his heart racing as he gazes down at your unconscious face. Emotions he had buried for decades now break free, shock, guilt, worry, and an ache he can barely contain. The memory of who you were to him, who you still are, pierces through him, raw and real.

“I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking as he studies your face, taking in every familiar line and feature. Trembling, he lifts a hand to your cheek, his fingers brushing tenderly over your skin, as if hoping this touch could somehow bridge the years of separation, the pain he’s caused.

As he holds you, you stir slightly, a faint movement that sends a flicker of hope into his eyes. He cradles you closer, his hand cupping your face with a gentleness that belies his strength.

“Y/n...” he whispers, his voice soft and aching. “Can you hear me?”

As your eyes flutter open, Adar’s face comes into focus above you, his features softened by worry and a tenderness you recognize but thought you’d never see again. His hand rests against your cheek, as if assuring himself that you’re real, here, beside him.

“Y/n,” he breathes, barely above a whisper. You smile faintly, grounding yourself in his presence, and your gaze drifts down to something glinting at his chest, the pendant.

“You kept it?” you murmur, surprise and warmth mingling in your voice.

Adar’s expression falters, and he glances away, shame flickering across his face. “It was all I had left of you,” he admits, voice thick with regret. “But you… you’re unchanged, as beautiful as the day I last saw you. And I.." He hesitates, looking down at himself, the scars and hardened edges from years in darkness weighing heavily on him. “I don’t know if I’m the man you gave it to anymore.”

You tighten your hold on his hand, your voice gentle yet resolute. “Adar, you kept that pendant because you never let go of who you were. And I haven’t, either. You’re still the man I loved, no matter what time and the world tried to do to us.”

A tear slips down his cheek as he looks at you, both surprised and touched by your words. “But… you deserve more than this broken shell,” he whispers, the insecurity in his voice breaking your heart.

“Then let’s be whole together,” you say, reaching up to stroke his face, your thumb tracing a gentle line over the scarred skin. “I spent lifetimes longing to find you again. Nothing else matters to me now. Nothing.”

At this, his composure finally crumbles. With a soft, trembling breath, he pulls you into his arms, holding you as if anchoring himself in the storm of emotions. “I never stopped loving you,” he murmurs, his voice a mixture of awe and relief. “I never will.”

He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that feels like a promise, a reconciliation, a homecoming. The weight of all those years, all the missed moments, falls away.

Tonight, you and other recruits gathered around Sergeant Bucky Barnes in the armory as he demonstrated how to properly inspect a firearm. “You must always ensure that your gun is in functioning order.”  Bucky said as he pushed two fingers in and out of the empty mag of the marksman rifle, his fingertips making a languid rolling motion within the aperture to check for any defects. “Rack the bolt several times.” As  Bucky’s large and manly hands expertly handled the weapon, your thoughts were in the gutter.

You shake your head to organize your thoughts but it's almost impossible.

Bucky's deep, baritone voice interrupted your daydreaming when he said, "You never know when you'll be caught with your pants down in the field," as he turned away and started moving down the line towards you. You gulped as Bucky's hands rested on your shoulder, a faint blush dusting your face as you tried to maintain composure and focus on the firearm demonstration.

Your focus is abruptly torn away when  Bucky moves his hand to the hammer. As his fingertips gripped the hammer, you had to fight the instinct to squirm with how  Bucky's touch made your body tingle.  Bucky noticed this and decided it necessary to make a remark as he pushed down the hammer to demonstrate. "The hammer, when properly cocked, should not shake or jiggle,"

"Not shake or jiggle" you whisper and nod.

"Indeed,"  Bucky continued, pointing at the trigger, "Your trigger pull should be slow, consistent, and smooth." As he lifted his hand away,  Bucky took note of the way your gaze followed each movement of his strong, masculine hands.

You try to focus on Bucky's speech.

