°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Fan-fucking-tastic. 

Apparently things have changed since the last time you were here. The Avengers must have put their differences aside and sang kumbaya after they brought everyone back. The common area buzzed with the type of ease you never thought you’d see again.

Sam and Uncle Rhodes were sitting by the library, locked in a friendly debate. Bruce sat alongside them pretending not to listen, but you could see the hint of a smile on his face as he stared into his book.

Clint had his back to you, draped across the oversized couch, talking endlessly to no one in particular and picking at a fruit salad that clearly wasn’t his. Your father stared at an episode of Storage Wars, doing his best to ignore him, but the tension in his expression made it clear he wasn’t succeeding.

You would have giggled if your freedom wasn’t one truth away from perishing.

In a way the scene before you felt reminiscent of your childhood at the tower. It reminded you that your life wasn’t as bad as you remembered it.

You remembered joking around with Thor as he struggled to understand your Midgardian humor and adolescent quirks. You remembered sketching with Steve after a rough day at school; bullies picking on you for not being the genius your new last name said you were supposed to be. You even remembered all the days after that, faking sick to stay home from school. 

You would lay in bed, complaining about a stomachache too severe to even sit up. Only orange juice and a day off of school could save you. You expected your father to march right into your room, give you a once over and send you right off to school. It’s what your mother would have done, nothing gets past her BS detector. 

Got.

Nothing got past her BS detector. 

Instead it was Pepper Potts, your dad’s sometimes girlfriend, that would sit by your bedside.

“You don’t look sick,” she said gently.

You shrugged, pulling the blanket higher up your chest. “Must be fibromyalgia or something.”

You averted your eyes from her observant gaze, feigning a cough to try and sell your act.

“Right,” Pepper murmured. “Well, I’ll let the school know you won’t be in today.”

You nodded into your blanket. A new wave of unease came over you as you watched her leave. This is a moment better suited for a parent, not the girlfriend.

“Pepper, where’s my dad?”

She paused, fingers turning white on your doorknob. 

“He’s in the lab,” she always said, “Been there since last night.”

“Oh.”

A lump quickly formed in your throat, the priorities of Tony Stark clear to you. He’d rather play with robots than check up on his sick daughter. You quickly turned on your side and pulled your covers over your head, not wanting to let Pepper see you cry.

“Thank you Pepper, I’ll let FRIDAY know if I need anything,” you dismissed, your voice ever watery.

You heard a sigh and Pepper whisper good wishes to you before your door carefully shut.

You openly sobbed into your pillow. You curled in on yourself, pulling the blanket tighter as a chill ran through you, sharper this time.

Fake or not, you felt sick to your stomach now.

A voice that could only be described as nails on a chalk board snapped you out of your head.

“If it isn’t the Pacifier and co. How was the city?” Your father asked as he turned from the couch, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth. 

Sometimes you dreamt of a world where the snap took your father’s vocal cords instead of his right arm. You think it would boost common morale by 20%.

In any other circumstances, you would have bit back a snarky quip to try and shut him up. You would have rolled your eyes and stalked off to your room, not giving him the time of day.

But you fucked up. So your feet stayed cemented to the floor, preparing yourself for whatever confession was about to spill from Bucky’s lips. You bit your lip and held your breath as you waited for him to get it over with and expose you to the team as the good for nothing addict you were.

You were already mourning the sunlight. It would be years until you would be allowed freedom again. Hopefully you got schizophrenia from all the drugs you’ve taken. Then the voices could keep you company as you served your sentence.

Tony looked between the two of you, expectantly. Someone coughed in the background.

Seeing you weren’t going to say anything, Bucky huffed and dropped your bags on a side table.

“She got what she needed.”

That’s it? 

You stared at Bucky incredulously. Did he just cover for you?

You carefully let out the breath you were holding and made a move to grab your bags. You were painfully aware of just how sweaty your pits were and made a move to your bedroom right away. You can thank Bucky later, it wasn’t like you weren’t going to see him again. If your dad had his way he would have made him move into your bedroom too.

“Wait.”

Fuck. 

Your dads voice stops you in your tracks. 

“What,” you snapped, arms crossed, already exasperated with him. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to lie down in your room. Emotions are exhausting. 

Tony raised an eyebrow at your attitude that you almost scoffed at. Was he expecting a warm reception?

“Nothing. Just noticed you decided to pick up the paint brush again. Good for you. Honestly, nothing says emotional growth like splattering your angst on a canvas. Adrian Hill would be so proud. Or was it Naumburg? I can never remember, psychology’s more up your alley.” He tilted his head, waiting for a reaction that never came. “It’s good, though. Channeling your frustration into creativity. Therapeutic, even. Dr. Newman will be proud when you tell her. You know, science says—well, me, mostly—that expressing yourself like this can stave off… existential dread and impulsive decision-making.”

God, does he ever stop talking?

You squinted at him. “Wow. You need to get off TikTok. And I'd be a lot better if I had some space to breathe around here, do you know who I can talk to for that?”

Tony blinks, studying your face for a second before completely ignoring everything you just said, “We missed you, you know. And you may not see it now, but I'm doing this all for your benefit. You’ll thank me later.” He takes a breath before continuing, averting his gaze as he does so, “I know the last few years have been pretty rocky, but we’re here to help you. I know you’re angry, but it takes two to make a thing go right. Let me help you help yourself. I only want the best for my first born.”

You held back your scoff for his sake. The sincerity of his words killed the formation of any snarky comeback you had in your mind. 

“Thanks, but you’re a few years too late. I have everything under control, you just caught me at a bad time. I’m doing fine. Always have been, always will be.” 

