What the flip flops??

"Careful, Bucky!"

"Whaddaya mean, doll? M'careful, m'so— woah—"

You giggle as Bucky stumbles out of the jazz club and you grab the back of his shirt to stable him. It's still raining, but it's softer now, a light drizzle that clings to your lashes and hair, small droplets landing on your clothes.

"You look like you're being careful."

Bucky mimics you, making a weird face and moving his head animatedly. You thwack him on the head, and he cries out assault! in jest as he clutches his head.

You shake your head, grasping the bend of his arm, "C'mon, Barnes, let's get you home."

"I'm supposed to take you home." He pouts, but he puts one foot in front of the other anyway as you walk.

"We literally live across the street from each other, you can watch me walk back from the front door."

Bucky grumbles, "S'not very gentlemanly, is it?"

"Neither is being drunk," You point out, "Y'know, just because someone challenges you, doesn't mean you have to accept it."

He puffs out his chest and raises his chin, "But I won, didn't I?"

You sigh, "Yes, Buck, you won. Congratulations."

The two of you continue on in silence, only the soft patter of rain and the click of your shoes could be heard as you walked side by side.

And then Bucky stops abruptly, and you frown, "What?"

"Dance with me." 

"Dancing?" You blink, ". . . in the rain? We've been dancing, Bucky!"

"Dance with me, doll." There's a certain look in his eye you can't place, wide-eyed and almost pleading, his voice breathless.

Whatever that look is, you’re hopeless to it.

So you face him, chest-to-chest, letting one of his hands grasp your hip and yours on his shoulder, and then your free ones lace together.

Bucky leads in a gentle sway, humming softly, hooking his chin over your shoulder. You breathe slow, deep, inhaling the mix of his cologne, smoke and whiskey as his arm curls around your back.

It's way past midnight, and the two of you should really be getting home. But under the glow of a flickering lamplight and the gentle trickle of rain, Bucky Barnes let's his eyes flutter shut and believe that, in this moment, you're his.

Love.

"Love is a complex, multifaceted emotion characterized by deep affection, intense attachment, and an unselfish concern for the well-being of others."

You remembered reading that as a kid whilst flipping through a dictionary.

You're not sure about a lot of things now as you think back to then. Why were you looking through a dictionary? Why you cared to just read that one definition? Why did you remember that one specifically?

You have no answers. They apparently were left between your childhood self and that one golden colored evening.

For the longest time, love was just that.

A thing so difficult to explain — let alone define — still having specific boundaries and words associated in your brain.

You love your first stuffed toy. A ratty old bear.

You love your parents. Most days. Some days.

You love your friends. Every sun soaked day, and starry night.

You love sunsets. Golden and honeyed, that brings nothing but the feeling of being.

Love. A complex emotion that you now associated and defined with deep affection, an intense attachment, and abundant concern for the subject of your love.

Then you met Matt Murdock.

He met all these criteria at first. Deep affection for him and his dry remarks, and rich laugh. Intense attachment to him and his sense of righteousness, and justice. Abundant concern for him and his barely hidden bruises, and bleeding heart.

But when that turned into all your thoughts and days orbiting around him… Well, you're once again left with uncertainty and mystery. Perhaps, this was another secret left with your past self. This one shared with Matt instead of a dictionary.

He made you feel… something. Love? Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't just the feelings you'd associated with the word. It was more. So much more. Something you couldn't name. Something you couldn't understand.

Just a warmth in your chest. Consistent yet changeable. Sometimes so bright it burned and left marks. Sometimes so gentle it soothed and patched all the hurt.

It made you feel something you hadn't felt since you turned thirteen. Was this what love used to feel like before you'd changed? Was this what love used to be like before you'd defined it for yourself?

So free and so different. Like water. Infinite and ever-changing in its form. Sometimes a gentle wave, sometimes a frothing sea.

—

The thunder struck New York again. A sharp, white, slash of lighting striking down angrily against the tired, gray clouds.

A gust of air seemed to permeate into the room again, the curtain swaying with it. Cold.

