Zia W Barnes

The ceilings of the compound’s gym echo your breath back toward you, basically wanting you to choke on it. You still smell faint traces of fresh rubber and eucalyptus from the earlier team yoga class you skipped on purpose, because you have been home from a two-week mission for less than twelve hours, and socializing feels like lifting a cement truck with your teeth.

Now everyone’s in the city doing shots or doing karaoke or being alive in a way you currently refuse to be.

You don’t want joy.

You want the barbell.

You want the barbell because two weeks of a deep-cover op in Bogotá will do some serious brain frying to a person. You also feel like you still have mission dust in your hair and you hope if you sweat hard enough you will finally stop being a person who thinks too much.

You are alone in the gym at 11:37 pm on a Tuesday and every single bulb feels like it’s judging you.

You thought training would feel grounding.

It really doesn’t, but you can’t bring yourself to do anything other than that.

The fluorescent lights feel too bright suddenly, they seem to jab needles into your retinas. Mirrors mirror back a version of you you don’t recognize. A version that needs to recalibrate every joint in your body to remember she is real.

Your bones ache from the flight, your knee is still half bruised, your lower back is whispering threats. You don’t listen. Of course you don’t listen. You are annoyingly competitive with the version of yourself inside your own head. The worst opponent possible.

You pick up the barbell anyway, talk to your own reflection like a menace, and decide to go heavier than you should. You imagine Sam calling this late-night atonement energy. You imagine Natasha calling this the I don’t know how to rest disease. You imagine Tony calling this peak dumbass.

You grab the bar. You set your stance. You inhale fire.

Your muscles pull like reluctant rope.

You start your deadlift.

You lift like you are punishing the molecules.

And because the universe is a pretty little brat, your left pinky finger twitches at the wrong millisecond and the weight slips and gravity shows her claws and you make a sound.

You make a sound because the bar crashes directly onto the very top bones of your right foot. Not enough to pulverize, but enough to send every neuron in your leg into a perfect barbershop quartet of pain.

You go still.

The pain is radioactive. The pain is hilariously specific. It’s like your foot is attempting to write a novel in morse code.

You inhale through your teeth so violently you think you might vomit. Your soul briefly leaves your body, files a complaint, and then returns only to scream.

FRIDAY’s soft, neutral voice materializes overhead.

“Agent, you appear to be in acute pain. Would you like me to alert Sergeant Barnes?”

The humiliation is instant.

Absolutely not.

You would rather limp forever. You would rather cut off the foot with kitchen shears. You would rather crawl into a vent and hibernate.

You will not let Bucky I said that out loud? Wow real sorry Barnes find you helpless on the gym floor.

He would smirk once. Once. And then he’d get that smug quiet face. That sergeant face. As if he’s a patient father of a toddler.

No. You can’t do this. You are a superhero. You once bench-pressed a truck. Small truck. Flatbed. And Steve might have helped a little. But still.

“No,” you wheeze, trying to sound composed. “No notifications. This is a private moment. A stupid private moment.”

You grip the iron and shift it away, and your vision whites out like someone turned the saturation all the way up.

Your mouth hangs open like a glitching tab in a browser, and you are trying to breathe with just the top half of your lungs because the bottom half is currently replaying your poor life choices.

You slowly lower yourself onto the mat and clutch your foot like a widow clutching her pearls.

It throbs so intensely you are convinced the bones rearranged out of spite.

“Your injury metrics are not insignificant,” FRIDAY offers again, very calmly.

“I’m fine,” you lie to the ceiling, to the AI, to the ghosts of your own pride. “I don’t need him of all people.”

The gym buzzes with fluorescent indifference.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your eyes from watering.

You genuinely might vomit.

“Friday,” you whisper-yell, shaky and wrecked, “this stays between us.”

There is silence. And the glimmer of a camera diaphragm narrowing somewhere behind a tinted panel.

You close your eyes.

You stay there, trying to breathe through the sharp pain, refusing to acknowledge the part of your stomach that dipped when FRIDAY suggested him. The part you would sooner die than admit.

Because if Bucky Barnes walks in here right now and sees you like this, you will never hear the end of it.

You stay seated on the cold gym floor for exactly fifteen seconds before panic kicks in.

Because logically, rationally, historically; Bucky never actually mocks you when you get hurt. Not once. He is surprisingly gentle in those moments. Weirdly soft-spoken then. His eyes do that serious, scanning thing and he starts troubleshooting silent solutions like a one-man tactical medic unit.

And yet.

You are absolutely convinced that this particular flavor of idiotic self-injury will turn him into the smuggest man alive. This is different. This is embarrassing. This is textbook hubris. You can practically hear his voice in your head.

really?

the bar fell on your foot?

Your pride is choking you like a boa constrictor of your own stupidity.