You stared at him for a beat more before moving to leave again, “The best way you can help is to back off. I want to go back to school. I want my life back. That’s what would help me right now. Maybe I’ll send you a postcard.”

With that, you turned your back to the seven pairs of eyes on you, ready for the day to be over with. Who knew the Avengers were the biggest snoops? We need another extraterrestrial threat to deal with, they have too much time on their hands.

“Your sister asked about you today,” Tony rushed out, the words spilling out of his mouth so fast they sounded like one.

You stiffened and stopped in your tracks. 

“She misses her big sister. Wanted to know when you’d be around.”

You snorted and kept walking. You wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction of seeing your reaction, “Yeah? Tell her I’m busy.”

You finally stormed down the hall to your room, slamming your door in anger and frustration.

What a way to ruin the moment. You dumped the memories of everything your father said 5 seconds ago into your mental recycling bin. Waste of schematic space.

You dropped your bags and face planted on your bed, growling into a pillow.

Morgan Stark.

To an outsider, being jealous of an 8-year-old kid is absurd. Being jealous of your kid sister who looks up at you with nothing but admiration in her eyes is worse.

Growing up, you always begged your mom for a sibling. A little brother or sister who you could play with. Being an only child was lonely. 

So when you finally got the chance to be the big sister you always wanted to be, it should have felt special, like kismet.  

But when you look down at Morgan, in all of her glory and the love she’s so clearly surrounded by, all you feel is bitter resentment. 

Morgan wasn’t your sister. She was your replacement. A second-chance for your father to do fatherhood on his own terms.

You were 16 when you were blipped. You remembered that day all too well. 

Despite your favoritism to the social sciences and arts, Your father had enrolled you in the infamous Midtown School of Science and Technology in hopes of continuing the Stark legacy. That, and being classmates with his lackey Peter Parker, made it easier for him to keep tabs on you. 

Peter was an annoying pest you couldn’t seem to get rid of. Despite being in opposite social circles, he was always around, popping in at the worst times and ruining your fun. It took you breaking down from stress and crying to him drunk after going too hard at one of Liz’s parties before you two sat down and created some boundaries. Peter was a pretty good listener and surprisingly reasonable. No snitching or you would snitch back 10x harder, as well as breathing room when you needed it, and a promise to text him immediately if anything was wrong. After that, he was tolerable to be around. You would never admit it, but you considered him to be one of your truest friends. He was the only person you felt you could be honest with and was one of the few people who didn’t treat you differently because of your last name.

Keeping his promise, he didn’t tattle when you skipped out on the infamous class field trip to MoMA. You elected there were better things to do with your time, like getting high in a parking lot with a cute girl from the arts school 3 blocks down. You had put your phone on silent, deciding to deal with the consequences of your actions after getting some action. You were too consumed in the smell of her coconut shampoo to see that Pepper had been spamming your phone, calling you at least a dozen times before you realized what was happening.

By the time whatsherface opened instagram and filled the two of you in on what was going on, it was too late.

The smell of coconut was the last thing you remembered before it all went dark.

It’s hard, being dead one second and then brought back to life 5 years later the next.

A lot can change in 5 years.

Everything was different. Everyone tried to move on– some did so easier than others.

Years later, you still couldn’t explain the feelings you felt reuniting with your family. 

You were flown out to Georgia where your dad and Pepper finally sealed the deal and settled down to no one's surprise. No, that wasn’t the sucker punch. The real blow landed when you found out how easily your dad filled the space you left behind.

Meeting Morgan for the first time was a cruel kind of tenderness. 

It hurt more than you let on. She was his perfect baby. The apple of his eye, the final piece in his puzzle. 

Your heart tore and broke into pieces you didn’t think was possible. Your dad finally got the perfect daughter he always wanted. His ultimate redo.

You spent that trip crying in the lifeless room they saved for you, heart fragmenting every time you heard the squeal of Morgan’s giggles and the loud bass of your dad’s laughter.

Why couldn’t he be that father to you?

Sadness turned to anger as you thought harder. You were a kid when he took you in. Why couldn’t he play with you like that? Love you like that? If anything, you needed it more than her. You watched your mom die in front of you. From a situation that he caused. The least he could have done was be there. 

You ignored all the knocks and the attempts to talk. There was no more room in your life for him anymore. You were given a second chance at life. The world sat in your hands, a newfound fire growing in your chest. 

When you have nothing left, you still have a choice.

You didn’t say goodbye when you left. 

By the time you were back in New York, your decision had already been made. 

Graduating early wasn’t hard. You’d always been smart—you just never cared enough to prove it. Turns out, spite was a pretty effective motivator.

NYU was an easy choice. Far enough to get away. Close enough to your heart that no one could accuse you of running.

You were exactly where you wanted to be.

Being alone allows you to think more introspectively. 

All your life you dreamt of death. 

You dreamt of reuniting with your mother and living the life you should have had. 

Real life is nothing like your dreams. 

In real life death is nothing. It’s a void of eternal darkness that haunts your memories and wakes you up at night.

You once tried looking up the girl you were with that day, to see if she was blipped too. Your quick google search told you she survived initially, but died 2 years before from bumping a laced line.

Being left alone with your thoughts is scary. So you spent your second chance doing whatever you could to avoid it.

You spent your days partying and messing around. You avoided your fathers phone calls and attempts to check in. You avoided your sister and anything that reminded you of her, of the life you could have had.

You didn’t realize you were crying until you moved to cover yourself on your bed, wiping your tears with your blanket.

Maybe this could be your third chance at life. You just needed to know where to start.

You fell asleep dreaming of nothing that night.

Your brain felt like mush and your fingers cramped, begging for rest.