That's when you feel warm arms, tightening around your waist. Soft lips pressed against your pulse.

"Sweetheart, you forgot to shut the window again," the words are murmured softly, the scratch of his beard barely registered in your hazy mind.

You choose instead to turn towards the warmth — him — nose burying into his chest, a hum of acknowledgement reverberating in your chest briefly.

You're met with the fabric of his hoodie. The tiniest hint of his laundry soap and cinnamon.

The rain drops fall and splatter. A rhythmic sound. Petrichor, and the fading scent of cinnamon.

His lips make their journey from the slope of your nose, to your cheeks, then — cheekily, gently — they find yours. Matt's bottom lip softly jutting between your own, lazy passes and soft sighs.

He continued till you rolled further away from burying your face away and closer to facing him. Chasing the warmth of his mouth and breath against your own.

He pulled away, unseeing hazel eyes darkened in the dim room. Hair a messy, spread out halo of soft curls. His hair really were the softest.

He parted with one last lingering peck to your lips His tall figure making it's way across the darkened blue room as you watched. The bruises on him almost hidden with the hoodie and the deep, indigo blue of the season. The few visible scars like the lightening that spilled across the sky right outside your window.

The window was shut with a gentle thud. Your eyes flutter as you curl towards his side of the bed, trying not to disturb the creases he left behind too much.

You could hear him move closer, a hand briefly pressing on your back in gentle affection before the sliding door was opened. He'd forgotten to close it, so it remained opened. Still.

—

You'd eventually managed to get out bed. Sleep warmed and tired.

Your bare feet turning cold as soon as they touched the floor. Padding out to the kitchen, you fumbled for the coffee maker. Then for the toaster.

Two eggs sat on the pan, runny and sizzling. Matt drummed a random tune on the counter. You watched it as you cut the fruit. And, you couldn't help but wonder what it was.

Was it a song he'd listened to for too long before it got stuck in his head? Was it a tune he'd been listening to from a street musician — something you can't here? Or was it just something Foggy had been humming the day before at the office and it just stuck?

So many questions left to rot in your throat.

In a blur, you'd both set up the table. Socked feet warming bare ones underneath.

The eggs were too warm, the toast was charred. The coffee was cold now, the fruits weren't totally ripe.

No one seemed to mind. Only scraping utensils, and the silence.

It was nice, in it's own way. The comfort found even in the silence. A moment of reprieve from the continuous movement of the world.

"You want to go today, sweetheart?"

The question was asked quietly as you'd gotten up with your plates and cups. You chose to ignore his half filled mug of coffee kept on the table still.

"Yeah," the answer is simple enough in it self. You still continue as you put the dishes in the sink.

"I just gotta clean up a bit first."

He lets out a hum of acknowledgement, it rumbled against you. Big arms around your waist, warm body pressed to your back.

You tried not to melt back into the affection and care.

—

The steam rose around you as the shower hissed on.

The warmth of the spray of the water was nice — though perhaps it was too warm — your skin tingling. Muscles loosening, bones turning denser somehow.

The tiredness seemed to settle into you instead of washing away with the sudsy water.

Your eyes burned and fluttered shut. Heat of the water and steam. Hair sticking to your face.

You could hear him moving about outside. The steady footsteps, and the shuffling of papers as he tucked them away in his office bag. The small, focused frown on his lips, brows furrowed, as he rifled through the records, choosing which one was to be put into the player.

Your eyes fluttered open. The hiss of the shower. The warmth of the water.

You turned the shower off with a quick flick of your wrist. The sound of the water still draining out, and the cooling steam kept you company.

—

As you walked out, you found him on the couch. Head tilted — probably listening to something… maybe a few blocks away.

The rain still fell about. Slower now.

"Matty, let's go."

His head turned towards you. Smile falling across his lips.

"You ready, sweetheart?"

You tried to swallow down the wave of nerves that took over you at that. No reason to be scared… it's just Matt. Your Matty.

"I think," your answer sounds unsure even to yourself.

The fond chuckle he lets out is enough to gut you, your chest twisting in adoration.

