probably writing right now

Black and white tufts of fur greeted Bucky as he unlocked the front door. The two colours mixed with each other on top of the hardwood panels in the entryway, along with a tipped over stand-up lamp – proof of another disagreement between two of his three girls.  This was not a rare occurrence. Alpine, the snow-coloured feline that he had saved from a thunderstorm not too many weeks ago, was a born leader – at least in her own eyes.  Your other kitten, a sleek black cat with green eyes straight out of a witchy fairytale, named Spooky, had a gentler disposition but was not fully willing to surrender to Alpine’s tyranny. Therefore, two or three territorial (play)fights erupted per week, leaving behind the occasional clump of hair and tilted furniture. Bucky groaned as he knelt down to pick up after his cats – he knew how much it bothered you to see them fighting, even when it was playful, and he wanted to get rid of the evidence. But then he heard a soft sniffle. Alarm bells went off and his back straightened instantly.  “Sweetheart?” He called out, tufts forgotten.  He stepped further into the apartment and saw that the bathroom door was slightly ajar. Bucky groaned as he knelt down to pick up after his cats – he knew how much it bothered you to see them fighting, even when it was playful, and he wanted to get rid of the evidence. But then he heard a soft sniffle. Alarm bells went off and his back straightened instantly.  “Sweetheart?” He called out, tufts forgotten.  He stepped further into the apartment and saw that the bathroom door was slightly ajar. 

“In here,” you replied, a soft nasality accompanying your voice.  Bucky closed the distance between himself and the bathroom in less than a few seconds and peered inside. Distraught. That’s the only way he could describe your appearance. Traces of barely dried tears glistened on your cheeks, the tip of your nose reddened and shiny. Alpine and Spooky sat at each side of you, and even though Bucky didn’t think cats were capable of looking guilty, they were both curled up at your thighs, almost comforting.  “Doll, what happened?” Bucky asked gently, kneeling down before you. His eyes travelled over every inch of your body, searching for hidden injuries or anything to explain your tearful state. “Look,” you exclaimed, pointing at Alpine’s pink nose. Now, all of Bucky’s senses were enhanced by the serum, allowing him to see what most others couldn’t so he should have been able to detect whatever issue you were pointing out. He narrowed his eyes as he bowed down to Alpine, helplessly looking for whatever had you so worked up.  “Sweetheart, what am I looking at?” He asked after a few moments of inspecting the white cat, struggling to find a single hair out of place (except the ones still lying in the entryway of course).  “Bucky, open your eyes. The scratches,” you mumbled, a fresh spill of tears glistening on your waterline.  He finally saw them. Three miniscule red lines, slightly angled, went across Alpine’s nose. They were so tiny that he probably would have spent the next hour searching for them if you hadn’t pointed them out. “Oh,” he muttered. Bucky had to take a deep breath to hold back his brewing laughter. “Is that why you’re upset?” He asked, desperate to keep his voice gentle and understanding.  You nodded, a mix of a sob and a mumble escaping from your lips. “Spooky scratched her.” The mentioned cat mewled at her name, headbutting your hand softly. Bucky wondered multiple times a day whether the cats were only pretending not to understand him in order to not have to listen.  “Sweetheart,” he began softly, “It’s really not that bad. It’ll heal in no time. And it was probably a good lesson for Alpine. We can’t let her turn into a full-blown dictator.” Not the words you wanted to hear – Bucky saw that in your eyes.  “But we can’t let Spooky grow into a bully either.” You sounded so troubled that it tugged at his heartstrings.  He reached out to grab your hand, squeezing it gently.  “Listen, they’re… they’re cats,” he mumbled but you interrupted him.  “They’re sisters – our babies. They have to get along.” He blinked a few times and then nodded more understandingly than he felt. “They will. But sisters fight and then they make up, hm?” 

Bucky pulled you into a hug and you rested your cheek against his shoulder, letting your runny mascara stain his shirt. “It’ll be just fine,” he muttered, gently stroking your back.  The universe must have been in a good mood that day because when he gently pulled away to continue speaking, you both heard soft purring. Alpine and Spooky sat curled up next to each other, slowly cleaning each other’s fur as if they hadn’t spent the last half hour trying to rip it out of one another.  “See, baby?” Bucky exclaimed, “They’re alr-,” he didn’t get to finish his sentence as you were already pulling out your phone, holding it just millimetres away from the cats to capture the moment. A wet laugh tumbled from your lips as you watched them with heart eyes. Bucky only shook his hand gently, his own face lit up with a small smile as he saw his three girls happy. 

The first time before you slept over at Bucky’s place, you had sat him down on his couch and peered up at him with nervous eyes. You would have immediately switched out your little habit of accidental confessions, senseless one-sided conversations and creepy mutterings for a normal problem like snoring.  Too many friends, boyfriends and the occasional one-night stand had been scared off by your sleepy chatter – and this was only made worse by the way you could never recall a single word you had said.  So, when the words “I sometimes talk in my sleep” finally broke past your lips and he didn’t immediately get up and leave, the lump in your throat shrunk a little bit. “Okay,” he had replied, neither particularly concerned nor appalled by your revelation. To be honest, he seemed rather amused – a small smirk made its way upon his face. “So?” You blinked at him a couple of times, searching for the right words to make him understand that it wasn’t just a few mumbled words per night, it sometimes happened to be entire monologues.  “I mean, I really… like… talk. I tell you stuff- stuff that I can’t remember the next day. Sometimes even things that I don’t mean,” you explained. “That’s okay,” he replied so casually that it almost made you cry, “I won’t promise to not listen to your… nightly secret spilling but I won’t hold you to it.” And it turned out to not be as big of a problem as you had expected – in the beginning. Many mornings, you woke up next to Bucky, wrapped in his arms while he smiled down at you, faint amusement present on his face and a sparkle in his eyes that made you groan.  “I didn’t know you felt that way about my beard,” he greeted you one time. Or “Do you really think I look better in short sleeves?” Everything was fine – still humiliating but fine – as long as you only confessed your adoration for his arms at night. But it became a genuine reason for concern after you hit the six month mark in your relationship.  You of course knew about Bucky’s past, partly revealed to you by himself and in other parts through others. He had told you about the dark days he had spent in HYDRA’s grip in sparing details, leaving out some of the more gruesome parts.  But the longer you were together, the more he opened up, wanting to lay himself open before you in more than just one way. 

He showed you the words. He didn’t say them, had only scribbled them down onto a page, and then slipped it to you to read.  The Cyrillic letters didn’t make a lot of sense to you until Bucky gave you the English translation.  This is not where the problems began. The English words didn’t trigger the Winter Soldier, only the Russian ones did. And you didn’t speak Russian. You never heard them out loud. Until you did.  It was accidental, just you in the wrong place at the wrong time. You went to visit Bucky at work but couldn’t find him, so you stumbled into Bruce’s office in the hopes of asking him for directions. But he was in the middle of watching old footage, the volume low but you picked up the sounds nonetheless. The language was foreign to you and would have laid strangely on your tongue but your brain picked up the words subconsciously. 

Желание – Ржавый – Семнадцать – Рассвет – Печь – Девять – Добросердечный – Возвращение на Родину – Один – Товарный вагон You didn’t think too much of it, didn’t even remember it by the time you had found Bucky in one of the training rooms and went about your day as always.

By nighttime, you were beyond tired and ready to sleep for a week. Cozied up against Bucky’s side, one cool metal arm wrapped around you and the soft, steady sound of his breathing lulled you into your dream world within seconds.

Tonight’s manifestation of your subconscious mind happened to take place in a room you had never seen before. Faceless figures, taller than the average man, dressed in white lab coats, were surrounding a metal chair that stood in the centre of the room.  On that chair sat Bucky. Only he didn’t look like your Bucky. His hair was greasy, his skin slick with sweat and split open in places you had only ever seen scars.  Dream-you didn’t run to him, didn’t free him from the restraints or attempt to do anything to set him loose. Instead, you opened your mouth and strange words tumbled from your lips.  Желание – Ржавый – Семнадцать  “Sweetheart?” That voice didn’t stem from your dream. It came from far away, muffled by the invisible wall of your sleep.Рассвет – Печь – Девять  “Stop it. Please, what are you doing?” Dream-you didn’t stop. More words spilled, words that you still didn’t recognise. Добросердечный  “Stop it!”  You woke with a jolt when you felt the cold metal press of his fingers against your mouth. Bucky stared at you, mouth slightly open while tears shimmered in his blue eyes.  He didn’t remove his hand from your lips almost as if he was frozen in place. His chest heaved and sweat pearled down his temple. A cloudy, removed look had glazed over his eyes. Your eyebrows knitted together, and he must have recognised the confusion in your eyes as he slowly lowered his arm.  “What happened? What did I say?” You whispered. Immediately, you heard the hoarseness in your voice and wondered just how loud you had been this time. Usually, anything you said in your sleep came out as mutterings, but your throat felt like you had been yelling. He still looked at you, fear and disbelief etched into his face.  “I shouldn’t have…,” he began, scrambling out of bed quickly, “I shouldn’t have showed you the damn words.” Your jaw dropped, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.  “What?” You croaked, hoping there was some kind of misunderstanding. “I never should have showed them to you,” he repeated, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “I didn’t even know you spoke Russian.” “I don’t,” you whispered, and now your hands began to tremble as reality began to set it. You had almost freed the Winter Soldier in your sleep.  “Bucky, I’m so sorry,” you mumbled, sitting up in between your shared sheets.  He looked at you, his chest still rising faster than normal.  “No, it’s not your fault,” he protested immediately and brought another step of distance between the two of you.  “I… I should have…,” he gestured weakly, trailing off. “No, baby, you don’t understand,” you began, “When I came to visit you today, I couldn’t find you, so I was gonna ask Bruce. But he was busy, watching some old footage. That’s where I heard the words. I didn’t even think… I forgot about it. It didn’t seem important at the time.” Bucky listened to your explanation, his expression growing dimmer with every word you said.  The two of you sat in silence for a few moments until he cleared his throat. “I’ll have to talk to Bruce. I’m sure he can figure something out. He’s been trying to remove the words from my head for a while, so this is just… additional motivation.”  You stared at him as he headed for the door. “Bucky, wait,” you called out after him and followed him. The floor was cold under your bare feet as you stumbled behind him. He showed no inclination of slowing down.  “Just go back to bed,” he answered and disappeared around a corner. By the time morning came around, you hadn’t gotten a single second of sleep. Bucky hadn’t returned and had left his phone in the room so you couldn’t even call him.  When you had texted Bruce at 4:32 a.m., he shot back a short reply: We’re working on it. Bucky avoided you all day. You didn’t see him once, not during meals or in the evening. It was already past midnight when he finally stumbled into his room where you were waiting for him. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you, asking everybody for updates, I-,” you began but your voice died down as you got a better look at him.