Half a dozen pages of your sketchbook and two drying canvases later, you called it a day. Bitterly, you thought of your fathers words and how he was right, splattering your angst on canvas did make you feel slightly better. Not that you would ever tell him that.

You haven’t left your room since your little escapade to the city. You were starving and bored out of your mind, but you were too head strong to come out and face the music. 

You knew no one would even care when they saw you. You and your father fought enough in your youth for your spat last night to be as insignificant as a snowflake in a winter storm.

It wasn’t the team you didn’t want to face, it was Bucky. Despite being an everpresent thorn in your father’s ass for years, you knew nothing about him. They only reconciled after the blip, to which you were long gone by then. Normally, you could read people like a book, but not this guy. He kept his cards to his chest and didn’t spill. It frustrated you to not have control, to not know what to expect or what he was thinking.

You knew your time was up soon anyways, your phone dinged with a reminder, letting you know your first session back with Dr. Newman was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Damn you Tony Stark.

You told your stomach to shut up when it let out a particularly loud and nasty growl. What a drama queen, I guess those Stark genes don’t stop at the brain. Begrudgingly, you stood up from where you sat on the floor, your vision blurring and your head light as a feather. You stumbled and took a deep breath, regaining your balance.

Okay, maybe I should listen to my stomach.

With gritted teeth, you pushed open your door and made a bee-line to the kitchen. You grabbed a tote bag that hung from your wall, planning to fill it up with snacks. 

Your mouth watered as you slugged closer to the kitchen, the rich smells of Italian food putting you in a trance. 

You expected the team to be in the middle of dinner but instead found yourself pleasantly surprised to find Bucky alone in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, manning the stove. He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he clocked you the second you walked in.

Appreciative of his silence, you kept your head down and rummaged through the cabinets, stuffing granola bars and anything remotely edible into your tote. You tried—really tried—to ignore him and whatever Michelin-star nonsense he had going on behind you, but your stomach, ever the traitor, let out a long, pathetic whine the second the smell hit again. 

Mortified, you moved to leave only to have your eyes met with two plates of what appeared to be the creamiest chicken pasta sitting on the island in front of you. 

You looked up only to find Bucky already staring at you. You stared back, wide-eyed and confused. Your stomach growled again.

You might be bordering on delirium because you think you saw a hint of a smile on his face as he slid a plate in your direction, “Eat.”

You blinked.

“…I was just gonna take my stuff to my room.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I figured.”

Your grip tightened around the tote bag. “God forbid I eat in peace.”

No reaction, because of course.

You grabbed the plate closest to you and turned, ready to leave.

“If you’re going to eat my food you’re eating here, not in your room.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh, “you’re joking, right?”

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossing, gaze steady but not sharp.

Woah.

Something low in your stomach fluttered at the sight. 

Without a second thought, you chose a chair at the table and sat down. You reminded yourself that it costs zero dollars to not be a bitch for 5 minutes. 

You stared at the plate before you. You were so hungry it was beginning to look unappetizing. You pushed the food around with your fork, not quite bringing yourself to take a bite.

Dejected, you bit the inside of your cheek and looked up at him. “Thanks for not snitching.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he pushed himself off the counter and moved around the island, grabbing his own plate before taking the seat across from you.

“Not my job to,” he said simply.

The words hit wrong.

You frowned. “Wow. That almost sounded like you care.”

“I didn’t ‘snitch’,” he continued, ignoring you completely, “because Stark doesn’t need another reason to lock you in here.”

Your jaw tightened.

“Right,” you muttered, dropping your gaze back to your plate. “Glad we’re on the same page.

Silence stretched between you.

You stabbed a piece of pasta and brought it to your mouth, hesitating just a second before forcing yourself to take the bite. An involuntary moan left your mouth at the taste but you were too lost in the sauce to care.

Goddamn that was good.

You chewed slowly, savouring the rich flavours. It suddenly hit you that you haven’t had a good home cooked meal in years, a typical dinner to you was whatever had the fastest delivery time on uber eats and a rip of the bowl.

“Why’d you run?” he asked suddenly.

You froze.

Here we go.

“‘Cause I wanted to get high,” you shot back through a mouthful of pasta, not looking up.

“You know I’m the most prolific spy in history, right.”

Your fork clinked a little too hard against the plate. “I didn’t ask for a side of history with my meal, thanks.”

An empty laugh escaped his lips, “You Starks are all the same. You gonna keep deflecting, or actually answer me?”

That made you look up.

His expression hadn’t changed. Calm. Steady. Unreadable in the worst way possible.

Your gaze dropped again, shoulders tightening as you pushed your food around your plate.

“I just wanted five minutes,” you muttered, quieter now. “Without someone breathing down my neck.”

Another beat of silence.

“Bullshit.”

You swallowed. You weren’t lying, but you weren’t telling the full truth. You squirmed in your seat, feeling naked in Bucky’s gaze. You hated it.

“You want to know what I think?”

Not really, but let me guess– you’re going to tell me anyways, right?

You stared at him expectantly, wishing you had just starved in your room.

“I think you make bad decisions like you’re trying to get caught. You don’t even realize you’re doing it.”

Your brows pulled together and your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a smart girl. You graduated high school at 16 and are working on your second college degree at 20. So when you make choices like this?” He spoke slowly, like he wanted you to comprehend everything he said, “that’s evidence of someone playing dumb.”

Your throat tightened.

You stared at your plate, vision blurring just slightly at the edges.

“That’s not—” you started, then stopped. “You don’t know me.”

“I know patterns.”

You scoffed, but there was no bite left in it. “Oh, so I’m a case study now?”

“No,” he said. “You’re predictable.”

That stung more than anything else he’d said.

Your fork clinked against the plate as you dropped it.

“Wow,” you muttered. “That’s… really comforting. Thanks.”