Warm arms pull you in. Standing toe to toe with him now, you look up.

Your sweet, beautiful, boy. With his soft hair. With his singing smile. With his kind, bleeding heart.

You could stay in this moment forever.

Frozen in time with him. A ruined photograph. A rusty memory.

The scarf Matt puts around your neck is nice. Warm, and soft.

He tucks it up properly. He always used to do that.

Then, he leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. Warm hands rub your arms, you can feel the warmth of them through your jacket.

"You're going to be okay, sweetheart. You always are, my brave girl," it's whispered, so surely. It makes your stomach twist. A kiss pressed to your forehead.

Were you?

—

The tire crunch the gravel as the taxi comes to a stop.

You get out after paying the driver, hands twisting and trembling as you stand at the gate of the park.

The sky was still bruised blue. Deep, and indigo. The rain had stopped though, a rushed goodbye on its end.

You walk through the twisting parts and mazes. Grey monuments all lined up, dried leaves and wet grass crunching under your boots.

You tugged the scarf tighter around your neck. You were warmer now.

Thunder boomed once again. The wind howled, seemingly pushing you towards your destination.

"Hey."

Your voice is small compared to the sounds of nature around you.

A sole mourning dove sitting on the shaking tree branch even now. Did it want to follow Matt too?

"I made it today…" You sit down on the damp grass in front of the headstone despite the muddy, messiness of the earth. You swallow down the lump in your throat as you read the name again.

MATTHEW MICHAEL MURDOCK

"I forgot to close the window again, Matty."

The faint smell of cinnamon on the hoodie under your coat is as precious to you as he was — he is.

Grief.

"Grief is the natural, complex emotional and physical response to a significant loss."

You'd read the definition last night in the glow of your laptop.

You had decided to ignore it this time. Loving Matt Murdock had taught you better. Grieving Matt Murdock had taught you better.

So, instead, you sit there, accompanied by the mourning dove, the howling winds, and the soon to come storm. The earth pulling you closer down. The grief frothing in you now. You pray that death is kinder to your beautiful boy than life was. —

taglist: @ace-degenerate-13 @lina-murdock @lambmurdock @vigilantekisser @nohugsallowed @moth-murdock @writing-not-crying @angelmurdock @bex-or-rebekah @cloudmurdock @marvlettes @that1weirdweebgirl @obsessedwithfakeguys @thychuvaluswife @silkenmurdock

“Come on. I’m gonna teach you.”

He jumps in his seat. “Now?”

“Right now,” you nod, already dragging him away by the collar.

So you end up outside at the park, just a block away from headquarters. Bob is sitting on the bicycle — a city bike that you rented just for him — while you hold the seat. He’s blushing, not from the heat, but from how close you are. You’re practically hugging his back, your chin on his shoulder.

“I’ll push, and you peddle. It’s easy.”

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I don’t have good balance.”

“It’s about momentum!” Your voice is chipper and encouraging. “If you feel like you’re gonna fall, just peddle faster. Don’t break too hard, either. Pump, don’t clamp.”

Bob wrinkles his nose, blinking firmly. “Okay… What if I fall anyway?”

“Simple: I’ll keep up and catch you.” 

He huffs, not particularly convinced, but squares his shoulders anyway. “Yeah, okay. Let’s try it.”

Bob starts slow, peddling at a leisurely pace; you hold his seat steady, gradually picking up speed to push him a little faster. He’s already breaking into a sweat, gripping the handlebars and focusing on some point far ahead.

You don’t announce it when you let go. You just let him fly, watching proudly as Bob zooms around the park, weaving seamlessly through passerby. He’s better at this than either of you expected.

By the time Bob realizes that you’ve long since let go of him, he’s already halfway through a lap around the park. Only then does he falter, heart racing as he panics, going too far too fast — his balance is lost, and within seconds, he’s teetering into the grass.

You race over to him just before he can topple over entirely. He falls into your arms as you tug him back, saving him from the (not-so-crushing) weight of the bicycle.

“Are you okay?” You’re quick to ask, already mentally preparing an apology.