You haven’t even seen him yet tonight. You stepped off the quinjet, showered, lowered your cortisol enough to pretend to be a functional human, and then came here to sabotage yourself with iron. Classic. Meanwhile, the rest of the team went out to some bar in Brooklyn because they apparently enjoy friendship and daylight and the dopamine of communal beverages.

Bucky stayed behind. That’s nothing new. Bucky never goes with them. He does not do sociable frivolity. He does the exact opposite. He haunts the hallways like a large, beautiful housecat with too many knives.

And you could hear him earlier.

When you were changing in your room, you heard the solid thud-thud-thud of his boots pacing in the hallway you both share. A restless zig-zagging that made the wood subfloor complain just enough to announce his existence. Like he was waiting for his thoughts to quiet. Or for something to happen.

And now the risk of him appearing is non-zero.

You very carefully begin the slow-motion process of standing up on your one functional foot. The pain radiates catastrophically, like a small nuclear detonation in the cluster of metatarsals you once trusted. You hiss under your breath, like a dying teakettle.

You limp.

It is not dignified.

You are trying to disguise it as a casual limp. A sexy limp. A limp that implies you are aloof and ethereal and maybe you just did something mysterious and glamorous. You are trying to make this limp seem like a lifestyle choice.

FRIDAY thankfully doesn’t call you out on it.

You take another hobbling step toward the door.

Your foot screams like a siren.

You grit your teeth and tell yourself fiercely, that you’re going to make it to your room like a stealth operative. You are not going to encounter him in the hallway. The universe loves you. It is rooting for your dignity.

The universe, of course, does not answer, and the hallway that leads away from the gym feels like a mouth about to bite down.

It is a dim, blue twilight ribbon of motion sensor light. You commit to the bit. You commit to the limpless limp. You commit to an Oscar-worthy performance of nothing is wrong here, I am merely walking like a normal person with normal bones that have not betrayed me.

You try to glide past the kitchen as though you are not a person in agony but instead a hologram of a person in agony.

You are almost safe, but then you see him.

Bucky is standing at the kitchen counter in a soft gray T-shirt, hair damp like he just showered, stirring honey into a mug of tea with an absent expression that looks almost thoughtful. Or irritated. Or both. His face always sits somewhere between those two coordinates.

In the overhead LEDs he looks like a man who’s been alive too long and somehow still cares enough to steep Earl Grey.

He glances up at exactly the wrong or right second.

His eyes catch yours fast, as if he expected you.

You tell your face to perform. Placid. Composed. The girl who has two functioning feet and never did anything as embarrassing as dropping iron on her own bones.

Your right foot is an electrified balloon.

“Hey,” he lets out gruffly.

You blink in the same startled way a raccoon might blink after being caught in someone’s garbage.

“Hey,” you say, voice too casual. Casual like a person trying to launder their own voice through a filter of charm.

He looks too awake for this hour. Damp hair pushed back, shirt soft and lived-in, sleeves loose on his shoulders.

He glances at you in that slow, data-logging way he always has. His jaw makes a tiny shift.

“You’re back.” He says it as though it’s information he already had. Stored away. It’s as close as he’ll get to I was aware of your absence and the knowledge of that makes your chest go fizz.

“Yeah,” you answer, absolutely planting both feet to the ground in a stance that looks stiff and unnatural. Both feet touch the ground, technically, but all your weight stays on the left leg. Your right foot is barely skimming the tile, like a very nervous hovercraft. “Got in earlier. Crashed for a while.”

Bucky studies you for one long second.

He has that look that reads people like a list of ingredients.

“Rough trip?” he asks, with that deep and throaty voice.

You swallow. “Kind of.”

He takes a sip. Eyes stay on you. Calm. Reading you like a page with underlines.

“You want tea?” He nods vaguely at the kettle. He doesn’t even say it as a question. It’s just Bucky being Bucky. Communicating in half-offers so he can pretend he doesn’t have feelings.

You try to pivot and your right foot brushes the tile a little too forcefully and your soul leaves your body, briefly. “No, thanks.”

He nods once, takes a sip. “Others are out in Brooklyn.”

“Yes,” you echo, as if you had just invented geography. “Bars. People. Laughing. All that.”

He hums. “You didn’t feel like joining?”

You shrug, hoping the casual movement distracts from the fact that your right foot has become a private expanding sun of pain. “I was tired. I wanted some peace and quiet. And a shower with real water pressure and products that don’t smell like industrial lavender.”

His mouth tugs at one corner. The hint of an almost-smile.

But he doesn’t stop studying you.

He taps his spoon on the rim of the mug, lightly. “You good?” he asks with a small tilt of his head. This is his version of leaning closer without actually leaning closer.