Bucky's hands moved towards the top handguard, turning the rifle sideways to allow inspection from the muzzle end. "Your weapon must also be clean."  Bucky pulled a cleaning rod from his drop-leg holster and poked it down the barrel to inspect the bore.

Bucky's hands ran through his hair as he continued to lecture, his fingers playing with his locks. Your gaze is drawn away from the lecture when  Bucky's hands start to fiddle with the straps of your vest, his thumb pushing into the Velcro, "And always keep your gear in good working order."  Bucky looked at you pointedly as he adjusted the strap over your left shoulder.

You nod a little bit embarrassed that you didn't put it properly on.

Though you tried to remain focused, every movement of the big Shield Soldier was simply mesmerizing to you. You felt your cheeks heat up again when  Bucky put a firm hand on your shoulder. "Are you still with me, recruit?" He asked, his voice full of authoritative confidence and power.

“Yes, sir.” Your voice firm.

Bucky nodded, his hand sliding down your arm. Your body tensed, your pulse racing as  Bucky's hand gilded downwards. The Soldier didn't seem to notice as he leaned in to look at your ear piece. "And finally, you must always maintain situational awareness."  Bucky adjusted your earpiece and whispered something in your ear.

"You've been listening well tonight."  Bucky's warm, raspy voice sent a shiver down your spine when he said this directly into your ear. He pulled away quickly and put his hands in his pockets, a faint smirk forming on his lips as he looked down the line to the next recruit.

As you look around. You can see that no one has seen the little interactions between you and the  Bucky.

No one seemed to have noticed, and the Sergeant looked unphased by the intimate moment. The recruits were still entranced by his demonstrations, their attention fixed on his skillful handling of the firearm. After a moment of silence,  Bucky barked, "Alright, that's all for tonight! Dismissed!"

You quickly pack up your items in preparation to be dismissed. As you were about to leave, Bucky called out for you to stay behind.

On his call. You stand still and wait for the others recruits to leave the room. 

The other recruits leave the room after being dismissed by the Sergeant, leaving you alone with the big Shield soldier in the empty armory. "Come here,"  Bucky said, calling over to you.

You walk up to Bucky, feeling a little nervous at the way he was looking at you. The Shield Soldier leaned on the work table, his broad, muscular body nearly filling the narrow space. Bucky's gaze remained fixated on you, his blue eyes burning into yours.

You stare back at Bucky, the close proximity between you and the big Soldier making your heart pound in your chest. The faint scent of gun oil and cigarette smoke filled your senses as  Bucky's blue eyes looked through you.

"Is something wrong? " you ask hesitant.

"I have something to tell you", Bucky said in a low, sensual voice, "And it's important that no one else hears." As Bucky looked down at you expectantly, your breath hitched in your throat.

"Okay" you nod.

Bucky leaned in closer, a faint blush spreading across his weathered face as his lips brushed your ear, "I want you." He whispered, "All of you." Though his words were direct, the tone of his voice made your heart skip a beat.

"uhh…." You say speechless.

Bucky continued to look down at you as he waited for a response, his intense blue eyes taking in every detail of your face. The big soldier's gaze was unrelenting as he continued to study you.

"Why?"

Bucky's eyebrows lifted slightly at your question. The big soldier remained quiet for a moment before he answered, "Because you're mine."  Bucky's words landed with a heavy weight in your stomach as he took a step towards you. His imposing presence made you shiver slightly.

You take a step back and your eyes lock with him.

Bucky's piercing gaze followed you as you took a step back. The big soldier took a step forward, pinning you between him and the table.  Bucky brought his hands to your arms and held you close, his hot breath caressing your neck. All you could do was swallow and nod.

"Maybe..... " You swallow and try to sort your thoughts " what about the other recruits?"

"I like you best,"  Bucky said, his hoarse voice filling your ears, "You're special to me." His hands shifted downwards towards your hips and his fingertips grazed your waist, "I want you to be mine."  Bucky pressed his lips to your neck as he said this, his big hands caressing your hips possessively.

"what when i don't want that?" you question confused.