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” He exhales quietly. “I’m trying to keep you from killing yourself. This act? It’s not gonna hold up.” There was a beat as he took a breath, “and for someone who wants nothing to do with Stark, you’re walking a pretty similar line.” His gaze stays on you. “You’ve got help in front of you. Use it.”

The room went very, very quiet.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening like something had just locked around it.

“That’s dramatic,” you said, but your voice came out weaker than you intended.

“Is it?”

You didn’t answer. You knew he didn’t expect you to anyways.

You finished a few more bites before standing abruptly, grabbing your tote and tossing it over your shoulder in one motion.

“I’m done.”

He nodded once. No commentary. No smug look. Nothing.

You hesitated for half a second, fingers tightening around the canvas strap of your bag.

“…Thanks for the food,” you muttered, barely audible.

You didn’t wait for a response.

You turned and walked out before he could say anything, before you could take it back.

Back in your room, the quiet felt different. Your chest felt tight in a way you couldn’t explain. 

You laid in your bed, letting the tears from your eyes fall freely down your temples. 

They weren’t sad tears, no. They were… different.

You hated that you couldn’t immediately label it.

You felt different. You felt seen. 

Bucky had looked and dissected you in a way no one else had before. 

For the first time in a long time, someone had the courage to tell you the truth to your face. Had the courage to truly look at you, the whole you. 

That was new.

You didn’t know how you felt about the feeling it blossomed in your chest.

You remembered the weight of it all more than anything. How heavy it pressed onto your chest, your limbs, your thoughts. How easy it was to give up control and allow it to bleed into every crevice your body and mind had to offer, until even the simplest things like getting out of bed felt like a chore. 

So you took a shower. You got dressed. Hell you even put some thought into your fit. 

Because you know how bad the bad can get, how easy it is to disappear inside your own head and not make it out.

You hated to admit it, but maybe your father was right about this. Maybe being him holding you captive really was the only way to get you out of your own head.

Damn, I wonder where he learned that from.

You sat at your desk, staring into space, your mind blanking as you struggled to fight your cognitive dissonance. You refused to level with your father and the avengers about your substance usage (key word use and not abuse because your mom didn’t raise an abuser, thank you very much). From their perspective, you weren’t building much of a case for yourself. The handful of times they’ve seen you under the influence (and the too-many-to-count times the media has helpfully shown them) didn’t portray you in the most positive of lights. But they didn’t get it. They don’t get it. And that pissed you off.

Your father was the biggest hypocrite of them all. After all, none of your fuck ups could even come close to any of his infamous drunken messes. At least you’ve never made international news or damaged millions of dollars of property on one of your benders. He was an addict, a destructive one at that. Your habits were manageable and nobody's business but your own. 

Your leg bounced under the desk, restless energy crawling under your skin. Your blood boiled as you thought harder. It wasn’t fair. You’re an adult and yet you were completely stripped of your agency, forced to comply with someone whose ego clearly has no bounds.

You really were a prisoner.

You needed to get out of this room.

You’ve played this game with him before. You know the formula; the faster he sees you get better, the faster you can leave.

Well fine, I accept your terms. Let’s play.

You knew what he was looking for and you were gonna give it to him, and more. You’d be the perfect little recovery project.

Eat. Sleep. Talk about your feelings. Gold star behavior.

Your fingers tapped once against the desk before you stood, decision made.

You could behave. If he wanted you to be better, you’d give him better. Just enough to loosen the leash and make him comfortable.

You grabbed your hoodie and stepped into the hall before you could second-guess yourself.

You heard the commotion before you reached the kitchen. The sizzling of something on the stove and a conversation you had no interest in being a part of carried through the walls.

Dread and the oh so familiar presence of anxiety clawed into your stomach. Interacting with the avengers was the last thing you wanted to do today, much less this early and on a combined total of 4 and a half hours of sleep. 

An audience is the last fucking thing you wanted right now, but when do you ever get what you want. 

You almost turned back around. 

Almost. 

Taking a deep breath, you straightened slightly and rolled your shoulders. It was a good thing you put that hoodie on because you were 90 percent certain you were sporting two massive sweat stains on your t-shirt right about now. 

You hated the avengers like no other. You weren’t in the mood for their faux concern, you’ve done the dance with them long enough to see through that act. It was cute at first but the pity and moral judgement gets old real fast.

The only avenger you tolerated was Natasha. She was the only one you felt had actually seen and understood you and she’s, well… 

Before you could psyche yourself out of it, you took a moment to level your heart rate before turning the corner, exposing yourself to the room. You hovered a second too long in the doorway, fingers flexing at your sides before you shoved them into the pocket of your hoodie. 

You kept your eyes on the ground in front of you, careful to not make eye contact with anyone in the room. 

“Morning,” you mumbled. The greeting felt fake coming out of your mouth but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Close enough, they got the point.

The kitchen went quiet for half a second before your greeting was echoed back to you. You looked up and skimmed the room of its occupants. Clint and Sam sat at the breakfast bar, the both of them not even trying to hide the knowing expressions on their faces. It felt as though they saw right through you. You felt naked and exposed and quickly looked away to Bruce, who for someone of his size was doing a decent job of manning the stove. He offered a half-smile that faded as quickly as it came when you offered a blank stare in response. That was honestly no fault to him, you wouldn’t admit it but after Nat, he was your second favourite avenger. He was the smartest of the bunch not because of his 7 PhDs, but because he knew better than to try and meddle with your life, he knew to stay out of it, and you respected that . Your eyes flicked back to the edge of the breakfast bar where Bucky was sat, his expression unreadable and steady over his cup of coffee. 

No Tony.

Good. 