To your surprise, Bob stares up at you and shakes his head with a grin.“I never want this to end,” he says with a shy laugh. 

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Good.” You haul him back up to his feet, and he teeters, intentionally leaning against you. With a smile of your own, you pat his hip. “Ready for the next lap?”

Bob nods. “Ready. Definitely ready.”

fancy some more?

Lazy days in with Bob are a very common occurrence and honestly you wouldnt have it any other way

Between Bob’s depression,Bipolar and everything you got going on (take that as you will) on top of being apart of the mighty team of new Avengerz life is absolutely chaotic and draining so days just lounging in bed are a given but always a treat

Usually they happen on Sundays as a way to recover from the week and prepare for the week ahead

These cozy days in you and Bob are inseparable, you are both very clingy people on your one but together… god you two are practically glue together, but it’s by choice. You both love each other and love the company so why would you be apart,

It’s nearly midday when Bucky groggily comes out of your shared bedroom. On his way to the kitchen, he notices you on the living room couch reading. He admires you for a moment before a small glint coming from your left ring finger catches his eye.

All grogginess leaves his body as he suddenly becomes aware of what this could mean. A slight panic sets in. 

Looking up from your book, you notice him. You give him a warm smile, one full of love.

“Good morning Sleeping Beauty! I thought you’d never wake up,” you playful tease him. You very well knew this was going to happen with how much Asgardian mead he drank last night. 

He was pretty out of it.

Bucky ignores your greeting. He needs to know how and where you found the ring.  

He makes his way in front of you quickly asking, “Where’d you get that?” He points at the ring on your finger.

You look at the ring smiling as you remember what happened last night.

“Baby, pleeeeease,” he begs. 

“No Buck.” He’s been trying to ask you something. You know exactly what it is he wants to ask. He always does this when he’s drunk. It’s honestly very sweet. 

“Buck maybe you should wait for tomorrow, you know? When you’re sober and know what you’re doing and saying…” You say trying to curb his actions. 

“Baby come on!” he pleads. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” his words slurring together a little. He gets down on one knee, his hands holding your hips. He looks up at your eyes, desperately begging, “Please let me do this.”

You’re a sucker where Bucky Barnes is concerned. You can never say no to him. “Fine,” you resign with a sigh. You know just how dramatic he can be when he doesn’t get his way.

He laughs triumphantly with an enthusiastic, “Yes!”

“Sweetheart,” he clears his throat becoming a little more serious, “I love you with everything that I am. You are my favorite person. It would make me the happiest man on Earth- no! The happiest man in all the universe if you would do me the honor in becoming my wife. Will you marry me?” 

He takes a quick moment to pause. You can tell he wants to say something else so you don’t answer just yet. “Pleeease.” He smiles widely at you while flashing you his very charmingly-drunk version of puppy dog eyes.

You smile giggling at him. Even drunk, he knows what he wants. How are you supposed to say no? You never do. “Of course I’ll marry you Buck.” 

In a flash, he’s on his feet picking you up off yours. He twirls you slightly, a little off balance. He kisses you sweetly. 

He pulls back realizing he’s forgetting a very important part when it comes to proposing.

“Oh wait! I’m supposed to give you this.” He says digging into his pocket. He gets down on one knee again.

Your eyes widen as you realize he actually meant this proposal. It’s real. He has a ring, the ring. And it’s on him. Tears well up in your eyes.

He clumsily takes the ring out of the box and reaches for your left hand. You’re speechless, tears slipping out of your eyes. He places the ring onto your finger making it real. It’s perfect.

He gently kisses the back of your hand before looking up at you with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen grace his face.

You take his face in your hands, “Bucky, you silly handsome man, I love you so much!” You bend down to kiss his stupidly happy face.

“You know he’s going to be mad at you tomorrow right?”

“Screw him!”

“Oh, I will.” You say suggestively moving your eyebrows up and down. 

“I can’t believe he asked before I did! That little weasel!” Bucky says referring to ‘Drunk Bucky.’ ‘Drunk Bucky’ and ‘Sober Bucky’ are separate people as far as he’s concerned.