"Don't think for a second that you don't love it."  Bucky pushed you against the worktable, your back pressed against its metallic surface as he leaned in. His lips kissed your ear and he whispered, "You want me. You need me." The big soldier's lips caressed your earlobe, his breath making your body tingle.

You breath quicken and your eyes flatter close. 

The big Shield Soldier stood back and looked into your eyes, his blue eyes smoldering with desire as he took in your flushed expressions. With a firm grip,  Bucky lifted you onto the worktable, his face move closer to yours.

"Sergeant " you whisper.

"Bucky," the soldier corrected, his lips never leaving yours, "Call me Bucky." As he brought his strong arms around your waist, "Only I get this from you."  Bucky brought you closer, his masculine body pushing you down on the worktable as his hands ran up and down your thighs.

Bucky used your vulnerable position on the worktable to keep you as close as possible as he brought his hands higher up your thighs. He squeezed and rubbed your soft skin, his raspy voice a mere whisper as he said, "You're so soft."

"You... You are so big " you stutter and nervously lick your lips.

Bucky chuckled as his lips left your ear and kissed your neck briefly. "That's why you love me," the big Shield soldier murmured, his grip tightening on your thighs. 

Then you heard footsteps and you froze 

Bucky stopped what he is doing and looked down at you.  When he heard the sound of footsteps, Bucky's body tensed and he moved quickly to cover you. "Shhh," he whispered, his eyes darting around the room as he tried to locate the source of the footsteps. As he tried to figure out who was approaching, his hands remained around your waist as he leaned down to whisper in your ear, "You're mine, remember that."

You nod slowly.

Bucky kept you close as he tried to listen past the heavy pounding of the blood inside his ears. His raspy breath was warm against your neck, as he kept his body flush against yours. Though your mind was running wild with possible scenarios,  Bucky was hyper-focused on the approaching footsteps, his blue eyes shifting between the various doorways entering the armory.

As he continued to listen to the approaching footsteps,  Bucky looked back down at you and whispered, "Stay calm."  Bucky kept his body over yours and his hand over your mouth. He remained tense as he listened intently to the footsteps, his mind racing with thoughts of who may be approaching. His head was slightly tilted, his neck muscles tightening as he waited to see who might walk through the doors.

Your instincts took over and you quickly pushed Bucky away. As  Bucky stumbled back, your eyes went wide when a pair of footsteps entered the room. "Hello, Sergeant," the woman spoke softly as her eyes swept the room, "What are you doing in here so late?" As the woman looked around the room, she did not notice you hiding under the worktable.

You close your eyes for a moment and relax. Then you follow the action again.

You opened your eyes shortly after the woman entered, your eyes darting between the two as the woman's voice tried to allure the big Shield soldier.

"Hello, Bucky," the woman said in a sultry voice as she moved closer to him, "I couldn't help but wonder what you were doing in here all by yourself? You were so busy with the recent recruit training, I didn't want to interrupt you." The woman moved closer to  Bucky, her hand touching his broad shoulder and her lips moving ever closer to his ear.

Your eyes widen slightly. 

Bucky's eyes fluttered with surprise as he stepped back from the woman's touch. As his mind tried to process what was happening, the woman pressed her body against his and whispered into his ear, "Let's go somewhere more... private." She pulled him close and nuzzled his neck, her voice a lustful purr as she said, "Do you like what you see?"  Bucky was unable to respond, his voice catching in his throat as the woman continued to seduce him.

Your heart becomes heavy. You try to look away and hope that Bucky meant it seriously with you and does not respond to the woman.

Bucky took a step back and cleared his throat but the woman followed him, her voice becoming more desperate as she spoke, "You've caught me looking at you,  Bucky. You must have known I'd be attracted to a man like you?"  Bucky could feel the woman's warm breath on his neck as she looked up into his eyes and tried to kiss him. "Do you find me appealing?" She asked.