He had deep shadows under his eyes and what seemed like burn marks on his temples. “Baby, what happened?” You asked and jumped to your feet. With two quick strides you had crossed the room and planted yourself before him, cupping his face gently to tilt it towards the small source of light next to your side of the bed. “It didn’t work,” he mumbled. Resignation tainted his voice as he spoke. “Banner ran tests, tried to cook the words out of my brain but he said it didn’t work.” With little to no pressure your fingertips ghosted over the already healing marks, but he flinched slightly. Not from pain but from your touch. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Please.” Tears welled up in your eyes, but you swallowed them. “Come to bed, baby,” you pleaded, pulling on his wrist to get him to move but he stood firmly in place. “I can’t,” he muttered, “I can’t sleep next to you.” You had to bite back the sob that threatened to escape your mouth. “Bucky,” you started, “You don’t know that it’s gonna happen again. Maybe it was a one-time thing. I can’t even remember the words.” He shook his head. “Maybe not. But it’s too dangerous. Banner said it’s probably in your subconscious. Just like in mine. I don’t wanna turn into… into him. I don’t want him to hurt you. I don’t wanna hurt you.” “You won’t.” “You don’t know that.” The room was silent, except for your breaths – a little too fast and too shallow. “Bucky,” you whispered, “How long will it take… until… until the words are gone from your mind?” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Could be days, could be… weeks… or longer.” Before you could even utter your protest, he shook his head again. “Sweetheart, I cannot risk it. So, I’m gonna sleep on the couch until… until I’m not a danger to you anymore.” You stared up at him with tear filled eyes. “I trust you,” you whispered. “But I don’t trust myself,” he replied defeatedly. You wanted to head home, not willing to take Bucky’s bed and make him sleep on the couch but he insisted that it was too late for you to drive home.

It took you hours to fall asleep. Between pitiful yawns and crying fits, sleep evaded you until the sky was just shy of turning golden and then finally, you drifted off. You were alone in a snowed-in clearing but you knew Bucky wasn’t far. So, you started walking. Determined, you made your way through the white dust, flakes falling and melting on your face. You didn’t feel the cold. Or the wind. All you knew was that Bucky was close. He laid on the ground and looked as if he was sleeping, his dark hair contrasting with the white background. When you reached out for him, his eyes opened and revealed the beautiful blue you loved so much. Your lips parted in greeting, but the words you spoke did not match the ones you had wanted to say. “Желание – Ржавый – Семнадцать – Рассвет – Печь – Девять – Добросердечный – Возвращение на Родину – Один – Товарный вагон” Like the night before, cold metal rested against your face when you woke. This time however, it didn’t cover your mouth. Instead, it cupped your cheek, almost cradled it. You found yourself in the living room and your heart dropped. Sleep talking was normal for you, sleepwalking however definitely not. The fingers on your face moved gently, so typical for Bucky. But the eyes that stared at you, fixated you, did not resemble his at all. They were darker, narrowed and sharp; they pierced through you and practically pinned you in place. “Bucky,” you whispered, knowing well that it wasn’t him at the moment. Not a single motion of recognition crossed his face. Bucky wasn’t here right now. Only the Winter Soldier.

Bucky’s chest heaved as he slammed the door behind him. Regret filled him immediately, but he kept walking. Down the corridor, out of your apartment building and onto the street. He stopped for a few seconds to peer up at your window and a cold iron ring settled around his chest. The curtains were drawn but he could have sworn he saw the fabric move. He guessed that you were watching, waiting to see if he would come back. The two of you had been fighting for weeks now. About everything, anything. His work, the risks he was taking, his disagreement with Sam. You weren’t necessarily not on his side, but you kept urging the two of them to talk, to find a way to get along and it was driving him insane. So, you argued. And he yelled back. And you called him an idiot. And he slammed the door. He didn’t feel ready to go back and talk it out with you, so instead he brought his bike to life and drove off, ignoring the speed limit and street signs. The howl of the motor wasn’t loud enough to drown out his thoughts, replaying the argument over and over again, and neither was the grinding of his teeth.  When he arrived at the Watchtower, his jaw hurt from the strain.  He parked the bike and had to physically stop himself from kicking it in frustration. He didn’t want to fight with you; he didn’t want to be angry with you. It was killing him to see the two of you on different standpoints.  The constant arguing was getting to him, settling deep in his stomach and not quite letting go, even after reconciling with you. It was as if you two were stuck in an endless circle of disagreements and then making it up to each other. It ate away at you, too. He saw it. In the way you sighed when he came back after a fight, or in the bags under your eyes after either one of you sleeping on the couch.  A few more hairs in his beard had lost their colour, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw a few more pronounced lines between his eyebrows. Disagreeing with you was threatening to make him look closer to his actual age.  The idea that one day you wouldn’t hear him out anymore, wouldn’t let him apologise or would refuse to say sorry for your own harsh words, haunted the back of his mind. That one day, you might decide to break his heart into a million pieces, for the better of both of you; it lingered. It ate him alive. 

The elevator dinged chirpily as the doors slid open to reveal Walker, Yelena and Ava sitting together in the common area, sharing a bowl of snacks while watching the news. Well, only really John was watching – Yelena and Ava were stacking chips on his head while he was absolutely absorbed in the military documentary playing on screen. “You’re back!” Alexei’s voice boomed through the room, and despite Bucky’s more than solid form, the Soviet’s Supersoldier clap on his shoulder sent him staggering a few feet forward. Yelena’s head whipped to them and even from the distance, Bucky saw the knowing look on her face.  He hated that he had a tell – and even more so that she knew it – for when he fought with you. John’s attention was momentarily captivated by Bucky’s return and the chips tumbled down onto the couch which elicited a sign from Ava.

“Oh, oh, why the long face?” Alexei asked, as he took in Bucky’s appearance and Yelena chortled.  “Trouble in paradise, again?” She teased while grabbing a chip from Walker’s collar, throwing it in the air and then catching it with her mouth. Bucky grunted some non-committal sound and strode past them, heading for his room. “Come on, you have to tell us all about your troubles. I know much about relationships,” Alexei called after him and Bucky wished he didn’t have supersoldier hearing when he picked up Yelena’s response.

“Which relationship is it that’s troubling you? You and the missus or you and Sam?” “We’re all fine,” he grunted and then disappeared into his room, planning on hiding there until his statement came true.  Not five minutes later, a knock sounded at his door.  “Jesus wept,” Bucky whispered to himself and got up, opening the door with more vigour than necessary.  Bob stood there, an anxious smile on his lips as if he wasn’t sure if his presence was appreciated or not (- it wasn’t). “I know I’m probably the last person you wanna ask about relationship advice-,” he began, and Bucky cut him off. “Yeah, you got that right.” Bob gave him a short apologetic glance but then continued. “All I wanna say is that maybe not all hope is lost,” he insisted but Bucky interrupted him again. “’Cause it isn’t. Never said it was.” “Right, but you look like she ran over your grandma and then danced on her grave, man. Listen, maybe I’m not the best person to go to with problems like this but the last time someone almost broke up with me, I took a nap and then talked it out with hi- them, uh, once I felt calmer.” “We’re not gonna break up,” Bucky grumbled, crossing his arms in front of his chest.  Bob nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just saying, give it time. Get some sleep. Not that you need it or have to listen to me or whatever. Just… things usually get better when you take a nap.” Bucky stared at him disbelievingly, then sighed.

“Fine, I’ll take a nap,” he mumbled. He probably would have agreed to whatever Bob said in order to make him go away so that he could lick his wounds in peace. Bob’s face lit up slightly and he gave him a quick smile before retreating. Bucky let the door fall shut with a little more force than needed. Still, he found himself wanting to follow the other man’s advice and settled down on his bed reluctantly. He was exhausted, mentally and physically but still he didn’t find peace immediately. Instead, he grabbed his phone, opened the messages app and clicked on your contact info. For a few seconds his finger hovered over the call button. Your contact picture – one that he had taken not too long ago – smiled up at him, tearing at his heartstrings in both longing and wounded pride.  “Goddammit,” he whispered and locked his phone again, discarding of it on his nightstand where one of your necklaces lay as well. Dread washed through him at the sight of it. Bucky still felt too angry to reach out, not wanting to make things worse than they already were with comments thrown out in an emotion induced state.  “Can’t believe Bob’s fucking right,” he murmured and closed his eyes, praying that sleep would come to claim him quickly.

He woke with his senses on high alert. Something was off and it raised the hair in the back of his neck.  Within milliseconds, he sat up straight in bed, scanning the room. The air was lighter, and sunbeams filtered through the curtains, giving everything a golden glow. Had he slept through the entire night? How the hell did he- wait. Curtains? Bucky practically jumped out of bed, running over to his window.  Now, he was a man with priorities. Functionality, cleanliness and stability. He had a solid bedframe, a tall wardrobe and an organised desk, the only clutter in his room a few books and worn picture frames. Never in his life had he bought curtains. Or a vanity table. That specific piece of furniture adorned the wall opposite of the door, standing there as if it belonged. Two small scratches were carved into the wooden flooring next to it, seemingly proving that someone had tried to rearrange the layout of it without the needed strength. “What the hell?” Bucky murmured to himself as he took in the rest of his room. Pieces of clothing were splayed across a fuzzy chair that he had never seen before in his life. As he picked up one of the shirts, dizziness hit him. It smelled like you.  He swayed on his feet, threatening to stumble back against the wall as panic gripped his chest.  What is going on? He lunged towards the door and would have ripped it open, if the pictures on the wall hadn’t caught his attention. It was a collection of polaroids, hung up in a specific order. Two of them he recognised, even though to his knowledge, they were supposed to be in his wallet.  The furthest one left was the first picture of you two ever taken. Outside the tower, you curled up into his side, shielding your eyes against the sun while holding onto him. His arm wrapped around you and a not quite serious, not quite happy expression plastered across his face. That had been eight months ago, when you had met the team for the first time. Afterwards, Alexei had insisted on taking a polaroid of the two of you (“To make you never forget this great day!”). The other one with which he was familiar, was one he had stood behind the camera for, himself.  It showed you wearing Bucky’s leather jacket, and half of his metal arm was in the frame as well. You had reached out for it, trying to get him into the picture, too, but he had been quicker, snapping the polaroid to only display you, a bright smile and eyes full of love as you had called out to him to join you.  A shiver ran through Bucky as he stared at the other pictures. There were more than twenty, hung up in four neat lines. It was clearly a timeline of your relationship, some posed, others clearly taken in the moment, and his heart dropped as his eyes arrived at the last picture.