He’s pacing, arms flailing about wildly. You smile lovingly at his antics.

 He stops suddenly turning to you again, “And you said yes?!”

“I always say yes, Buck. You know that,” you remind him gently. 

“But I had this whole thing planned.” he whines, “I can’t believe you said yes! And to him!” Always so dramatic, you chuckle to yourself. 

“Yeah well, he beat you to it,” you smirk shrugging at him. To put him out of his misery, you get up to place a soft kiss on his jaw. “Besides, you can ask again right now, if you want. We both know what I’ll say, but at least it’ll be you this time.”

“Yeah I think I will.”

And he does. Again, it's perfect.

The apartment felt too quiet.

Not peaceful—never peaceful. Just… empty.

Your dress was still there.

You hadn’t had the strength to put it away, so it hung on the closet door where you could see it. Ivory satin, untouched except for the creases from where you’d sat for hours, waiting.

11:30.

The time echoed in your head like something unfinished.

Your phone sat in your lap, screen dark now. No new messages. No missed calls.

Nothing.

It had been two days.

Two days of silence. Two days of trying to convince yourself he hadn’t just… left you.

“He wouldn’t do that,” you whispered for what felt like the hundredth time.

But the words didn’t land the way they used to.

Because if he didn’t leave… then something worse had to be true.

A noise broke the silence.

Soft.

Subtle.

Wrong.

Your head snapped up.

“…Hello?”

Nothing.

You stood slowly, heart beginning to pound—not fast, but heavy. Uneven. Like your body already knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

Another sound.

Behind you.

You turned—

—and froze.

He was standing there.

Bucky.

Your breath hitched so sharply it hurt.

“Buck—”

Relief crashed into you so hard your knees nearly gave out. “Oh my god—Bucky—”

You moved toward him without thinking, tears already spilling over. “Where were you? I’ve been calling—I thought—”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t say anything.

The words died in your throat.

Something was wrong.

Terribly, horribly wrong.

“…Bucky?” your voice trembled now, uncertain. Slower.

He stepped forward.

Not toward you.

At you.

Your breath caught.

His expression was blank—empty in a way that made your stomach drop. His eyes… they weren’t soft. They weren’t warm.

They weren’t him.

Cold.

Focused.

Like you were nothing more than a point on a map.

“Target located,” he said flatly.

The world tilted.

“What…?” you laughed weakly, shaking your head. “No—no, stop. That’s not funny.”

He kept walking.

Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.

Your chest tightened. “Bucky, stop—what are you doing?”

No response.

Just another step.

And another.

Fear started to creep in, icy and sharp.

“Bucky…?” your voice cracked. “It’s me.”

Nothing.

You took a step back.

Then another.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” you pleaded, hands shaking as you gestured to yourself. “Look at me. You know me. You—”

He lunged.

You gasped as your back hit the wall, his metal arm slamming beside your head, caging you in. The impact made you flinch, breath stuttering.

“Don’t move,” he said.

That voice.

It sounded like him.

But it wasn’t.

Tears spilled faster now, panic setting in fully. “Bucky, please—please don’t do this.”

His grip caught your wrist—tight, unyielding.

You cried out softly, trying to pull back. “You’re hurting me—Buck, you’re hurting me—”

No reaction.

No hesitation.

Just cold efficiency.

“Asset secured,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“No!” you sobbed, struggling now. “No, listen to me—please—please listen—”

Your other hand grabbed onto his jacket, desperate, grounding yourself in something familiar.

“You were supposed to be there,” you choked out. “11:30, remember? The courthouse—you promised—you said you wouldn’t be late—”

For a split second—

He paused.

It was barely anything. A flicker. A hesitation so small it could’ve been imagined.

Hope surged.

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You didn’t come.”

His jaw tightened.

“…irrelevant,” he said, but it sounded strained. Wrong.

“Yes it is!” you cried. “It matters—you matter—we matter—”

He grabbed your arms, forcing them down, pinning you in place.

“Stop resisting.”