You stepped further in, forcing your shoulders to loosen, willing your expression to settle into something more neutral. Pleasant, even. The conversation resumed, slightly off-beat. No one said anything, but the tension was there. 

Your jaw locked as you got to work, making a move to the fridge. Stopping meant talking, and talking meant questions you would rather not answer. You pretended not to notice the shifting eyes tracking your every move, like you were a ticking time bomb that would break down at any moment. 

You moved toward the fridge, opening it and staring inside longer than necessary. You weren't really looking, you just desperately needed something to do. Rows of neatly stocked food stared back at you like a joke, taunting you as your stomach turned violently.

Yum. Food.

You grabbed a random yogurt container and chose the spot beside Bucky, setting it down with a little more force than you anticipated. Your fingers hovered over it for a second.

Calma. Breathe.

Just eat.

Simple.

You grabbed a spoon and sat down beside him, ignoring the sudden quietness of the room, and began to peel the lid back. The smell of the yogurt was enough to make you want to quit and veg out in your room. You took a second to mourn the time when food was appetizing to you before jamming your spoon in the container, hesitating as you brought the spoonful to your mouth.

God, I feel like Sienna Mae right now.

You forced the yogurt down, the texture hitting you first, then the taste, then the immediate and embarrassingly strong urge to gag.

You swallowed anyway.

You could feel the stares burning into you.

Fuck you guys, honestly. Can’t a girl force some food down in peace?

You ignored the extra sets of eyes on you and turned your attention to the man of the hour, your babysitter, your chaperone, your ticket to paradise. Your eyes flicked over him once, analytical, yet casual, then quickly back towards your yogurt. 

Whatthefuck. 

He was already looking at you when you turned to him, almost like he knew exactly what you were up to.

What a weirdo. What crimes have I committed in my past life to end up having a retired spy as my babysitter?

You went in for another spoonful, smaller this time; still awful.

The yogurt sat in your mouth as you tried to will your mind to swallow it, eyes fixed firmly on the container held tightly in your grasp.

Silence stretched.

You could tell from the tension thickening in the room that no one was buying your little act. 

Thank god, you weren’t even convincing yourself. 

You swallowed and set your spoon down with a soft clink, turning to meet Bucky’s gaze beside you. 

“I need to go to the city today,” you said, a little too quickly.

You heard someone cough behind you.

Real smooth, y/n.

You leaned back slightly, forcing yourself to relax like you hadn’t just been fighting for your life over a spoonful of yogurt.

“So,” you continued, tilting your head, “you busy today? Because I wanna get boots on the ground. Like, I want to leave yesterday.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Because of course he didn’t, why would he?

His eyes flickered over your face, reading you.

“Why?” he asked.

Uh because I can’t so much as breathe without you knowing? Did they forget to thaw your brain when they took you out of the ice?

You huffed a quiet breath through your nose, rolling your spoon between your fingers like you weren’t one sassy sentence away from blowing his head clean off his shoulders. “Okay, let me rephrase,” you said, tone sickly sweet in a way that was very clearly not. “You’re taking me to the city where I will then go to the craft store. I’m going to buy some art supplies, so I can be a productive member of society and not camp in my room all day thinking about drugs.”

A couple of heads in the room shifted. You didn’t dare to look, “So I thought I’d drag you with me. You know, since being my babysitter’s your whole thing now.”

Say yes. Say yes. Say yes. Please, god.

Despite the confident facade you put on, your heart was running a mile a minute. In your mind you were on your hands and knees begging that he would hurry up and stop being a smart ass so you could cool off in your room.

He watched you for another second. 

“Finish eating. Then we can go.”

You blinked at him.

The audacity of this man.

A humorless laugh slipped out under your breath as you leaned back in your chair, spoon hovering midair.

“Wow,” you muttered. “He speaks.”

You shook your head, dropping your gaze back to the yogurt, “Fine. I’ll meet you back here in 5.” 

You slid off the chair, yogurt in hand, and made it exactly three steps out the kitchen before you were done pretending. The whole thing went straight into the trash, barely touched. 

Problem solved. 

The car ride into the city was a small taste of freedom you felt you haven’t had in ages. Others may find long drives to be boring, but to you, there was nothing better than driving down the backroads, riding shotgun in one of your dads fancy sports cars with the windows down, listening to your newest playlist on full blast. The drive felt serene and if you stared out the window long enough, you could almost pretend that there wasn’t a too-quiet cyborg escorting you on your expedition. 

You had to admit he wasn’t too bad of a driver, if the circumstances were different, you might have actually enjoyed his presence. He drove precisely and smoothly on the road, metal arm on the wheel and his human one tapping the gear shift to the beat. 

The road blurred beneath you, empty and wide; a stark contrast to the bumper-to-bumper traffic you were used to in the city. For a moment, you allowed yourself to let loose because for once, the quiet finally felt like something you could breathe in.

You slipped your seatbelt off and stuck your head out the window, giggling carelessly as you sucked in a deep breath, taking it all in. 

Oh how you missed this.

You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to feel the wind slap your hair around and the sun warm your face. You haven’t felt this tranquil sober in so long. Your heart tugged at the thought. Just then, For Free by DJ Khaled and Drake came on. You screamed at the trees passing by, this was your shit. Absent-mindedly, you shouted into the car, “turn this song up!”

The volume rose for half a second before stopping entirely. 

You blinked, pulling your head back inside. “What’s your issue?”

“Seatbelt,” was all the answer he gave, eyes glued to the road.

You raised an eyebrow, steadying your breathing. You were careful not to let him set you off before you could execute your plan. “You’re not serious.”

Not worth it. Not yet. 

“Seatbelt.”

You exhaled sharply, dropping into your seat and dragging the belt across your torso. The click echoed louder than it should have.