His photograph-self was on one knee, holding a velvet box, while you had your hands flung across your mouth, the shock and joy on your face obvious even despite the image’s terrible resolution. Sam stood in the back corner, a proud smile on his face as he looked at whoever had taken the picture.  Bucky’s head was spinning. He must be dreaming. The fight with you had taken over his subconscious and now he was dreaming of a future of you because he didn’t want to lose you.  Like a cartoon character, he pinched his arm. And felt the pain. You can’t feel any pain in your dreams. He knew that. So, he pinched harder. And it hurt.  “What the fuck?” He mumbled, slapping himself once. His cheek stung. He held his breath until he almost passed out. Ok, so not dreaming. Maybe he had rolled out of bed and hit his head real hard, causing him to hallucinate. Or maybe he was dead and this was heaven.  Yeah, that didn’t make sense; he had survived falling hundreds of feet off a train so dropping onto his hardwood floor in his sleep would surely not send him beyond the pearly gates. And then he heard it. Your voice. He would know it anywhere, in life, in death and in whatever messed up situation he found himself in now. The sound ghosted through the closed door like it was beckoning to him, asking him to find his way to you.  His fist closed around the doorknob, pulling it open in a slow trance. The sound of your voice grew louder, and he recognised the song you were singing along to.  Desperation grabbed him. He had to see you. So, he stepped forward, following your voice and it led him to the kitchen of the tower.  Before walking around the corner, Bucky paused. He still didn’t know what was going on. If this was real or if it was some kind of co-dependency induced vision; his mind was theoretically cleared by Shuri but who knew? Maybe he was truly starting to lose it.  As his thoughts spiralled, he didn’t hear the footsteps closing in on him.  You almost bumped into him, eyes wide with shock and then the skin next to them crinkled softly as you smiled at him. “Hi, baby,” you greeted him, “I was just coming to wake you.” You reached out for him, your right hand coming up to his face to brush your knuckles across his cheek. It was such a familiar gesture, one that you had gifted him a million times before. Still, he could have dropped to his knees as you reached out for him. And that’s when he saw it, the ring sparkling on your ring finger. The one, that he had put there – apparently. Or was going to.  He didn’t know how he knew but he did. This was not a dream, not a vision born from injury, insanity or mind control.  This was his future. This was a promise. For once the universe seemed to be on his side, allowing him this brief glimpse, telling him it was going to be alright. Everything would work out. “Hi,” he rasped and leaned into your touch. The second his skin connected with yours, a smile spread across his face. You looked at him with a mix of adoration and concern.  “You feeling okay, baby?” You asked, resting your hand on his forehead. He nodded immediately and like the love drunk fool he was, he would have done anything to prevent you from worrying about him – or anything at all ever again. “Yeah, I just missed you,” he whispered. 

He woke with a jolt, sitting up as straight as a candle in bed. It was dark in his room. There were no sunlit curtains, no vanity desk and no polaroids on the wall.  He reached for his phone and looked at the time. Barely an hour had passed since he had fallen asleep.  Set on a mission to not spend a second more than necessary without going to you and pleading for your forgiveness, he got to his feet and pocketed his phone.  He was already halfway out the building when he almost sent Bob to the floor with the force of his walk.  “Sorry,” he called out but then stopped himself from stepping into the elevator. He turned to face Bob and pulled him into a hug. “I fucking love you, Bob. You were right. A nap was all it took.”

He left the other man standing there, looking absolutely flabbergasted and slightly flushed.  Bucky pressed the elevator’s button and wondered how many traffic laws he could break on his way to you in order to shorten the amount of time spent apart from you.

you play it so damn cool, 'cause baby, you are Bucky was a quiet lover. He would send you flowers at the end of the week, little gifts on special occasions and he’d spend time with you, either tucked away in tranquil corners of restaurants or curled up together in dark corners and sequestered rooms of the tower. Most of the time however, you spent at your apartment. He had told you he was a private person when you met, and you had understood that. Sometimes you wanted to show him off just a little – introduce him to your parents and friends, kiss his cheek on his birthday – but you were patient and held out on such things. Instead, you relished in your shared secrecy. Keeping things just to yourself had its benefits as well. Most of the time.

But once you hit the six-months-mark in your relationship, things got a little rocky. Your friends were pushing to meet him, and you were eager to share your joy with them. Bucky protested the way only he could: With smooth words and even smoother kisses. “Doll, I just want us to stay us for a little longer. I like having you all to myself,” he explained, his voice dipped in soft honey. He pulled you in closer and kissed the corner of your mouth. His stubble tickled your skin and managed to produce a little giggle from your lips.  “Well, baby, you still have all of me to yourself even if you meet some of my friends. They’re really curious about you and wanna know who I spend all of my time with,” you retorted and pushed him away just a little to look at him.  Those ocean blue eyes, usually filled with so much warmth when he looked at you, clouded just a tiny bit when he noticed your reluctance to drop the topic.

He stayed quiet for a few seconds, and you felt the need to shrink away under his piercing stare, but you didn’t give up. “They’d love you.” “Sweetheart,” he began, “I wanna meet them. That’s not it. I just- I think I’m not ready to go there yet.”  Something in you cracked – just a little. It would be easy to smooth it over, to fill the fracture in your heart and piece it back together, if he just added a few more soothing words, so that you wouldn’t feel like an idiot for wanting your boyfriend to meet your loved ones. But his lips remained sealed and he simply ran a hand over your cheek. “Yeah?” He asked once he had noticed that you hadn’t answered.

No. Not yeah.  The words almost spilled out, but you clamped your teeth shut against each other, biting away the tears which threatened to fall.  “Okay, baby,” you said instead and nodded for good measure, ignoring the blistering pain, lit by insecurities, that burned its way through your mind. Bucky didn’t notice the way your waterline began to swim. He either genuinely thought that things were fine this way or he chose to ignore the way you mumbled a quick excuse to take a shower. Either option worsened the hurt you were already feeling.

In the bathroom you let the tears fall. You turned on the shower and stripped off your clothes as the salt streamed down your face. Your brain was working overtime as you wondered what was holding him back. Six months was already a long time to not have met your friends, but now, turning down your explicit request – it stung even more.  Little by little, moments of the last half year came back to you, rushing onto you like a thunderstorm.  His birthday when you had not been allowed to throw a party for him (“I’m fine celebrating just with my best girl”).  Turned down dinner invitations with his friends (“You’ll meet them soon, doll, don’t worry, just not tonight”).  A quick getaway from the bar he had taken you to once he had spotted Sam (“I’ll introduce you soon but not now, it’s not right”). The shower hid your sobs and blended right into your tears, so when you stepped out and rejoined Bucky in your bedroom, you made up some story about getting soap in your eyes to explain away the red rims.  I burn red for you Just a few weeks later, he splintered your already cracked heart. A simple night out, just the two of you of course, had gone sideways. A guy in a bar, drunk out of his mind and an asshole in general just to top it off, had wandering hands.  While Bucky sat at one of the tables, you had begged him to let you choose a drink for him and after successfully convincing him, you had made your way to the bartender. The drunk idiot next to you called out to you, shouting over the music to ask for, or much rather demand, your number. Despite ignoring him and then outright rejecting him, he didn’t get the hint and refused to give up.  His hands were on your arm for less than five seconds before he was ripped away with the flash of vibranium arm and his head collided with a brick wall.  Bucky’s chest heaved as he landed a few punches, two to the gut and multiple to the creep’s face, before all three of you were thrown out of the bar.  For a second you didn’t recognise the man before you. Fire raged in his eyes as he wrapped his metal fist around your wrist and pulled you down the street – to what he presumed safety. “Baby,” you winced, trying to free your arm from his tight grip. “Baby, please let go.” But he didn’t hear you. His body shielded you from the outside world when he led you, practically teared you, into an alleyway. Pushed against the wall, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, he frantically checked you for injuries and stopped abruptly when he saw the tears welling up in your eyes.  “Sweetheart?” He asked, neck craning to search for threats, “What? What is it?” You wiggled your fingers hopelessly and whispered: “You’re hurting me.” No other feeling will ever compare to the one that swallowed you whole once your words had processed in his mind. His entire face dropped, and he put about ten feet between the two of you.  His gaze was glued to your arm where angry red marks, shaped and moulded to his fingerprints, sat accusatory.  “Sweetheart, I’m- I’m so sorry,” he murmured and stepped forwards, but he stopped himself before closing any real distance. “I’m- I didn’t mean to- I just saw his hands on you and I- fuck, I’m so sorry.” You exhaled deeply, trying to collect yourself, and wiped away the streaks on your face.  “It’s okay, Bucky,” you mumbled and walked towards him.  He shook his head and took another step back only to collide with the wall.  “No, it’s not okay. I- fuck- I hurt you.” Bucky’s voice trembled and his hands – both metal and flesh – closed into fists. “I’m so fucking sorry. I… I can’t explain it and there’s no excuse, but I- I saw how he touched you and it- I-,” he stumbled over his words, trying to make you understand, not seeing that you already did.  “I saw red. Nothing else. The only thing on my mind was getting you outta there.”

“I get it,” you replied gently and pulled your sleeves down, a feeble attempt at hiding the remnants of his grip.  You managed a smile and softened your voice. “It’s not your fault. But we’re safe. We’re okay. Alright?”  Feels like nobody knows The L-word had been on the tip of your tongue for months now. Pretty much since you had started dating. Bucky was easy to fall for. It took a little more effort to stay there with his closed off demeanour and reluctance to fully enter your world – he still hadn’t offered to introduce you to his friends and turned down any instance where he could have met yours. But it was worth it to you. You were royally whipped for him.  So, the word dangled between the two of you, unspoken but mutually felt – or so you hoped. It was another late night, cozied up together on your bed while a movie played in the background. Neither of you was paying much attention to the plot, instead the focus had drifted into a heated make-out session. His hands rested below your shirt, warmth seeping into your skin as he traced shapes onto your bare back.  You pulled away for a few seconds to take him in. Lips kissed rosy and swollen, a faint trace of a cocky smile on his face. His hair was messy from how often you had run your hands through it and a love-drunk haze veiled his eyes. 