“I’m not resisting, I’m—” your voice shattered. “I’m begging you.”

Your knees buckled slightly, but he held you up like it meant nothing.

“Please,” you sobbed, searching his face frantically. “Look at me—really look at me—”

Nothing.

No recognition.

No warmth.

Just the Winter Soldier.

“I love you,” you said, the words tumbling out desperately. “You love me—you were going to marry me—you asked me—you—”

His grip tightened.

Pain shot through your arms.

“Do not speak,” he snapped, sharper now.

You gasped, tears blurring everything. “Don’t do this—please don’t do this—Bucky, please—”

Your forehead pressed against his chest as you broke, sobs wracking through you.

“Don’t take me,” you whispered. “Please… not you.”

Silence.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then—

His hand faltered.

Just slightly.

His fingers loosened—not enough to let you go, but enough to hesitate.

Your breath hitched.

“Buck…?” you whispered, fragile hope threading through the fear.

His expression flickered.

Pain.

Confusion.

Gone in an instant.

His grip snapped back, stronger than before.

“Target is compromised,” he muttered.

“No—no, I’m not—” you shook your head frantically. “I’m not a target, I’m yours—”

The words slipped out without thinking.

They hit harder than anything else.

Something in his face cracked.

A flicker. A fracture.

“…yours…” he repeated under his breath.

Hope surged again—bright, desperate, fragile.

“Yes,” you said quickly, nodding through tears. “Yes—yours—Bucky, please—come back to me—”

His eyes met yours.

For a second—

Just a second—

You saw him.

And it broke you.

“Don’t…” your voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t do this to me.”

His jaw clenched.

His hand lifted—

You flinched.

But instead of striking—

A sharp sting pierced your neck.

Your eyes widened.

“No—”

Your body went weak almost instantly, legs giving out as he caught you.

“Bucky…” you slurred, barely conscious now, fingers weakly gripping his shirt. “Please…”

His arms held you steady.

Too steady.

Too practiced.

But his breathing—

It wasn’t.

It hitched.

Just once.

“…mission,” he said quietly, like he was reminding himself.

Your vision blurred, fading fast.

“Don’t… let them…” you whispered, barely audible now. “Take you… from me…”

Darkness pulled you under.

The last thing you felt was his grip tightening—just slightly—like he didn’t want to let go.

And the last thing he heard—

Was your voice.

Not screaming.

Not fighting.

The hotel room was quiet in that fragile, suspended way that only existed on mornings that mattered. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, spilling across the soft satin of your dress where it hung by the window. You’d woken up earlier than you needed to—too full of nerves, too full of excitement, too full of him.

Today, you were marrying Bucky Barnes.

You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the fabric pooled in your lap. The dress was simple—no lace, no heavy beading—just smooth ivory satin that caught the light with every movement. It hugged you in all the right places, elegant without trying too hard. Exactly what you wanted. Exactly what he loved.

“I like you in simple,” he’d said once, voice soft, thumb tracing your jaw. “Lets me focus on you.”

Your reflection in the mirror made your heart stutter. Your long hair fell over your shoulders in soft curls, not overly styled, just enough to feel special. You looked like yourself—just… brighter. Like the version of you that existed only when you were with him.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You lunged for it, breath catching—but it was just a notification. Not him.

You glanced at the time.

10:52 AM.

Still early.

Still fine.

Bucky was never late. Not for you. Not for anything important. But this was… big. Maybe he got held up. Maybe Steve cornered him with some last-minute speech. Maybe—

You exhaled, shaking your head with a small smile.

He was probably nervous.

You slipped into your heels, grabbed your small bouquet from the dresser, and took one last look at the room before heading out.

⸻

The courthouse was quieter than you expected.

There were a few people milling around—some couples, some families—but nothing overwhelming. It made it feel more intimate. More real.

You checked in at the front desk.

You gave your name, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest.

“And your partner?”

“Bucky Barnes.”

The clerk nodded, typing something in.

“Your appointment is at 11:30. You can wait over there.”