Your heart rate spikes so abruptly you nearly wobble onto your injured foot. Your stomach does a weird flutter, and your mouth lies on autopilot.

“Yeah,” you say too fast, too bright, too defensive. “Just tired, still”

Bucky hums, setting his tea down. He taps his metal thumb on the counter twice. It’s a little thinking tic you’ve catalogued without meaning to.

You plant your feet deeper into the floor to make it look more natural, but that was another stupid decision. Lightning surges up your right foot. You keep your expression intact, hopefully. But your small smile feels strained and brittle, like a sticker coming off in the wrong direction.

Bucky squints at you subtly. He does not buy it. He does not not buy it either. He is in the investigative purgatory of maybe.

“You sure?” His voice drops half a register. Not teasing. Sincere. Some microscopic muscle in his jaw flexes.

You nod. “Yeah, totally.”

He stands there, still, like a statue that thinks it’s a shadow.

“You’re standing kind of weird,” he assesses.

“Weird how?” you ask nonchalantly, but you feel the sweat at the nape of your neck starting to sting.

Both feet remain on the ground for demonstration and you think you might faint from the flash of pain but you do your best to keep your face movie-perfect. It doesn’t really seem to work but all you can do is try. You need to leave before the pain makes you involuntarily scream.

He stares at your posture. “Don’t know.” His voice is faraway, reflective. However, his eyes are a little too focused for your taste.

You decide you should leave before he witnesses the collapse of your whole performance. You start to pivot - warily, guardedly, like a spy tiptoeing through a field of pressure plates.

“Okay well, I’m back in my room, trying to get some sleep in,” you start, feeling nervous but doing your best not to let it seep into your tone. “Guess you should too.”

He watches you turn, watches you aim your body toward your bedroom hallway like a wounded gazelle refusing to acknowledge the predator in the room.

“Good night.“ His voice is quiet.

You can feel his gaze between your shoulder blades. You can feel him trying to parse the strange thing you are doing with your joints. You can feel another single step might make you whimper.

But you keep going.

Because you are determined.

Because pride is something too important to lose.

Because you would rather fall down in an empty hallway and crawl to your room like a tragic mythological creature than let him see you hurt yourself in the stupidest way imaginable.

You try to keep moving. Every step is sending an array of pain through your body, and you’re glad your back is turned to him so he doesn’t see you grimace.

You clear the kitchen doorway. One more corner and you can hide in the blessed anonymity of your room. But as you turn the corner, the pain detonates. White behind your eyes.

Your right foot tries to touch the ground and your entire body says absolutely not.

You slap your hand onto the wall for support, breath hitching like your lungs just skipped frames. Your injured foot is instantly lifted off the ground. You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale through your teeth, because if you make a noise you will cry and if you cry you will dissolve.

“You shouldn’t walk on that foot.”

You startle again. And then freeze like one of those wildlife documentaries where the deer hears something in the wind.

But honestly, you should’ve expected him to follow you.

When Bucky Barnes finds something suspicious, he’ll dig deep, and he’ll get to the bottom of it.

You exhale every lie you were planning to use.

You turn to him a little, trying for nonchalance again. You swallow. Your pride tries to creep into your esophagus and choke you out. Your back is pressed to the wall. Your right foot is levitating like a hostage.

And Bucky takes you in.

A microsecond scan. That mouth like it knows things. Those eyes like they were born knowing how to observe damage.

His face goes blank in that specific Bucky way. Not cold, not warm - just laser discipline clicking into place.

“It’s not a big deal,” you try.

He doesn’t bother arguing your version of reality. He just gives you that look that could bisect molecules. The one that says I’ve been alive a hundred years, doll, I can spot bullshit from space.

His hand - flesh, this time - lands gentle and firm just above your elbow. Irritatingly tender.

“C’mon,” he says, almost whisper-soft, but directing. “Sit.”

Your body obeys before your ego can intervene. You grind your teeth as you move your foot because it feels like stepping on broken glass and electricity. He guides you to the nearest bench in the hallway's alcove and helps you lower yourself down on it.

The sudden absence of your own weight from that foot makes your whole nervous system sag in shaky relief.

Bucky kneels in front of you and the gesture makes your breath hitch. His hair shifts forward a little as he ducks his head to see, that dark, wet-soft strand falling near his brow.

“Let me see,” he utters, extending his metal hand, palm up.

You hesitate. His eyes move up and pin you.

You offer your injured foot in a slow movement.

He eases your shoe onto his palm, deliberate and mindful. That gentleness always shocks you. You keep forgetting the metal arm is the part used for breaking things, not the man.

He presses carefully along the outside of your shoe, testing for reaction.

You hiss, involuntarily, like air bursting from a tire.

His mouth goes grim.

“What happened?”