It felt right to say it then. There was no doubt in you, no fears that you might be knocking on a closed door.  You breathed in deeply and placed another sweet kiss on his cheek before you said it.  “I love you.”

He froze.  You felt every single one of his muscles come to a halt below you. The thighs that had supported your weight on his lap went taut with tension and his fingers stopped moving. 

You had heard of fight or flight before, experienced it yourself a couple of times and had seen it in action on Bucky. But he had always chosen fight so far.  A punch thrown, a blow landed, a bullet shot.  But he had never frozen.  He sat below you, eyes trained on a spot behind you, and you were wondering if you needed to call Sam. Or 911.  He seemed almost catatonic, like a deer in headlights. You wished you were the deer and the headlights would come a little faster towards you. 

“Bucky?” You asked quietly, slowly easing off of his lap and his head snapped to you so quickly that it made you jump. “What?” His voice was hoarse, and you prayed that the ground would open up to swallow you.  “Did, uh, did you hear me?” You hated the way your voice shook, already feeling the prickling in your eyes.

He didn’t answer but he nodded slowly.  You hadn’t confessed your love to that many people yet in your life, but this was certainly the worst way it had ever gone.  “Uh, okay,” you whispered. There was a sharp crack on the last syllable of your words, and you instinctively covered your mouth with your hands.  You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to guilt-trip him into saying it back. You just wanted him to feel it, too.  “Doll,” he began, an apologetic tone tinging his voice, but you interrupted him.  “No, no, Bucky, I’m- I’m sorry, I, uh, you don’t need to say it back. It’s okay.”

It really, really wasn’t. Nine months, that’s how long you two were together now. Nine months of getting to know each other in and out, of spending days on end with each other and learning to love one another – at least that’s what you had thought.  You scrambled up from the couch, clutching the hem of your shirt in an attempt to bring yourself back to earth and to hinder the tears from falling. Bucky stayed in his spot, his eyes helplessly tracking your movements as you increased the distance between the two of you – not enough to translate the emotional distance you felt right now.

“Sweetheart, it’s not- fuck, I mean, it’s not that I don’t… you know. But I… I can’t,” Bucky urged quietly. His words made little sense to your mind as it was consumed by grief. Grief for what should have been.  “It’s fine,” you maintained and as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on you to undermine your words, a single tear breached forward and slipped down your cheek. Do you really love me? Or just love to make me cry?

The following days were cruel. Both of you shut down completely.  Conversations were rare and seeing each other even rarer. You walked through your own apartment like a ghost, staring at your phone like it might light up with an apology, or an explanation or anything. But no, radio silence. You heard from Bucky twice. The first time, he sent you a quick text to tell you that he was needed for a mission and would be back in a few days. Then, the second message came once he’d returned from the mission, asking you if he could come over.  A ‘we need to talk’- text was rarely a good sign but you did. You needed to talk.  It had been a sleepless night for you already, so you said yes, despite the fact that it was a little after 1 a.m. and anxiety rolled over you in waves at the thought of him ending everything you two had worked towards.  The knock on your front door was accompanied by the loud boom of thunder. Rain hit the windows almost horizontally and wind rattled the glass.  When you opened the door, you saw that Bucky had just barely escaped the worst of the storm. A few drops pearled down from his leather jacket onto your door mat and you – curse your stupid heart – immediately ushered him inside and went to get him a towel.

The silence stretched in between you. He dried off quickly but kept his shoes on. One foot out the door already.  His boots squeaked as he walked towards you, and you saw it in his eyes. This would be your worst heartbreak to date. “Doll,” that wretched nickname, which usually gave you butterflies, now turned your stomach around, “I think… it’s… I-“

You listened to his stammers, his attempts at forming a sentence. Bucky usually seemed like the type of guy to have prepared a speech on the way here, but he was at a loss for words. He seemed like he was trying to spare you the heartache but there were no words invented for that. “Do you want to break up with me?” You asked bluntly.  He looked at the floor, then at you and then back at the floor. Barely perceptible, he shook his head. “No.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “But we should.” For a second, you closed your eyes. Blood rushed through your ears, quieting everything around you, and for just a moment you could pretend that he wasn’t here. That he hadn’t just said that. “Why?” You deserved to know at least that. You didn’t want to be left with no explanation, only the what-ifs and if-onlys to keep you comfort.  Another sigh, and you felt propelled to scream in his face. To yell at him, to slap him and to throw him out of your apartment. “I can’t do this- us,” he stammered. “Why, Bucky? Why?” You tried to swallow the tears, tried to suppress the voice crack but the air in your lungs didn’t suffice, not with the lump in your throat. 

He couldn’t look at you, instead he faintly shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t know. I just…,” he trailed off, gesturing loosely to you before dropping his arms to his sides. “Do you not love me? Did I do something?” “No, sweeth-, no, that’s not it.” “Then what?” “I want to want this but I…,” he shrugged helplessly and for a second you caught his eyes, filled with despair and vulnerability. “But you don’t,” you finished his sentence for him. He shook his head again and this time kept up the eye contact. “No, I just can’t.” More tears fell and you wiped at them furiously, rubbing the skin on your cheeks raw. When you looked at him again, the only thing you saw was self-hatred. And you couldn’t stand it. You turned around. You heard movements, and begged God, the universe, anyone that he’d walk to you. The door slammed.  Lying next to you, ‘cause all you ever do is make me blue The continuous pitter patter of the rain lulled you to sleep in the early morning hours, the sky just shy of turning orange.

The tears had only found their end once you fell into a restless dream. Splatters of the fight, mixed with distorted visions of a future with Bucky that seemed out of reach forever broke forth from your subconscious and kept you from getting any rest.  Half drifted off, you registered the sounds of your door opening but you were in too deep to fully distinguish between your dream and the real world. But the warmth was real. The dip of the mattress was real. The shaky hand, flesh not metal, that rested timidly on your arm, was real.  You woke with a flinch, and it took a few seconds for your eyes to clear enough to see Bucky.  Disoriented and questioning if you were maybe hallucinating, you sat up. But no, he truly was here. Your vocal cords didn’t cooperate as you tried to say his name “I’m sorry.” He looked at you, and what you would have thought were leftovers of the rain, turned out to be tears on his cheeks.  “I’m sorry,” he repeated as you stayed quiet.  “You’re back,” you finally managed to say, the disbelief in your words unmistakable. “Yeah,” he confirmed quietly, “I shouldn’t have left in the first place.” “Then why did you?” He stayed silent for a beat, then began talking. “I broke your heart. And I couldn’t keep looking at you while you were… looking at me like that.” You tried to intercept, but he raised his hand slowly, asking you to let him continue. “I should have stayed. Because I want to. I want to be in your life. I just don’t know if I can allow myself to do that.” You shifted in bed, straightening up a little.  “I want you. I… I love you,” he whispered, “But I don’t get to have good things. Good people like you. They die or they leave. And I can’t let that happen to you. I need you to live forever.”

Theoretically, you would do anything for him. But that was a request you couldn’t fulfil. “Bucky,” you began, but he shook his head again. “No, I know. I know, okay? It’s unfair of me to say that. But it’s true. I won’t survive if you die, or if you leave. And that scares me. So, I pushed you away. And I’m sorry for that. But I just… I can’t put you through that. A life with me is not something you want.” “That’s not your choice,” you implored quietly. Now it was your turn to shush him when he tried to protest. “No, Bucky, really. It’s not your choice. It wasn’t even my choice. But I fell for you. I love you and if I could have chosen, I’d do it again.” “I can’t give you anything. Stability. Promises. A future.” “I don’t want anything. I just want you.” Your words came out a little louder, a little harsher. But something had to penetrate that thick wall in his head that he had spent way too long building. “I want you. Now. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. When you make me laugh and even when you make me cry.” You leaned forward and gently grabbed his chin, swiping at the tears that had made their descent into his beard.  “Do you hear me?”  “Yes, ma’am. I hear you. I just… I don’t know how to accept it.” “I’ll help you. I’ll make you accept it. Now, come lie down.” He shrugged of his jacket and took off his boots. Then, slowly he eased himself into bed next to you and after a moment of hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you. “I’m sorry for making you cry,” he whispered against your hair. “It’s okay. You cried, too,” you replied quietly and pressed a kiss against his skin.

Your throat was as dry as sandpaper when you woke up, your tongue heavy with dehydration and regret.  The light hurt before you even open your eyes, so you decided to keep them closed a little longer, keep the embarrassment at bay for as long as possible before having to let yourself be confronted with the consequences of alcohol induced ideas.

Fatigue crawled through your entire body despite the ten hours of sleep – which, as you suddenly realised, hadn’t been fully uninterrupted.  Two hours after Bucky had managed to get you into your bed, with soft whispers and promises that he’d stay until you fell asleep, you had woken up in a cold sweat, strands of hair sticking to your forehead.  Within seconds you had still managed to dart for the ensuite, only somewhat registering the warmth of a body in your bed, before your stomach contents – mostly liquid – ended up in the toilet.  You don’t remember how you made it back to the bed, but you do recall two hands. One cold as ice and the other warm as… Bucky.  Holding back your hair, rubbing soothing circles on your back, apparently not bothered by the sweat soaking your shirt. Well, his shirt. 