“God, you’re fun.”

There was a beat before he turned his attention to you.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t have fun,” he said earnestly, eyes full of an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

You spared him a glance.

“Just said be safe.”

You held his gaze for a second too long before looking away, jaw tightening as you turned back to the window.

“Right,” you muttered, reaching to turn the music back on. “Huge difference.”

An hour later, trees turned into skyscrapers and the sounds of nature matured into the chaotic buzz of the concrete jungle. 

You smiled to yourself. 

This was home.

Not the compound. Not Malibu. Not the hollow, echoing spaces your father kept trying to convince you were enough.

The city breathed differently. It was messy, loud, and dirty, but it was your home.

Your heart belonged to the city.

You leaned your head against the window, watching familiar streets blur past, letting yourself pretend, just for a second, that nothing had changed.

That you were still enrolled at NYU, showing up when you felt like it, disappearing when you didn’t.

That you weren’t on a leash.

The illusion lasted until you felt the car slow, reality setting in.

Right.

Field trip.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door, not waiting for Bucky before stepping out.

You slammed the door behind you and kept it pushing.

He was going to follow you anyway, so why make it easy for him?

The bell above the door chimed as you stepped inside, cool air hitting your skin, carrying the faint scent of paper, paint, and something chemical you couldn’t quite place.

It all smelt normal.

God, you missed normal.

Rows of color stretched out in front of you. You grazed your fingers against the bottles of paint neatly arranged at your disposal. You shivered with barely contained excitement, you were itching for creative expression. 

You grabbed a basket without thinking, drifting down the aisle slower, more deliberately this time. 

You moved slowly down the aisles, more deliberate now, like care could make this moment last longer. Each item went into your basket with quiet precision, chosen, not grabbed.

A sketchbook. Oil pastels. Acrylic paint.

Your hand hovered over a set of brushes before you finally picked them up, turning them between your fingers and testing the weight. 

Everything you got needed to be perfect.

Art wasn’t a casual pastime for you. It wasn’t a hobby you picked up and put down when you got bored. No, it was the only way you could make sense of what you were feeling, the only way you could visualize and explain the storms you felt underneath your skin.

You went to place the pack into your basket—

—and hesitated.

It wasn’t a sound.

No, just the familiar feeling of being watched.

You didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Your grip tightened slightly around the brushes before you dropped them into the basket anyway, a little less careful this time.

Mood = ruined.

“You always this fun to be around,” you muttered, not bothering to look at him as you added a handful of mini canvases to your basket, “or am I getting the special treatment?”

Silence.

Of course. 

You huffed a quiet laugh under your breath, shifting your weight as you reached for a palette knife you didn’t need, turning it over once before tossing it in anyway.

You let the silence stretch just long enough to get under your own skin before exhaling sharply and shoving the basket into his chest without warning.

“Hold this.”

You paused, anticipating pushback. You half expected him to push the basket back into your arms, a glare, or even a snide remark about your arrogance. Instead, he merely gripped the basket, metal fingers curling smoothly around the handle, utterly unbothered.

You blinked.

That was… boring.

“Wow,” you muttered, turning back to the shelf. “Didn’t even fight me on that. I’m offended.”

“I’m holding a basket,” he said flatly.

A small impatient thrill sparked in your chest. Usually, the people around you would’ve gotten tired of your attitude by now. You loved the trill of rattling people, it made you feel like you were in control. 

A part of you felt hurt he didn’t take the bait. 

He’s only putting up with you because he has to, your mind helpfully supplied. 

Thank you brain, so kind, so helpful.

You drifted back down the aisles, choosing to focus on the bigger picture at play now. Now that your hands were free, everything felt easier.

You let yourself settle into the rhythm of shopping again, picking things out without much of a thought.

A better sketchbook.

A 48-pack of Acrylic markers.

Hell, you even ransacked the lego aisle, picking up any set that caught your eye.

Finally, you added the last item to the basket and turned, clapping your hands together at once.

“Alright,” you said lightly, an exhausted smile on your face. “I’m done.”

He didn’t respond, of course, and turned to guide you towards the checkout. 

You walked with him for a few steps before stopping suddenly, your plan finally getting put into motion.

“Actually– hold on.” 

He stopped.

You turned to him, vaguely jestering to the room behind you, already stepping away. “Bathroom.”

He looked at you with that same unreadable expression from the car.

God, you hated when he did that.

“Go check out,” you added lightly, spinning on your heel before he could process it. “I need to change my tampon, unless you plan on supervising that too.”

You held his gaze, daring him to say something to that.

“Well?” you prompted.

A pause.

“Don’t take long,” he muttered before walking away.

You watched his back for a second before pushing open the bathroom door, letting it creak before slipping past it, marching down the store towards the back exit.

Your pulse beat dangerously against your chest but you didn’t break your stride.

You spotted the exit and without a second thought, pushed it open.

The city hit you all at once. 

The noise.

The air.

The smell.

Freedom.

For real this time.

You let out a quiet laugh under your breath, shaking your head slightly as you stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“God, that was easy.”

You started walking in a random direction, not looking up from your phone as you punched the nearest dispensary into your google maps. 

7 minute walk away, sweet.

You popped your airpods in your ears and pressed play, seamlessly blending into the flow of people like second nature. 

You didn’t look back.

Didn’t want to.

You enjoyed your walk and the feeling of strangers around you. They didn’t give a damn about you. They weren’t breathing down your neck, watching your every move. 

You felt at peace.

You glanced at your phone, maps telling you all the answers to your troubles are a step away.

Your stomach dropped to your ass when a familiar figure stepped out of an even more familiar car parked at the curb, calm and unassuming in the chaos of the city. Your breath hitched sharp in your throat, chest locking before your brain could catch up. Heart hammering, you blinked, convinced your brain was playing tricks on you.