You thanked her, moving to one of the wooden benches. Your dress whispered softly with every step, drawing a few glances—but you barely noticed.

Your eyes were on the door.

Every time it opened, your heart leapt.

Every time, it wasn’t him.

⸻

11:24 AM.

You checked your phone.

No messages.

No missed calls.

You bit your lip and typed quickly:

Hey, where are you? I’m here.

Sent.

You stared at the screen like it might answer you back.

Nothing.

⸻

11:31 AM.

Your leg bounced, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands.

You called him.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

No answer.

“Come on, Buck…” you whispered, forcing a small laugh. “This isn’t funny.”

You hung up, immediately dialing again.

Voicemail.

You tried again.

Voicemail.

⸻

11:38 AM.

Are you okay?

Sent.

Did something happen?

Sent.

Bucky please.

Sent.

Your chest tightened with every unanswered message, every call that went nowhere. This wasn’t like him. Not even a little.

Not for you.

Never for you.

⸻

Across the room, the clerk glanced at you with something that looked a little too much like pity.

“Would you like to reschedule?” she asked gently.

“No,” you said too quickly, shaking your head. “He’s—he’s coming. He just… got held up.”

You forced a smile.

“He’ll be here.”

He had to be.

⸻

11:52 AM.

Your hands were shaking now.

You called again.

Straight to voicemail.

“Bucky,” your voice cracked when the tone started recording. “Hey, it’s me. Um… I’m here. I’ve been here. I don’t—I don’t know what’s going on, but… please. Just call me back. Please.”

You hung up, pressing your phone to your chest like it might somehow bring him closer.

Tears blurred your vision, and you blinked them away quickly. Not here. Not like this.

He wouldn’t do this to you.

He wouldn’t leave you waiting.

He wouldn’t—

⸻

Miles away, in a place that didn’t exist on any map, Bucky Barnes was fighting against restraints that cut into his skin.

His head throbbed, vision swimming in and out as harsh lights burned overhead. Voices echoed—cold, clinical, familiar in the worst way.

Hydra.

“Asset is resisting.”

“Administer another dose.”

“No—” his voice was hoarse, broken, barely his own. “No—don’t—”

A needle plunged into his arm.

Everything shattered.

Your face—your smile, your voice, the way you said his name—it flickered desperately in his mind like something slipping through his fingers.

11:30.

The time hit him like a gunshot.

“No—she’s waiting—” he gasped, straining against the restraints, metal arm clanking uselessly. “I have to—she’s—”

Pain surged through him, white-hot and blinding.

“Wipe him.”

“No—NO—”

⸻

Back at the courthouse, your phone remained silent.

12:07 PM.

The room had emptied out. The couple that came after you had already been called in and left, hands intertwined, smiling.

You sat alone on the bench, your bouquet wilting slightly in your grip.

Your dress still perfect.

Your hair still curled.

Your heart still waiting.

You stared at the door one last time.

“Please,” you whispered.

But it didn’t open.

And he didn’t come.

⸻

The message you sent last stayed unread.

I’m still here.

Cold.

That was the first thing Bucky registered when he came to—bone-deep, suffocating cold that wrapped around him like a second skin. It wasn’t just the temperature. It was familiar. The kind of cold that lived in his nightmares.

His eyes snapped open.

Metal walls. Stark lighting. The faint hum of machinery.

“No…” The word slipped out before he could stop it, rough and disbelieving. His breath came faster as he strained against the restraints digging into his wrists—his left wrist, his metal arm locked down tighter than the other.

Panic hit hard and fast.

“No no no no—“

“Well, look at that,” a voice cut in, smooth and cruel. “He’s awake already.”

Boots echoed against the floor. Bucky turned his head sharply, jaw tightening as a man stepped into view—sterile uniform, smug expression.

Hydra.

It hit him all at once.

The mission. The ambush. The sharp sting at his neck.

And then—

You.

Your smile the night before as you left for the hotel. The way your hand lingered in his when you said, “11:30. Don’t be late.”

His chest heaved.

“What time is it?” he demanded, voice cracking despite himself. “What—what day is it?”