Within the softness of your duvet, you feel a spark of bravery, just a tiny flame of it, which encouraged you to reach out to the other side of the bed. There you found a cool blanket, folded and draped neatly over your mattress.  A heavy sigh escaped your lips, and you finally dared to open your eyes, dreading the disappointment that would surely crack your heart in hundreds of pieces once you took in the abandoned side of the bed. Bucky had never promised to be there when you woke up, but you had wished he would.  However, once your sight had adjusted to the brightness in your room, you had to come to terms with the fact that things rarely went the way you wanted. You didn’t mean to be ungrateful. Sure, you had a roof over your head, a stable job and a best friend that would die for you, even if you really didn’t want him to do any of the sorts. But your hunger for happiness wasn’t stilled. Best friend was not what you wanted to call him.  After a few more minutes of drowning in self-pity and misery, you found it within yourself to get up and at least fix yourself up a little. Before slipping out of bed, you registered the water bottle and a pack of painkillers resting on your nightstand, a post it note on it declaring: “drink up – b”. After following the simple instruction, you managed to rid yourself of your blanket and leave the sweet comfort of your bed.  Your bathroom window was opened and it smelt faintly of cleaning products – a theoretically lovely sentiment but it made you want to jump out of said window at the idea of Bucky cleaning up your mess.  For a few desperate seconds your fingers rested against the frame, wondering if you could escape through there instead of facing Bucky.  If he was even still there. Why were you so sure that he was?  You shook your head as if to get rid of the thoughts, regretting the movement instantly as it worsened your already pounding headache. Slowly, you grabbed your toothbrush, held it under water and then applied some toothpaste.  In your tiredness, you sat down on the edge of the bathtub and scrubbed your teeth until your gums hurt.  Only once you washed your face, you caught a proper glimpse of yourself and cringed a little. Deep undereye circles, ashy skin and a little bit of leftover makeup met you in the mirror, and to your surprise, one of your own shirts. Wrecking your brain to piece together the events of the last night in proper order, you distinctly remember Bucky pulling one of his shirts over your heated body before you went to bed (the first time). Then the bathroom incident. Then, a faint memory post throwing up, where Bucky – who had looked at you like a kicked puppy – exchanged your/his thoroughly sweated through shirt with a new one from your own supply. While nervously fumbling with its hem, you made your way into the kitchen. You heard him before you saw him. The soft shuffling of his feet over your floorboards, the squeak of your faucet and then the sound of him sinking into a chair. The smell of coffee made the world seem a little brighter, despite the lingering queasiness in your stomach, and you stepped in through the door.  “Morning.” Your voice was hoarse and came out quieter than you had intended but Bucky heard you nonetheless. You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed up and the slight cock of his head. Despite the motion, he didn’t look up at you as you passed him. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to his newspaper. “Morning,” he replied, intensely starring at the words in front of him. Your eyes lingered on him for a few seconds and a certain heaviness placed itself onto your chest. If there was one thing Bucky absolutely excelled in, it was eye contact. The lack of it put the fear of God in you, because now you were sure you must have truly upset him.  While figuring out a game plan to earn his forgiveness – whatever for, you weren’t sure – you brewed a cup of coffee and added a splash of milk. As you were attempting to come up with a way to break up the heavy quiet, Bucky cleared his throat and took the burden upon himself.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was different, thick with something you couldn’t quite place and weighed down as if talking to you was physically exhausting. The newspaper covered most of his face and you wished to rip it away from him. You looked at him, breathless despite doing nothing, before you caught yourself and replied: “Good.”

He hummed a noncommittal sound and moved on to the next page. The air was thick with things left unsaid, decisions regretted and you really wished you could remember whatever you had done to upset him. Your focus remained on Bucky, while you chewed on your lower lip in an attempt to soothe yourself.  After a few moments of silence, broken up by the occasional bristling of a page turning, you collected all the courage you had to offer and made your way to the breakfast table to sit opposite Bucky.

He didn’t look up but you still felt the way he tracked your movements, tension running through his shoulders as if he was on the battlefield and not in your kitchen.  The wood of your chair was cold against your bare legs as you sat down carefully, and you put down your cup. A quick glance betrayed Bucky’s attempt to not meet your eyes as he straightened up ever so slightly. He seemed like he was bracing himself, eyebrows furrowed, and fingers smashed against the paper.  “Buck?” You asked cautiously, letting his name glide from your tongue slowly.  Again, he replied with something less than an answer and more of a grunt. Your teeth found your lip again as you scraped together the last bit of bravery you had to offer to ask him the burning question.

“Why are you upset with me?”  If Bucky had been tense before, he was now seconds away from spontaneously combusting. You practically heard his teeth grind against each other and a soft sound tumbled from his throat before he could stop himself. “I’m- I’m not upset with you,” he murmured and you raised your eyebrows, even as he didn’t look up to take in your disbelieving expression.

“You seem upset,” you insisted and for a second you thought you heard Bucky wince. “I’m not upset with you,” he repeated, his voice strained and tight. “Then why won’t you look at me?” 

He lowered the newspaper and closed his eyes for a few seconds before meeting your gaze. Worry furrowed itself throughout his face, deepening the lines across his forehead as he regarded you nervously. “Doll, I’m sorry.” You didn’t know what to do with his apology, so you stared at him expressionlessly.  “What?”

The look on his face turned from pleading to desperate.  “I’m really sorry for last night,” he continued, “I didn’t mean to… well, um, to do what I did.” “What do you… what? What do you mean?” Your confusion seemed to increase his worry, and he ran a hand over his face. “God, I… I knew how drunk you were but… now you can’t even remember it and that is so much worse. I’m really, really sorry,” he began to ramble, seemingly sinking deeper into his panic. “Well, Bucky, I’ll forgive you if you tell me what for,” you said, trying to keep your tone as light as possible and you sent him a soft smile.  That was apparently the tipping point for him as he stood up, chest heaving and eyes erratically darting over your face. You followed him upwards and walked around the table to reach out for him. 

“It’s okay, Buck, whatever you did, it’s fine. The apartment’s still standing so it can’t be that bad,” you declared, attempting to get him to lighten up. There were another thirty seconds of complete silence as Bucky stood before you and seemingly searched for words.  “I kissed you back.” The world in your head went quiet. Bucky had just turned on a vacuum and sucked in all thoughts that had occupied your brain.  A dumb smile twitched on your lips and the only words that left them were: “What?” “I kissed you back. Last night. I’m so sorry,” he whispered. Despite his refusal to meet your eyes, you saw the wetness on his waterline and the way shame burned a soft pink onto his cheeks.  He focused on the ground, fingers – both metal and flesh – nervously fumbling with the hem of his sweater.  He looked like a third grader after admitting to breaking his favourite toy, with his downturned gaze and flushed face, desperately looking for a way to turn back time in order to save what he held precious in his heart. “Oh, Bucky,” you murmured and took a step closer to him.  He recoiled, as if you had hit him and brought a few feet of distance between himself and you.  “I’m really, really sorry. I kissed you back and I shouldn’t have done that- I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that, it wasn-,” he rambled like a waterfall and shrunk into himself before your eyes. He wouldn’t have stopped talking, cursing himself out if you hadn’t walked over to him, leaving him no room to escape from you. “Bucky, listen,” you began, “It’s okay.”

Oh, it was more than okay to you.  “I might not remember it, to be honest I don’t even remember kissing you in the first place,” your words made him wince, but he finally looked up at you, “but it wasn’t a lapse of judgment or… a drunken mistake. I’ve wanted to kiss you for months.” His mouth was a little agape as he stood frozen in front of you, processing your words. Hoarsely, he replied: “You… what?” A small giggle broke forth from your lips as you reached out for him. “I’ve liked you for such a long time. But I wasn’t sure if you liked me back,” you elaborated and, finally, he reciprocated a small hopeful smile. “You… you did? Really?” Almost instantly, he relaxed as you nodded and placed your hands softly on his forearms. “Are you sure?” His question hung in the room and made you laugh.  “Yes, of course, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” “You threw up two hours after we kissed,” he murmured, cheeks even redder than before but a tiny smirk danced around his mouth. “Oh, Buck, I’m sorry. It was not because of that. That was the tequila’s fault, not yours.”

You knocked on his door – three sharp, distinct sounds – and waited.  For a few seconds you entertained the thought that Bucky wasn’t home. That he was out and about, doing something with his life. Maybe he had picked himself up and gone to the gym, or maybe he had finally deleted the various food delivery apps and instead had gone grocery shopping. But there was a faint whirring, locked behind the old wooden door to his apartment, a sound that belonged to a light turned on. The complex in which Bucky resided was old – not as old as the man himself but certainly bordering on it. Windows creaked when the wind was strong, the lighting flickered, and pipes groaned during the coldest months.   He had moved here after returning from Wakanda and you had helped him set up his living space. You had begged and pleaded with him to rent a place closer to you, or to maybe even move in with you. But he had just shook his head and had looked at you with those heartbroken, empty eyes that seemed a little less blue and a little more grey since Steve was gone. So, you had helped carry the sparse amount of furniture and décor he had up to the fourth-floor apartment, had sorted spice containers of which you were sure that he hadn’t used them yet and had presented Bucky with a plant as a housewarming gift. He had smiled sadly and thanked you and you had known that the plant was not going to make it more than a week. Every day you called, every day he answered – for a limited time. Sometimes, the exchange was as short as thirty seconds, just enough for you to hear that he was still alive and not planning on changing that.  Once a week, on Saturdays, you took the subway to visit him, to stay with him for a few hours. You never managed to convince him to get out of the apartment with you but at least you saw him.  The last week had been different. He hadn’t answered your calls, only sent short messages (“I’m fine – can’t talk right now” or “let me call you back later”) and your heart ached every time the busy signal had echoed from your speaker. Of course, you hoped that it meant that he was actually busy, distracted, doing something.  But the faint buzz of a burning lamp in his apartment told you that he was home. No matter what, Bucky always made sure to turn off all lights and close all windows before he left his place, so he must have been ignoring the knocking.  To his credit, you were a day earlier than usual. It was Friday instead of Saturday, and you hadn’t announced yourself either, so he wasn’t expecting you. The silence, the unanswered calls had given you anxiety induced stomach pains, so you had taken the day off from work and had gotten an Uber to his place.

You knocked again and lightly cleared your throat – a chance for Bucky’s enhanced hearing to place you and for him to open the door. Still, the knob didn’t twist, the many locks he had put on additionally didn’t rattle and you could have sworn that the whirring of the lamp you had heard earlier died down. “Bucky,” you called out, “It’s me. Can you please open the door?” You waited. Seconds that felt like minutes ticked by and your hands got clammy as you shifted on your feet. “Bucky, you gave me a key. But I don’t wanna use it, so, please just let me in. Bu-,” before you could finish his name, you heard a series of noises. A pair of feet shuffling over creaky old floorboards, and what sounded like dishes being set down in the sink. Then you heard a window being ripped open – the frame squeaked terribly – and then the footsteps came closer.  One lock was unlocked, then the second one. A metallic clank sounded and then the doorknob turned.  The door opened with a squeak that made your teeth hurt.  The apartment was dark, and despite the cold breeze that the recently opened window let in, it smelled dusty and faintly like old takeout food.  “Hey.” One thing about Bucky is that he just could not lose his charm. He stood before you, eyebags darker than ever, brown curls unkempt and knotted, and his scruff on his cheeks a little longer than usual and asymmetrical – as if he had laid on one side for too long. 