Is it possible to get second-hand high standing outside a dispo, google search?

“Bucky?” you breathed, disbelief thick in your voice.

He stood there silent, arms crossed and irritated. You were beginning to get used to his silence but this one was different. You could practically feel the disappointment radiating off of him. It made you want to cry.

You stood there frozen, shame hitting you like a bucket of ice. 

What were you doing? What were you thinking?

Your mind raced through all the possibilities, thoughts tripping over each other too fast to hold any of them down. How did he know where you went? Did FRIDAY track your location, that backstabbing whore? 

Did she tell your dad?

If she did you were fucked. You were so fucked. If he found out about this he would lock you up forever and throw away the key. 

The thought made you sick to your stomach. Your pulse spiked harder, loud and flooding in your ears.

“I… I… I just…,” you stammered, voice small against the noise of the city.

Your fingers curled in on themselves, nails biting into your palms as your breathing turned shallow. 

You felt stupid. Like a kid.

Bucky, ever so quiet, gave you a once-over, his eyes pausing on your hands, lingering just long enough to clock the tremor, before flicking back up to your face.

His expression shifted.

“Get in,” he stated, tone even.

Don’t have to tell me twice.

You swallowed, cheeks burning. A million excuses wanted to escape, but none of them sounded the least bit convincing. Your lungs pulled for air that didn’t quite fill, like something was sitting heavy on your ribs.

You knew this feeling all too well.

You willed your body to move, walking on autopilot before throwing yourself into the passenger seat. The last thing you wanted to do was to make a scene out there and add fuel to the flame.

You felt the car shift as Bucky joined you, starting the car. You didn’t need to look to feel his gaze on you and frankly, you didn’t want to. You wanted to crawl into a hole and die is what you wanted to do.

Shakily, you crossed your arms over your chest and gave yourself butterfly taps.

Left, left, right, right.

Your fingers trembled as you tried to sync your breathing.

In.

Out.

You repeated the motion until the noise in your head dulled and feeling returned to your fingertips.

You swallowed, dragging in a deep breath that didn’t burn as much on the way down.

Okay, that’s good.

You’re good.

Taking a shaky breath, you watched as the car peeled away from the city, your short-lived freedom with it.

Bucky’s stare burned holes in your shoulder. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. You felt raw, too exposed.

There’s a certain kind of vulnerability that settles in after a near panic attack. It clings to you, soft and exposed, like you’ve been stripped of all your armour, like there’s nothing else for you to hide behind.

It’s the kind of feeling that makes you crave the comfort of another.

You hate that part. 

You shifted in your seat, pulling your legs in slightly before reaching up and tugging your hood over your head, the fabric falling forward like a shield.

Usually, you covered this feeling up through a hit of the pen but now…

You turned your face toward the window, pressing your temple lightly against the cool glass.

You tugged your arms out of your sleeves and hugged yourself, letting your eyes shut and the low hum of the engine lull you to sleep.

Your chest tightens when you reach the familiar door of your childhood bedroom. You storm inside and slam the door shut, beckoning for FRIDAY to lock it behind you. You take an earnest breath, the first one since you arrived home. The room was just as you remember it. Your bed sat tucked against the wall beside your desk, your lilac duvet neatly folded and pillows stacked evenly. Movie posters and your paintings still covered your walls, the dull glow of your fairy lights warmly highlighting the colours illuminating your room. Your monitor and Switch dock adorned your desk, waiting for you to hop on and get lost in a game. Across from your bed, your wardrobe stood half open, clothes hanging in neat rows beneath a strip of light. Under the tall window at the far end of the room sits the small couch you used to spend so many nights curled  up on with a good book, endless grass and nature stretching out beyond the glass in a scatter of distant shadows. Plants crowd the sill and your bookshelves, leaves full and green—somehow still alive. FRIDAY must have had someone take care of them while you were gone. 

The room is too big. It always has been, the open space making the quiet feel heavier than it should. Living here used to feel like being sealed off from the rest of the world– both metaphorically and physically. But over time you filled the space with small things; posters, books, soft lights, plants, places to sit—until the emptiness softened. Somehow, despite everything, you managed to turn it into something close to a sanctuary.

It was very important to you that not just anybody could be let in. So far, the guest list you and FRIDAY had compiled was more exclusive than Berghain.  Your room was your safe space, your haven, and probably the only place in the world where you truly felt as though you didn’t have to perform for anyone. 

Muscle memory guides you to the bottom drawer of your wardrobe. You shove the clothes aside and feel around until your finger snags the loose board in the back. You sing praises in your head and pull out your emergency stash box. A smile fights its way onto your face, you hid this 3.5 and bar months ago– holy foreshadowing. The weed’s probably dry as hell by now, but losing a lung is a small price to pay for salvation. You would do anything for an escape right about now. Giddy at the thought of relief, you popped the lid.

And froze cause bitch, you better be joking.

Empty. 

For a split second, you questioned yourself. Your brain short-circuited and refused to process what you were currently witnessing.

Your stomach dropped to your ass. 

“No. No—no, no, no.”

You shoved your hand back into the drawer, ripping the board out completely this time. Clothes hit the floor as you start digging like a feral raccoon. You checked the second hiding spot under your mattress. Then the third. The tampon box in your bathroom. The inside pocket of your winter coat, your lego flowers bouquet.

Nothing.

Every hiding spot.

Every joint.

Every pen.

Every pill.

Gone. 

Why do you find joy in taking everything away from me, Tony Stark?

Your vision whites out so fast it almost makes you dizzy. 