In Bucky's mind, you appear a scenario is playing out. How hurt you are by what he did.  In his mind he sees you ignoring him not looking at him anymore. When he lets other people touch him. 

The thought that you don't want him anymore, if he cheats on you now, hurts him. 

Bucky looked at the woman with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. As the woman continued to try and seduce him,  Bucky closed his eyes and pictured you ignoring him. The image hurt him as it drove home the reality of what was happening. Bucky's brain was filled with scenarios of you ignoring, avoiding, and moving on from him. The thought of him cheating on you hurt him deeply and made him realize the gravity of what he was doing.

In his mind,  Bucky began to see you more clearly as he pictured what you looked like when you were upset and distraught.

The thought of hurting you was not something Bucky could bear again, and his eyes widened with panic in his mind. He imagined seeing you sad, cold, and distant, and the image made him feel physically ill.  Bucky looked at the woman in front of him, his brain filled with thoughts of you as she slowly traced a line down his jaw, "Do I appeal to you? Do I make you feel good, Bucky?" The woman's voice was soft and soothing as she tried to seduce  Bucky, her warm touch on his skin making him shudder involuntarily.

The woman's touch feel disgusting for  Bucky. 

"Please stop,"  Bucky whispered, his eyes filled with discomfort, as he tried to move away from the woman. The big Shield soldier tried to push her away but she persisted, her grip on him tight as she leaned in closer, "I want more."  Bucky tried to get away from the woman but she held on even tighter, her hands running up and down his body as she spoke, "Don't you want this? Is my body not attractive enough for you?" Her words were a stark contrast to the feelings  Bucky was experiencing in his mind.

You can see the panic and discomfort in  Bucky's eyes. So you decide to help him. Unnoticed by the woman, you go to the door and then open it, pretending to enter the room. 

The relief was palpable in  Bucky's expression as his eyes locked with you when you opened the door. His face turned to annoyance and disgust as the woman continued to try and seduce him. He tried to push her away once more but the woman held onto him, running her hands down his broad physique and leaning in closer to speak in his ear.  Bucky was clearly uncomfortable and not comfortable with what the woman was doing.

"Sergeant, that's a training room. Such a thing should not be done here " you question as a recruit.

The woman turned to look at you with surprise, her lustful expression transforming into one of shock and horror. "But, Sergeant," the woman said, "Surely you're a man of action. Why not enjoy yourself? Why not take a pretty woman to your bed and enjoy something new?" As the woman's voice became more demanding, and her grip on  Bucky became tighter,  Bucky gave you a pleading look from the corner of his eye. "For God's sake,"  Bucky whispered, his tone quiet and tense, "help me."

"Even though I'm just a recruit, I see that, you, Miss. Cross the border of the Sergeant. Or should I get help. I'm sure you won't like it"  you say firmly. 

The woman's expression went from shocked to angry, "Help from who? What is a little recruit going to do about anything??" Her voice was stern as she looked down at you and moved closer to  Bucky. "I have everything under control," the woman hissed, her tone a stark contrast to your calm, polite demeanor.  Bucky looked over at you with a desperate look in his eyes and gave a slight nod.

"I can go to the general, I'm sure he will help with this." You prompt.

"And what will you tell him, little recruit? That Sergeant  Bucky was trying to enjoy the company of a beautiful, younger woman?" The woman leaned in closer and tried to whisper in  Bucky's ear, as her tone became more seductive and inviting, "Or will you keep your mouth shut and let us have our fun?" The woman began to inch towards  Bucky's lips, her breath warm on his skin.

"I won't go. He is uncomfortable with you."

"Oh he does enjoy me," the woman purred seductively, as her hands began to wander and explore  Bucky's body. Her expression turned to amusement as she continued to try and seduce the uncomfortable big Shield soldier. "He's just playing hard to get," she whispered, her voice an inviting purr as she leaned in closer to  Bucky's ear. "Don't you enjoy this?" The woman's warm breath was on his neck and her hand began to caress the bulge of  Bucky's muscular biceps. Annoyed you stand between the two. "Woman, you're breaking the rules."