Despite his appearance, he leaned against the doorframe with a trace of his characteristic smile turning up his mouth corners.  “Hi,” you replied, slightly perplexed.  “I didn’t realise it was already Saturday,” he said after a few seconds of silence and attempted to swipe his hair from his forehead until he realised that it was too unbrushed to run his fingers through it.  He awkwardly dropped his hand but gave you another smile. “It’s not,” you answered and peered past him. Before you could properly glance into his apartment, he moved into your eyeline, a determined look in his eyes.  “Oh. Then what are you doing here?” He asked, shifting again when you tried to steal another glimpse into his living space. You took a few seconds before you replied during which you struggled not to be offended by his question.  “You never called me back,” you explained then, and locked eyes with him. Heat rose on his face as you bluntly called him out and his hands again found their way into his hair, and again, he had to drop them back to his sides as he couldn’t nervously run them through.  “Yeah, no, I meant to, but I… I was busy,” he stammered, blocking your third attempt to look past him.  “Okay,” you murmured slowly, “Can you… would you mind letting me in?” Bucky chewed on his lip for a few seconds, and you could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to find a way to let you down gently. “Uh, now’s not a good time.”

Your heart sank even further as you tried to come up with reasonings with his behaviour. “Are you-,” you began, and stared at your feet instead of meeting his eyes, “Is someone in there with you?” His eyes went round with surprise before he composed himself.  “What? No, no, I’m… I’m alone in here, but it’s just not, uh, a good time, like I said.” A little bit of the tightness in your chest loosened as he genuinely looked shocked at your implication. But you still couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let you in. “Are you leaving? Like, are you going somewhere?” You inquired then, trying to find a reason that would satisfy you. Bucky stayed quiet before he shook his head.  “No, nothing like that. Listen, doll, I just… I haven’t really prepared for visitors, or anything like that, so it’d be great if… um –,“ before he finished speaking, you could tell that he was having a hard time sending you back home. He knew how long the ride here was and that you usually worked on Fridays. “it’s just not a good time,” he concluded.

Bucky’s hand rested on your thigh, the velvet material of your dress keeping you from going fully insane at his touch. The warmth that spread from his fingers seeped through your skin straight into your veins and it was as if Bucky’s essence was transported to your heart. You didn’t dare shift, didn’t want to prompt him to move his hand in any way. His taste still lingered in your mouth, the fluttering sensation of his beard brushing up against you was practically printed into your memory as you held your breath, fearing that exhaling would take away the ghosts of the kiss you had shared. To say that your brain was wrecked after what had happened in your room was an understatement. There was not a single clear train of thought currently happening in your head and it killed you. What was that kiss? Did he do it do calm you down? To prepare you? To shut you up? Or, and you much preferred that version, did he do it because there was even the tiniest spark of affection for you in him?

Only seconds away from spiralling, you were glad when the car came to a halt in front of an incredibly boring building.

It was an art museum, specialising in glass and laser artworks, but it looked like some kind of futuristic blob of cement with strangely placed windows.

Bucky also evaluated the place where the gala, that you were going to attend as Mr and Mrs Alderton, was held with a displeased look. Unlike you however, it wasn’t the architecture style that he was scrutinizing but much rather the lack of emergency exits – just in case the two of you would have to make a quick getaway in the course of the evening.

Still he smiled at you, and opened his door, making sure to reach your side of the car within milliseconds to extend a hand to you.

Now, Bucky was born a gentleman. Opening doors came to him like second nature, same as offering up his seat for anyone in need and just general good manners.

While you were well aware that it was mainly due to his upbringing a couple decades ago, you still basked in his chivalry.

With a grateful smile your hand met his and he helped you out of the car, hovering in front of you as you fixed your dress quickly.

When you were finished with readjusting the fabric, he held out his arm and you took a deep breath before you accepted. Despite the heavy material of his suit jacket and pressed shirt, you still felt his muscles flex as he guided you towards the entry way of the museum where a young man with a tablet stood.

“Good evening, sir,” he greeted Bucky and nodded to you, “Ma’am.”

The doorman’s gaze wandered over both of you expectantly and Bucky seemed to spring to action.

“Thomas and Gabriela Alderton,” he introduced your made-up personalities with a stern voice, one that was so similar to his own but somehow still differentiated.

It gave you light goosebumps, the words stricken with authority. He played his part of the wealthy, borderline aristocratic, man very well.

“Ah, welcome Mr and Mrs Alderton,” the doorman continued after quickly checking the guest list.

“Do enjoy yourselves,” he said and stepped aside to let the two of you pass with a subservient smile.

The inside of the building was objectively speaking even uglier than the outside. Thick, grey walls that swallowed the last bits of natural light from outside, imposed and cornered you in.

The lack of windows was incredibly unnerving, along with the fluorescent lighting that was just a tinge too bright.

With long strides, which you found hard to match, Bucky led you towards the sound of people. Bustling crowds, ostentatious conversations and flashy coloured dresses drenched your senses in overstimulation as two guards opened the door to the main area for the two of you.

The abrupt onslaught on your eyes and ears was countered by Bucky’s warmth at your side. Something about the way you could feel his chest expand every single time he breathed out seemed to ground you.

He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a server who walked by and passed you one. The cold crystal calmed your nerves just as much as the first sip of the bubbling liquid.

“Don’t quit breathin’ on me, yeah?” Bucky murmured into your ear. To an outsider, it might have looked like a husband whispering sweet nothings to his wife, but his words buried themselves supportively into your heart and you nodded.

You didn’t know how else to answer him. The concern was palpable despite the quietness of his tone, and it melted your heart.

Part of you wished that he hadn’t kissed you. Maybe it would have made it easier to be in his proximity if you couldn’t distinguish the exact taste of his mouth, but that clearly wasn’t an option anymore.

You were not going to freak out.

To prove exactly that to both yourself and Bucky, you chuckled as if he had made a flirty joke, playing the part of his doting wife well.

He gave your arm a soft squeeze and led you further into the mass of people.

You spent the night doing exactly what you were here for: making connections and listening for traces of rumours about illegal weapon trafficking.

Reports of stolen guns and ammunition had made their way to your desks not too long ago. But not just any kind of guns and ammunition; it was alleged alien tech, originally stored by S.H.I.E.L.D. years ago at’ the Fridge’, and when it had been stolen, a whole lot of hell had broken loose. Which is why even the faintest of whispers about it possibly being sold and moved, had caught your attention and why you and Bucky were here in the first place.

At some point throughout the evening, the two of you attempted a new tactic: you separated.

Bucky made his way to a poker table that had been set up in the middle of the room; the seats were all occupied by men – rich men if you could trust their appearances. Your pretend husband melted into their ranks within seconds, and once again, you were surprised by how well he fit in with them.

Of course he was shamelessly good looking, but whenever you saw him, he was just Bucky. Bucky, who left his cups on the kitchen sink at the compound instead of putting them into the dishwasher; Bucky, who showered so hot that the air conditioning had to put up a fight; Bucky, who wore worn out jeans and second-hand hoodies.

But dressed in his expensive suit and surrounded by some of the richest men in the United States, he blended in like a chameleon.

Not that you were doing a poor job. You flashed bright smiles, gossiped with wives about your pretend horses and yachts, and recommended skin serums with genuine gold flakes (you had looked up the specific product to have something to talk about two days ago) to anybody who asked. In fact, you were so emersed in your role that you almost missed the shift in the air. The panicked whispers and the entrance of security guards might have slipped past you if you hadn’t felt a burning stare in your neck. When you moved your head, you locked eyes with Bucky and saw the way his jaw locked. He tipped his head ever so lightly towards the left, and you immediately understood the signal. With long but casual strides you made your way towards him, an easy smile plastered across your face. Every step towards him let your heart beat faster, every inch closer to him heightened your anxiety as it became easier to make out the hint of panic in his eyes. “Are we made?” You asked as you reached him, your voice so quiet that only he could hear you. He shook his head and another one of his fake laid-back smirks decorated his face as he looked at you. “They’re nervous,” he whispered and shifted slightly so that you could peer past his shoulder to the men he had conversed with just minutes ago. They were muttering among each other, their calm facades disrupted by the air of mistrust that hung above them like a cloud. “But they don’t know about us?” You demanded, making sure to keep your voice soft and smiled at him sweetly, just in case anyone was close enough to overhear. “Not as far as I can tell,” he clarified and ran a hand over your arm. You knew the gesture was to keep up appearances, but it was hard to remind yourself of that when it felt so good. However, the impending doom of potentially being figured out within the next few seconds kept your mind sharp. You were just about to ask Bucky what his plan was when chaos erupted. A woman, just a few feet away, screamed when the security guards made their way through the crowds, weapons loaded and pointed. At the sound of distress, you grabbed Bucky’s metal arm and pulled him forward. Farther, anywhere where both of you were out of danger, that is where you wanted him to be. You couldn’t even make out who the guards were heading for as people started fleeing. Someone ran into your side, almost knocking you out of your heels but Bucky steadied you and made sure you stayed at his side as he shoved you towards one of the doors. The empty hallway, that greeted you as Bucky pushed you through the door, was quiet and badly lit. There was no question that this area was off-limits for guests. But the first shot rang through the air, so whether you were allowed to be here or not was not your current concern. Bucky walked behind you, his large figure covering you, as his eyes darted around, looking for any way out of here. There was an inconspicuous door just a couple of feet away and he headed straight for it, keeping you in front of him. He grabbed the door handle, twisted and it gave in. With a last glance backwards, he put his hands on your hips and guided you into the room. Another gunshot sounded, and panic practically poured out of Bucky as he slammed the door shut behind him and only then did you realise that this was not an exit. This was a closet. A tiny one at that. Whether it was the alarm that Bucky felt or the adrenaline flushing his system, he lost his balance and tumbled right into you, hands stretched out to catch himself. But instead of stabilising himself on one of the shelves in the small room, he made contact with you. Or much rather, your breasts. His weight pushed you into the furthest wall as you somehow managed to catch both of your falls. Despite the dim lighting in the closet, you could make out Bucky’s eyes – wide with horror and embarrassment and even though you were quite literally in a life or death situation, you couldn’t bite back the comment that immediately came to you: “Guess you’re also going for second base tonight.”