“You—” you start, voice shaking with disbelief. “You asshole.”

Hot tears struck like lightning. 

Tony Stark, one of earth’s mightiest heroes. Defender of the world; destroyer of your fucking life. 

First your mom.

The box goes flying across the room and slams into the wall. You don’t care who hears on the other end, you hope they all do. You hope your anger makes them uncomfortable. You hope the discomfort seeps its way into their bones.

Then he stole your normalcy.

You begin to pace. Hands in your hair, heart pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to break your ribs.

Your trust.

He went through your room.

Your privacy.

No one’s allowed in your room.

All Tony Stark does is suck people dry like a fucking vampire.

“FRIDAY,” you begin, panic striking through your voice, “what happened to my room?”

“All controlled substances and paraphernalia have been removed per Mr. Stark’s request.”

You sucked in a breath, “by whom?”

“Your father, y/n.”

Your chest heaved as the anger spiked hotter and hotter, bright and blinding.

FRIDAY, you bitch.

Your hands tremble with the leftover adrenaline. You growled into your fist and kicked a stuffed animal that fell onto the ground. 

You had no backups, you were really on your own.

The anger burned out as fast as it came.

What replaced it is much worse. Your room suddenly felt too quiet. Too big. Too sober.

Your eyes drifted across your room, taking in the mess you made. 

What are you doing?

You’re scared. 

You hate your brain, it’s your biggest enemy. It never shuts up, never gives you a break.That’s what the weed was for. The pills. The whatever-you-could-get-your-hands-on. Sedation, chemically assisted peace and quiet. You hate what you are without the sedation. You hate what it’s making you become. You can’t help it. It’s just that sometimes you get so angry you just lose control, lose yourself. You actually consider yourself a nice girl. It’s not your fault your bad days get really bad and it scares people. And guess what, it scares you too and you hate yourself for it too so why can’t everyone just leave you alone?

For a split second, the thought of a pink eyebrow razor comes to the forefront of your mind. You haven’t touched one of those in years. Your throat tightened, what the hell is happening?

Discomfort shoots through your nerves. How could that thought cross your mind? You needed to lie down, your mind could use a reset right about now.

You curled on the floor, too defeated to crawl to your bed. Tears dampen your cheeks, and for the first time in a long time, you turn to the comforts of sleep to hold you steady.

You don't think about your childhood often.

At least, not on purpose, anyways.

But lying there on the floor, in the deafening silence of your room, your mind starts wandering places you usually keep locked up.

Malibu came first.

Grief stuck to you like cheap cigarette smoke, hanging thick in the air, choking anyone and everyone in your vicinity with its toxins.

It had been a month since you moved across the country to live with your father in Malibu. The transition hadn’t been easy for any party involved. 

Your father knew about your existence prior to New York, he just wanted nothing to do with it. After all, you know how the joke goes– a journalist and Tony Stark walk into a bar… 

Out walks Tony Stark with a grieving child and matching PTSD diagnoses. 

That had been a particularly difficult time for the both of you. Tony was avoidant - holed up in his lab, no room for bastard child y/n. 

You on the other hand stayed quiet. You didn’t speak unless you were spoken to by your fancy therapist Dr. Newman or Miss Potts. 

With Miss Potts running a company and no friends from home to talk to, you spent a lot of time alone by yourself and with your thoughts. Sometimes it was fun, your imagination filling the roles of a friend. Most of the time, your imagination got mean and the boredom killed. 

You never told anyone this, but you’re glad your dad got that house blown up. The only good he’s done since you met him. Sometimes you wish you had been inside when the first missile hit.

You hated Malibu.

You hated your dad.

You wake with a start, cold and stiff. 

Your phone’s brightness blinded you as you checked the time. 

4:14 AM. 

Your stomach twists, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since… before this shit show. 

Fuck me. I’m marved.

You push yourself off the floor, joints protesting, and shove an oversized hoodie over your head.

You crack your door open, straining your ears to hear any noise in the compound. After the backstabbing snake shit FRIDAY pulled earlier, you declared that the two of you are currently beefing and that you will not be asking her for any help, thank you very much.

The compound is dead quiet, basically beckoning you to venture the halls and fill your belly. And besides, after the long day you had, who are you to say no?

You step into the hallway, scrolling through your phone as you walk, liking every anti-AI post you can find.

Eat that, FRIDAY.

You turn the corner to enter the kitchen when you find out you’re not the only one with the midnight munchies. 

Bucky Barnes, your new babysitter, looks up at you from his seat at the breakfast bar. He’s got a bowl of idgaf in front of him, and nursing a steaming mug of we don’t care. 

He watches you for a moment, expression unreadable, it’s the kind of stare that makes you feel like he’s seeing more than you’re showing. You had half a mind to mean mug him before honing in on the unlimited selections and options the Avengers kitchen had to offer. 

He offered you a polite nod– which you ignored completely, and focused your attention on what could fill you up the fastest. 

You popped a pack of toaster strudels in the toaster and poured yourself a kings size cup of orange juice while you waited. You glanced over your cup as you drank, eyeing Bucky, daring him to comment on you drinking half the carton. He raised his hands in mock surrender and you rolled your eyes and went back to ignoring him. 

The toaster pops and you grab the pastries before they cool, plate in hand, already turning towards the direction of your room.

You need to find a way to get some fucking weed in this bitch. You can’t stand the avengers and the constant eyes on you. You give it 3 days before your eyes become loose and fall out the sockets from rolling them too much. 

You glance back before turning the corner.

He’s still staring at you. 

His gaze guarded and measured, like he hasn’t quite got you figured out yet.

Your jaw tightened. 

Good God. This is going to be unbearable. Babysitter at the ripe age of 20, what a fucking joke your life is.