The woman looked confused as you stood between the two but her seductive expression changed to a cruel frown as she responded, "Who are you to question me? A lowly recruit?" The woman looked back at  Bucky and continued to try and seduce him, her voice becoming more demanding and aggressive, "I thought soldiers enjoyed a good time with a woman. I'm trying to provide Sergeant  Bucky with some stress relief."

"He don't need a whore like you that don't know when's enough "

The woman's expression turned dark as she looked back at you, her face filled with a mixture of hurt and annoyance. "Excuse me?" She spoke sharply as she looked back at  Bucky, "Are you implying that I'm a whore?" The big Shield soldier looked back and forth between the two of you as the woman continued to attack you with her words, her expression full of anger. "A recruit... calling a woman a whore... do you know your place?" The woman took a step towards you and spoke sternly as she looked down at you.

"I know my place but clearly you don't " you say calmly.

"Well then, since you know so much," the woman said with a snide grin, "how about you tell me, little recruit, where is my place?" The woman looked at you as if she was daring you to respond, her tone sarcastic and mocking. Your calm manner, however, seemed to only exacerbate her annoyance as she waited for you to respond.

"Your place is outside this room" gently and reassuringly your hand points to the door.

The woman looked at you in shock as she processed what you said and took a step back, clearly offended. She looked back at  Bucky, her face filled with anger as she saw him looking at her with a stern expression. Her eyes suddenly widened as she looked back at you, her voice taking on a threatening tone, "And who is going to make me leave? You, little recruit?"

"When the Sergeant wants that, yes." your eyes stay firmly on her's.

Bucky's face remained stern as he looked at the woman. The big Shield soldier seemed to be contemplating your words a moment before he spoke up and said, "The recruit's right, I would like you to leave." The woman looked surprised as  Bucky spoke up, her expression turning into one of anger and annoyance. "And if I refuse to do so?" The woman's words were a stark contrast to  Bucky's, as she stood defiant in front of the big soldier.

"I'll help you out then" you say strongly. 

Bucky looked surprised when you stepped up for him, as the big Shield soldier was not expecting support from a recruit.  Bucky looked at you with a grateful smile, as he didn't want to have to cause a scene with the woman. As  Bucky's expression turned to a smile, the woman's expression transformed into one of anger and disbelief. The woman looked at you angrily and spoke sharply to you, "Little recruit, who do you think you are?"

"I'm a recruit, nothing else" you say calmly,  " you should go now." 

Bucky looked at you with gratitude and respect as he saw how you remained calm in front of the woman.  Bucky's eyes darted between you and the woman as he remained alert in case the situation escalated. The woman looked at you in annoyance and frustration, "A recruit is telling me to leave? Do you know who I am?" The woman shook her head and continued to look at you with anger as she spoke, "I'm not going anywhere."

" I don't know who you are, but I have treated you with respect. And I think it's time for you to go"  you say strict but calm

The woman looked surprised at your tone but remained defiant, "I don't think it's time for me to leave. I believe I'm making Sergeant Bucky very happy, and if he wants me to stay for the evening, then I will stay." The woman looked at  Bucky and spoke seductively to him, "Don't you want me to stay, sweetheart? Don't you find me desirable?" As the woman continued to try and seduce Bucky, Bucky looked over at you with a pleading look in his eyes.

You nod and gently grab the woman's arm and lead her out. The woman looked down at your hand on her arm with surprise, as she had not seen you move towards her. As she turned to look at you, she spoke sharply, "Don't touch me, little recruit." But your grip remained firm as you pulled her out of the training room and into the hall. Despite her protests, the woman couldn't stop you and had no choice but to follow your lead.

The woman looked frustrated as she was pulled out of the room but Bucky's eyes lit up with relief when he saw the door closed.  Bucky looked at you with appreciation as he spoke, "Thank you, little recruit."  Bucky's face was serious as he looked at you and spoke, "You did not have to step up for me."  Bucky's tone was firm when he continued, "I am a big boy, I could've handled her myself."