Logan showed his love in small gestures and grand acts, but his favourite place to prove his undying adoration to you was in the bedroom. He worshipped your body, every inch of it, with rough hands, breath stealing kisses and stamina that left you questioning whether you were in heaven. Your satisfaction and enjoyment were his top priority, a lot more than his own, which is why he had insisted on you choosing a safe word once you started having regular sex. So far, the word had not ever tumbled from your lips and neither of you had thought it would happen today. He was already buried deep within you, your ass up and face down in the pillows, gasping for breath as he thrusted into you. Sweat trickled down and mixed where your bodies met, his skill full fingers pulling another orgasm from your throbbing clit. The slapping sounds of skin on skin filled the room as Logan picked up his pace while he angled his unoccupied hand from your hip to your spine. You felt his steady grip, sweaty and warm, pressing into your skin, dull nails scraping over your nude body as he dug his fingers into you. With a breathless whine you came around his throbbing cock and felt your insides practically vibrate as the heated coil in your core snapped. You had long lost count how often he had made you come this night, but your legs were shaking, and you were hoping this was the last one. Hearing those pretty sounds tumble from your lips seemed to push Logan over the edge. With an animalistic groan he spilled into you, his pelvis pressed flush against your sensitive pussy. The second he caught his breath, his hand came down on your already sore ass, the slap so loud you worried about your neighbours’ sanity. Another high-pitched whimper escaped your throat, and you tried to sink onto the bed, but Logan wrapped an arm around your middle and held you up. “Already tired, princess?” He asked teasingly, running a much gentler hand over your stinging skin. You mumbled a response that was neither a yes nor a no, and he chuckled. “Words, sweetheart,” his raspy voice raised goosebumps all over your body, “Ones that I can understand.” With a soft groan you attempted to straighten yourself up and felt his still hard cock twitch inside of you at the movement. His stamina was simply not fair. He had fucked you more times tonight than the average person gets laid in a week, but he could still keep going. And how could you deny him when he looked at you like that, like you were the only thing holding his universe together. “Yeah,” you mumbled, trying to steady yourself on your knees again, wiggling your ass softly, “Tired but not done.” He laughed deeply and replied: “That’s my good girl,” and the praise made your head spin. However, the second he started moving again, your poor, overstimulated clit began to pulse – and not in the good way. The pleasure that you had expected didn’t come as he began work his magic on your sensitive nub; instead, you felt a sharp pain shoot up your spine as the stimulation turned out to be too much. Your face was already tear-streaked – the earlier ones had come from pleasure. Now, tears caused by pain filled your vision and made your brain hazy. Logan didn’t still completely but he slowed down as he leaned forward to see get a better glimpse of you. “Sweetheart, you alright?” His voice was incredibly soft despite the continuing movements of his hips meeting yours. You wanted to say yes, you wanted to give him just one more round but there was no way you were making it another second without passing out, so you whispered your safe word. Despite the fact that you had mumbled the term so low that you weren’t sure if he had even been able to hear it, he halted immediately. “Ok, darlin’,” he murmured sweetly, and attempted to remove himself from you but that just made you cry out again – too much. You just needed a few seconds. “Baby, I just wanna pull out, ok?” He soothed his hands over your back but all you could do in response was shake your head.

“No… don’t,” you gasped and so he stayed like this, enveloped by your heat.

He didn’t dare move, he simply kept his warm hands on your waist until you nodded softly, and he slipped out. As you let yourself fall onto the mattress, Logan got up, still half hard, and brought you one of his shirts, before he began to run his hands over your back. “Are you alright, princess?” He asked after a couple moments of silence. The ache in your body had dulled down and you managed to lift your head to face him. “Yeah, I’m ok,” you whispered honestly. His face lit up in response, replacing the worried frown with a warm smile. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead softly, then brushed his knuckles across your cheeks to wipe away the tears that had trickled down earlier. In one smooth movement he laid down next to you, wrapping his trained arms around you and placed another kiss in between your shoulder blades. “I’m really proud of you, darlin’. For tellin’ me to stop when you needed me to. So fuckin’ proud of you.”

The dress that wrapped itself around every curve of your body was surprisingly comfortable. Its satin flowed smoothly and pooled like a waterfall around your legs, allowing for plenty of movement which eased your nerves a little. Still, you felt the blood pounding in your ears as you applied the dark crimson to your lips and blended out the sharp corner of your eyeliner. The person that stared back at you in the mirror had little resemblance to you. Gabriela Alderton, your alias for the next few days, was dressed up in expensive silks, owned a purse that was sold for more than what you had saved over the last few years and wore jewellery that your yearly salary could not finance. That included an engagement ring, which sparkled on your left ring finger. The band was made out of heavy gold, engraved with details so fine that only someone in your close proximity would be able to see it. The diamond that adorned the centre of the ring was so massive that it almost looked cheap again. Almost. S.H.I.E.L.D. or, much rather Tony, didn’t play when it came to undercover missions. One wrong detail, one off-hand comment could end every involved agent’s life. And you knew that too well. Which is why you had taken the time to craft a fully in depth, flushed out and comprehensive profile of your made-up personality, detailing little things such as Gabriela’s electives in middle school (badminton and pottery). A knock on your door detached your scrambling mind from listing any more childhood details under your breath and you walked over to the entrance to your bedroom, turned the knob and opened. Your throat constricted when you saw who stood there, waiting for you. There was no moment in time where Bucky had ever been unattractive – and you had lived with him for a few years now, seeing him bloodied, beaten up, hauled through dirt and grime and passed out on the couch after exhausting missions. But the way his anthracite suit jacket smoothed itself across his shoulders, not yet buttoned up and therefore allowing a glimpse of the pressed silk shirt – it just wasn’t fair how handsome he was. “Hello,” he said quietly. His own eyes darted over you, and you saw how he swallowed, the bump of his Adam’s apple quivering as he took in your dolled-up face, drinking in every inch of your powdered skin. His gaze dropped and wandered further down, assessing the hold of the fabric on your body and if you had had it in you to rip away your eyes from his face, you would have seen how his fingers twitched in a suppressed attempt to reach out for you. “Hi,” you replied, your cheeks warming under his steady evaluation and you opened the door further, beckoning him in. A sound, that was half sigh, half grunt tumbled from his throat as he entered your bedroom. The material of his pants stretched over his thoroughly trained thighs when he walked and despite the material surely being sturdy and expensive beyond your comprehension, you saw the faint outline of his leg muscles shifting. “So,” Bucky began, fumbling with something in the inside pocket of his jacket. It took him a few tries to grasp it and when he opened his palm, you saw a shining gold wedding band that matched the engagement ring on your left hand both in aesthetics and opulence. “You already got the other one, right?” The question was unnecessary as Bucky stared at the jewellery decorating your finger. An expression that you didn’t quite have the words for was plastered across his face, a mix of anticipation and… longing? You raised your hand, palm facing your face, and wiggled your finger. “Yeah, Stark gave it to me at breakfast. Told me to get used to it.” “Hmm.” His one-worded response left his feelings towards that open to interpretation but there was a timid smile on his lips, as if he might not mind the idea of you getting used to that ring and the connection that intertwined him and you along with it.

“Well, we’re… ‘married’, so you need both,” he mumbled, now shifting the ring in his hand so that he could hold it between pointer finger and thumb.

Instinctively, you stretched out your hand, resting it against his free one and let him ease the ring onto your other finger.

It fit perfectly. There was no danger of it slipping off or cutting off your blood supply, as if it had been melded to your measurements from beginning to end.

It was just as heavy as its counterpart, despite the lack of diamond. It seemed simple, a thicker band than what your mind usually connected to the words ‘wedding ring’ but the feelings it triggered in your heart threatened to affect the standards you had set for your own expectations for marriage.

“It’s beautiful,” you replied as you took notice of the heavy silence that filled the room.

The apples of Bucky’s cheeks took a slight pink hue, and he cleared his throat before replying.

“You think so?”

He looked at you, a glimmer of something you didn’t know how to place in his stare.

“Yeah, Stark did a fine job picking it out,” you answered, softly contracting the muscles in your hands which causes both rings to reflect back to you.

“I chose it.”

Your attention snapped away from the jewellery and landed right on him.

A sheepish smile ornamented his face, along with a deeper shade of pink on his face.

You had to take a few short breaths to compose yourself, to not let yourself melt.

“Oh.”

He hummed a soft response, not words but not a distinguishable sound either and just kept looking at you.

“Well,” you continued, “You seem to know my taste a lot better than I do. It really is beautiful.”

A proud smile snuck onto his face, lighting up the grey storm in his eyes to adjust to a soft blue.

Despite the calm that he brought into your room and mind, you felt your blood pressure pick up again as the clock ticked closer to 6 p.m., signalling that it was almost time to go down and wait for the driver who would pick you up and drive to the gala.

Bucky noticed your anxious shifting, the way you paced up and down the room in heels would wear you out and give you blisters before even arriving at your destination.

“You ok?” He asked and reached out, his metal fingers wrapping around your wrist. His hold was gentle, and you would’ve been able to free yourself from his grip at any time if you had wanted to. But you didn’t.

“Just nerves,” you replied, letting him still your movements.

“You’ll do great, doll. You don’t oughta worry.”

The term of endearment made the butterflies in your stomach practice summersaults and you almost closed your eyes to calm yourself.

Instead, you twirled the wedding ring, letting it circle around your skin a few times.

“I just…,” you began, trying to find the words to express what you felt without giving away too much but your mind struggled to make up a sentence that afforded that.

Bucky observed your stuttering and something seemed to click in his brain as his eyes softened.

“Is it because of… because of the last time you went undercover?”

The question hung heavily in the room, and you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his face as you nodded.

The last time you went undercover, it had gone beyond sideways.

Your work partner, your long-time friend and one of the best agents you had ever known, hadn’t made it out because of two mistakes.

“I read the file, you know? Two weeks ago, Sam gave it to me. I feel like you should know that, so that you are aware that I’m… prepared.”

Bucky’s words didn’t have the effect he had intended.