The man laughed.

“Oh, that’s adorable. He thinks he has somewhere to be.”

Another agent leaned against the console, arms crossed. “Go on, Barnes. Tell us. Where were you supposed to go?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “Let me go.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He surged against the restraints, metal groaning under the strain. “Let me go!”

The first man sighed dramatically, stepping closer. “You really don’t remember how this works, do you? You don’t go anywhere unless we say so.”

Bucky’s breathing turned ragged. His mind was racing, trying to piece together time, distance, anything.

“She’s waiting,” he said, more to himself than to them. “She’s—she’s at the courthouse. I have to—”

That made them laugh.

Not just a chuckle—full, mocking laughter that echoed off the walls and crawled under his skin.

“A courthouse?” one of them repeated, grinning. “Oh, this just gets better.”

“You were getting married?” another asked, feigning surprise. “The Asset? Settling down? How domestic.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists. “Don’t—”

“Oh, we love this,” the first man interrupted, crouching down in front of him. “Tell me, did you pick out rings? Write vows? Promise her forever?”

“Shut up.”

“Did you tell her you’d be there?” he continued, voice dripping with amusement. “That you wouldn’t leave her waiting?”

“Shut up!”

The man’s expression hardened instantly. His hand shot out, grabbing Bucky’s jaw and forcing his head back.

“You don’t get to raise your voice,” he said coldly. “Not here.”

Bucky glared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

“Oh,” the man smirked, tightening his grip. “But we do.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something quieter. Meaner.

“She’s waiting for you right now, isn’t she?”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

“You think she’s checking her phone?” another agent chimed in from behind. “Calling you over and over?”

“Maybe she thinks you changed your mind.”

“Maybe she thinks you don’t love her.”

Each word hit like a punch.

“Stop it,” Bucky growled, but there was a crack in it now. A fracture.

“Or maybe,” the first man said, releasing his jaw only to pat his cheek mockingly, “she’s starting to realize what you really are.”

Bucky’s vision blurred with anger.

“I’m not—”

“A weapon,” the man finished for him. “That’s all you’ve ever been. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

“No.”

“No?” he echoed, amused. “You think you get a happy ending? You think you get a quiet life, a wedding, a little house somewhere?”

Bucky’s chest tightened painfully.

“You think someone like you gets to be loved?”

Silence stretched.

Then—

“They won’t stop coming for you,” the man went on, almost casually. “You know that, right? Even if you’d made it today… we’d find you. We always do.”

A chill ran down Bucky’s spine.

“And her?” another voice added. “She’s part of you now. That makes her… what’s the word?”

“Collateral.”

Bucky went still.

“No,” he said, low and dangerous.

The first man smiled.

“Oh, yes. In fact…” He tilted his head. “Maybe we should pay her a visit.”

Something inside Bucky snapped.

The restraints rattled violently as he surged forward with everything he had, metal arm straining, bolts screeching under the force.

“Don’t you touch her!” he roared, voice raw, desperate, furious. “Don’t you go anywhere near her!”

The agents didn’t flinch.

If anything, they looked pleased.

“There he is,” one of them murmured. “That’s the Asset we remember.”

Bucky’s breathing was out of control now, every muscle taut, every thought spiraling back to you.

Alone.

Waiting.

Checking your phone.

Thinking he’d abandoned you.

“They’re coming for her next,” the first man said softly, almost kindly this time—as if delivering a simple truth. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“No—” Bucky shook his head, over and over. “No, no, no—”

A syringe appeared in the man’s hand.

Bucky’s eyes widened.

“Don’t—please—”

“You don’t get a life,” the man said, gripping his arm. “You don’t get love.”

The needle plunged in.

“You don’t get her.”

Bucky gasped, body going rigid as whatever they injected burned through his veins.

The room blurred.

The voices distorted.

But through it all—through the pain, through the fear, through the darkness closing in—one thought clung desperately, refusing to let go:

You’re waiting.

And he wasn’t there.

And he couldn’t get to you.

No matter how hard he fought—