"I'm sorry if I've crossed a line" 

Bucky's eyes softened when he looked at you and he shook his head, "It's alright, little recruit. I appreciate your help."  Bucky's voice was calm as he spoke, the big soldier seeming like a different man entirely after the event with the woman.  Bucky looked at you with a grateful smile and continued speaking calmly, "You handled the situation well, I could tell she was trying to goad you into conflict."

"thank you, then i go now, good night Sergeant" 

Bucky's face suddenly brightened when you spoke, "Good night, little recruit."  Bucky gave you a warm smile, his voice soft and gentle, as if the previous events did not even happen. As you turned to leave,  Bucky spoke up to you, his voice slightly firmer with a hint of irritation, "And do not tell anyone about this."  Bucky's tone was still soft but there was a warning in his voice, his voice becoming more serious as he spoke, "Do you understand?"

"I understand, nothing has happened here," you nod. 

Bucky looked relieved when you responded to his order, his expression becoming more relaxed and calm. His voice returned to the soft tone he was speaking in before, "Good, thank you. Now go on, I should go back to my room before I run into more trouble."  Bucky spoke with a smile, seeming to have completely forgotten about the woman who had just tried to seduce him. But before he turned away,  Bucky spoke once more, "Thank you, little recruit."

As you walked away, Bucky watched you go, feeling a rush of emotions he wasn’t used to.. relief, gratitude and a strange warmth in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He knew he should just let you go and call it a night, but something about the way you had stood up for him lingered in his mind.

Sighing, Bucky found himself wandering the halls until he eventually stumbled upon you again, sitting alone on a bench outside, gazing up at the stars. You looked peaceful, your face relaxed as the cool night air played with your hair. You didn’t notice him at first, lost in your own thoughts, but when he approached, you glanced up, startled but quickly relaxed when you saw who it was.

“Sergeant,” you greeted softly, a gentle smile on your lips. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Bucky shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Not really. Just... thinking.” He paused, then added “About tonight.”

You nodded, understanding immediately. “It’s okay, Sergeant. You don’t have to explain. I’m glad I could help.”

Bucky smiled, a rare and genuine smile that reached his eyes. “You’re a tough one, little recruit” he said, his voice soft with a hint of admiration. “Not many would’ve stepped in like that. You didn’t even hesitate.”

You shrugged lightly, feeling a bit bashful under his gaze. “You looked like you needed help. Sometimes, a little push from someone is all it takes.”

Bucky chuckled at your words, finding comfort in them. “You’re right. I guess I’m not used to people looking out for me.” He looked at you with an appreciative smile. “But you… you’re something else.”

He sat down beside you, the bench creaking slightly under his weight. You both stared up at the stars, the silence between you feeling natural, not awkward. It was quiet, but it wasn’t empty.. there was an unspoken understanding that made the moment feel right.

“Y’know, little recruit,” Bucky started, his voice low and thoughtful, “I’ve seen a lot of things in my time. Been through a lot. But someone standing up for me, like you did? That’s... rare.”

You glanced at him, noticing the sincerity in his eyes. “You deserve it, Sergeant. Even soldiers need someone in their corner.”

Bucky nodded slowly, mulling over your words. He reached over, almost instinctively, and ruffled your hair lightly, a playful gesture, one that spoke of a newfound fondness. “You’re alright, little recruit,” he said, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “I think I’m gonna have to keep an eye on you.”

You laughed softly, feeling a flutter of pride. “Guess that makes two of us, then.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, just enjoying the quiet night and each other’s company. Bucky’s hand brushed against yours on the bench, and instead of pulling away, he let it rest there, finding comfort in the small but significant touch.

“Thanks again,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “For everything.”

“Anytime, Sergeant,” you replied, smiling at him. “I’ve got your back.”