Instead of soothing your worries, it upset you. “It wasn’t his fault. He was prepared. I was the one who messed up,” you snapped at him. Regret flooded your veins immediately but the tears that threatened to spill held your tongue in place, hindering you from apologising for your tone. “That’s not what I meant and I’m sure that it wasn’t your fault,” he murmured. You pulled the wedding band from your finger and held it in your hand, right under Bucky’s nose. “I made two mistakes. Two. They cost him his life that night.” You fumbled with the ring, took a deep breath that did nothing to help you relax and asked: “Do you have to return this after the mission?” Bucky nodded and before he could elaborate, you said: “Tell Stark to yell at me, not you.” Then you smacked the piece of jewellery against the table – once, twice. The third hit it took was from being thrown against the wall. The super soldier didn’t stop you – sure, he looked at you like you had lost your mind, but he didn’t try to intervene. Once you had properly let your anger on the ring, you picked it up and held it up again for Bucky to inspect. It was still beautiful, not bent, but slightly scuffed up. “It needs to look like it’s been sitting on my finger for longer than a few hours. We’re not newlyweds after all,” you explained, your voice trembling slightly. Bucky hummed a response, his eyes still fixated on you as realisation dawned on him. “Is that how they figured it out? That you guys were undercover?” He asked, his eyebrows knitted together while unease lingered on his face. No, not unease. Worry. Not for himself, but for you. “That was part of it,” you admitted then and placed the band back in its rightful place. He stayed quiet, leaving it up to you whether to open up further or keep it bottled up. You, surprising both yourself and him, continued in a quiet voice. “We had been friends for… for years. His name was Christian. And we carried out so many missions together, recon, gathering intel, anything. We had gone undercover before, but as business partners, not a couple. When Fury gave us that… that goddamn mission, Christian laughed, saying it’d be easy. And it was, everything went smoothly until the man we were spying on pointed out my ring. We tried to brush it off, saying that I had just gotten it cleaned and took great care off it. But he didn’t buy it. So, Christian did the only thing he could think of, and he kissed me. I froze.” You recounted the painful memory with a tremble, both in your vocals and your hands. Bucky listened, his palms resting inches away from your arm, almost as if he wanted to reach out to you, to ease your pain. “They shot him before I could look him in the eye, and he was… he was gone before he hit the ground.” Sympathy filled Bucky’s eyes. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t an attempt to convince you that it hadn’t been your fault. It was compassion. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that,” he whispered and sighed softly. You looked up at him, blinking away the tears. His face was just inches away from yours and you could feel his breath brushing up against your cheek. “I don’t want to freeze again. I don’t wanna mess this up again. I just… I was so close with Christian, but we were just friends, and it threw me off. I didn’t know how to react and I…,” you trailed off, your eyes flickering down to his lips. “You’re not gonna. We just gotta… get some practice,” Bucky murmured, and his hand came up to your cheek. “Hit first base or what?” Your question was supposed to come off as a joke, but it was a breathless plea, your fingers found themselves at the base of his neck, softly brushing up against his hair. “I can’t believe people still use that metaphor,” he replied and then he pressed his lips onto yours.

Bucky’s heart was seconds away from bursting through his chest as he closed the door to your shared apartment. Every nerve in his body was on high alert, practically buzzing with tension while he moved into the entryway. You hadn’t answered your phone in the last couple of hours, which was unusual for you. He slowly made his way into the apartment, looking for signs that you were home. Your bag rested on the bench next to your usual pair of sneakers. A quick glance into the coat closet showed Bucky that none of your jackets were missing, so he was sure that you must be here. He advanced into the kitchen. All lights were turned off and the door to the bedroom was closed. If he had been an average man, he would’ve had to open the door in order to hear your laboured breath, but his enhanced senses picked up on the wheezing exhales. The hair on his neck raised as he immediately stepped towards your room, fists already balled to fight who or whatever was affecting you. However, he was quick to find that he was powerless against what kept you from texting him back. You laid in bed, surrounded by tissue papers and bottles of cold medicine; the teacups on your side table towered dangerously high and would win a contest against the Tower of Pisa for defying gravity. Bucky’s heart ached as he saw your glistening skin and already felt the warmth radiating from your body before approaching you. Suddenly, you shifted and your eyelids fluttered open as if you had felt his presence. “My love?” You asked, blinking rapidly to help your eyes adjust to the lack of lighting in the room. Bucky was on you in an instant, soothing arms pushing you back into the pillows as he heard your hoarse voice. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” “’S not been that bad,” you lied, wiping your palm across your face to clean the sweat from your face. He raised his eyebrow and dragged his knuckles gently across your cheek, feeling the feverish skin. “You shoulda called me,” he insisted and pressed a feathery kiss on your forehead. “I would’ve come home immediately.” You chuckled softly, your voice rough from fever and exhaustion. “Abandon your mission ‘cause I have a little cold? Don’t be ridiculous.” Bucky reached out, intertwining your fingers with his own and shook his head softly. “I’d do it in a heartbeat. I’d do anything if you asked me.” He eyed your side table again, taking in the medicine bottles and cough drops. “Did you already take somethin’ for the fever, sweetheart?” While fighting your eyes from closing again, you nodded. “Yeah, I think it already went down a little.” Bucky pampered you for a few more minutes, making you drink some water and offered to get you some food, but you declined as you didn’t feel up for it. “Get some sleep, sweetheart. You need to rest,” he instructed and began to change out of his tactical gear into soft sweatpants and a loose shirt, then climbed into bed next to you. Just before you fully drifted off to sleep, he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek and whispered: “Sweet dreams, doll. I’ll be here, you just focus on getting better.”

sfw logan positioning himself between you and every. other. person. no matter who walks by, whether they’re even looking at you or not, logan shifts in front of you or pulls you behind him no one would ever be able to reach you the second logan towers before you, sharp eyes set on anyone who passes you even in moments of calm in the mansion, he makes sure that any potential impact can be absorbed by him. busy students who have to catch their next class on time and aren’t mindful of their surroundings? logan has an arm wrapped around you, keeping you between him and the wall. hank comes up to you to talk about grading papers? well, he’ll just have to have that conversation with you while peering over logan’s shoulder to catch sight of you. clothes were a sensitive topic. you didn’t like it when he told you what to wear and what not to wear and he didn’t like it when you were unhappy with him, so he truly tried to keep it to a minimum. only every now and then, he’d raise an eyebrow at a pair of shorts or a deep cut shirt, displaying what he clearly considered his and only his. a short glance of his was usually enough to make you sigh and change into something he deemed more appropriate – but often enough you put your foot down. then he’d simply hover by your side for the rest of the day, adjusting the fabric over your chest every now and then or pulling your skirt down a little, stepping behind you when you picked something up from the ground. he loved you drunk. he loved you sober more but something about you in this endearing state, stumbling over your own feet and giggling at things you’d usually roll your eyes at, it really got to him. he would put his arm around you, keeping you upright and tightly pressed to his side. at the end of the night, he’d place a soft kiss on your forehead after making you drink a glass of water and already put down a bottle of tylenol for you on the bedside table. no funny business when you were that intoxicated even though the flush of the alcohol in your cheeks warmed his core more than he could handle. you’re ill? logan’s just studied medicine within seconds. he looks like a walking infirmary, packs of tissues and cough drops in every pocket, ready to whip out whatever you need the second you’re feeling just the tiniest bit off. the way that man attempts to make soup, only to then have to resort to store bought broth. but hey, points for trying! he knows when you have to take your medication and keeps an eye on you, making sure you actually do it. tender words of adoration leave his lips when you feel bad, he’d do anything to soothe away all traces of illness

nsfw (bye bye minors) logan is an animal in bed. you’re lucky if you can walk the next day, feeling your insides rearranged and shaped to every indent of his cock :) but he never goes beyond your limits. he constantly checks in when you’re high on his touch, when he’s finger deep in you, when he splits you in half he loves to see your eyes well up when your lips are wrapped around his massive length, taking him as deep into your throat as possible and can’t help but put a tender hand on your cheek to wipe away any tears that spill safe word usage (a/n: i wrote a drabble about this hehehe) you have a safe word with him and you’ve only had to make use of it once he made you pick it out the first time you slept together, insisting that he would feel more comfortable if you chose one and so you did. the second the word left your lips, he stopped moving. “you ok, baby? i’m just gonna pull out, darlin’.” afterwards, he’s so sweet. bringing you a shirt and softly kissing your forehead. thanking you for telling him, for trusting him to stop, ensuring that he’s proud of you for vocalising your boundaries aftercare king, i won’t hear anyone out the second he slips out of you, he rests a soothing hand on your tummy, your head, any part of you, stroking softly over your heated skin. he makes you drink water, checks in and kisses any bruises, love bites and hickeys that his strong grip left on you

Despite the discomfort Bucky chuckled. You could see his face, flushed and terribly focused on the furthest corner of the tiny supply room as he tried to get himself back under control.

“History books, huh?” He groaned and closed his eyes.

“Yeah, they’re boring, dusty and not, uh, enticing?” Your statement sounded more like a question, and you wanted to facepalm yourself.

In a new attempt of distancing yourself from him, you pressed yourself against the closed door but that put less than an inch between the two of you.

Bucky mumbled under his breath, eyes closed, half caught between what sounded like a prayer and the names of late presidents, as you watched him.

The pink on his cheeks was barely visible in the dim lighting, just like the sweat over his eyebrows as he reached Franklin D. Roosevelt in his attempt to think about anything else.

“Better?” You asked, cringing internally at the pitch of your voice.

He opened his eyes and nodded but you saw how dilated his pupils were and how he immediately looked at the ceiling.

“Can I… can I do something to help you?” You questioned timidly as your hands twitched at your sides.

A breathless chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips, and he quickly shut his eyes again as a soft smirk plastered across his face.

You were clearly doing a poor job at distracting him.

“Doll, I don’t mean to be rude, but please don’t ask things like that, ‘cause right now, those type of words outta your mouth sound like somethin’ else to me,” he confessed, and you felt warmth creeping into your face.

Did you mean it like that? It would be a lie to say that you didn’t want to make him feel better, reach out and place your hands around his length, slowly guiding your fingers up and down in a tight grip and-

Nope, stop it.

“Sorry,” you murmured, “I’m just… I’m gonna-,“ you tried to shift again, straining to allow for more room between your bodies as the proximity seemed to cloud your head now as well but the space was simply too small.

Your attempt backfired and you lost your footing; you would have gotten a less than pleasant introduction with the floor if Bucky’s hands hadn’t immediately found your hips, stabilising you.

Warmth sealed you in as his arms encircled you and his broad chest made contact with your face as he straightened you up.

Another groan escaped his lips and your promptly felt like the biggest idiot but when you looked up at him, you weren’t met with annoyance in his eyes.

Instead you were faced with a warmth that sent tingles to your lower belly, his eyes darting down to your lips as he kept holding onto you.

Your own gaze flickered to his mouth, the pretty pink so inviting that you couldn’t help but want to close the distance.

With more confidence than you had, you let your hands ghost over his back upwards to his neck and softly cupped the back of his head before bringing your lips onto his.

The sound that he made was one of surprise – but also want. He promptly brought his hands to your lower back, pulling you in closer and you brushed up against his hardened core again, making him shiver.

A whine tumbled from his mouth into yours, the sound travelling straight to your core as you pressed yourself into him, thighs clenched together in an attempt to relieve some of the desire you felt.

“Bucky,” you mewled into the kiss and he pulled away to look at you.

“Yeah, doll?” He replied, his chest heaving quickly.

“I wanna help you with that,” you whispered and dropped your hand to the tent in his pants.