There’s no edge to it. Just dead-serious need for accurate data.

You scramble for an excuse. “It’s nothing- mission- just a little-”

He cuts you a short, dissecting glance.

“You weren’t limping off the jet twelve hours ago.”

Your stomach drops.

You stare at him.

He doesn’t blink.

You didn’t even know he saw you come off the jet. You didn’t see him watching.

Your brain does that glitch thing. A stutter-step of surprise. An emotional pothole.

“I didn’t know you were there,” you note, voice a little thinner than you wish.

He doesn’t correct. He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t get embarrassed.

“You weren’t limping,” he simply repeats. “So, try that again,” he adds in the same tone, flat but also nonjudgmental.

He continues evaluating your foot, thumb soft.

You are suddenly eight years old and caught with crumbs on your face and cookie-thief written across your forehead.

“It was nothing, just-” you start. You stare at the floor. Then the ceiling. Then your own disastrous sense of dignity. “I dropped a weight on it,” you mumble into the void.

There. It’s out.

Bucky pauses.

Then, he exhales through his nose. The closest thing he has to a sigh.

“You dropped a weight on your own foot,” he repeats, as though he’s documenting the incident in some internal report.

You slap a hand over your face. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

He lifts your foot slightly to examine a different angle. His voice is subdued and infuriatingly calm. “I’m not. I’m trying to make sure you didn’t fracture anything.”

You grip the edge of the bench.

“Which plate,” he asks, pragmatic. As if he’s logging injury metadata.

“Twenty-five,” you mutter.

He frowns, lifts his eyes to yours. You are drowning in the blue of them. “You went for a PR while you were still jet-lagged.”

You want to fling yourself into a recycling bin.

“Needed to get my mind off things,” you admit slowly.

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just fixes his gaze back to your foot, pensive.

“I need to remove the shoe, doll,” he tells you, voice deeper, tone gentle. “Won’t be able to see the damage otherwise.”

“Okay,” you say, small.

“Alright.” His tone is even but also soft-spoken in a way that makes something jump in your chest. “Don’t move.”

His fingers find the knotted lace. He works it loose with scientific delicacy. He moves slow enough that you can tell he’s preparing for pain spikes. He knows the math of injuries. He’s done field trauma on five continents. He’s probably triaged broken feet in tundras and deserts and alleys.

Your breath goes shallow.

He eases the heel of the shoe back a millimeter at a time.

Your vision fuzzes.

Your body goes rigid.

He pauses.

And after waiting for your next intake of breath, he slides the shoe off, along with your sock.

The air hits your swollen skin and you suck a sharp breath in because the sensation is a category 5 hurricane.

He sits back a bit. Flesh hand holding your shoe. Metal hand holding the underside of your foot. The coolness of his hand is somehow both grounding and electrifying.

You tilt your chin and pull your bravado on like a thrifted sweater.

He looks at your foot. Looks at the bruising that has bloomed purple-black-green like a chaotic galaxy.

He exhales, slow. A low whistle folded in one long breath.

His expression is grim, so quietly fixed in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and then crawl back in again. His grip remains secure. He keeps cataloguing pain points.

“Yeah, you’re not waking on that,“ he comments decisively. “Not until we ice it.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I can walk.”

His eyes cut to yours again.

“You can pretend,” he corrects. “That’s different.”

He shifts his hold gently, supportive, as if he’s already planned the next three steps.

You get off the bench, reaching for his arm because you are trying to be a reasonable adult. But your foot doesn’t even touch the ground and gives a little spark of fresh agony.

And before you can redirect, or negotiate, he is already sliding an arm behind your back, another under your knees, and lifting you.

Like a damsel.

Like a problem to be redirected.

You gasp, palms flying to his shoulders.

“Bucky- hey- no, put me down-”

He doesn’t even dignify your panic with a reply, he just adjusts you against his chest as though you weigh the mass of a warm towel and starts walking.

It is the least graceful moment of your adult life.

You are hyper-aware of everything. His bicep under the fabric of his shirt. The faint scent of cedarwood shampoo. The fact that your thigh is pressed to his torso in a way that feels obscene for this late hour on a Tuesday.

“This is humiliating,” you complain under your breath, face on fire.

He snorts. “You can feel humiliated while sitting down.”

“Bucky-”

“Stop arguing,” he remarks, and he isn’t condescending. He almost sounds concerned. “You’re injured. I’m not letting you load that foot.”

You stare up at him, mortified and also completely overwhelmed by the fact that his arms are around you and he smells clean and warm and a little like the tea he just had.

Then you try to look anywhere but his face because your heart is beating rude and loud.

The med freezer alcove is small, clinical, stainless steel surfaces and that cold antiseptic smell of professional athletic medicine.

He sets you gently on the padded trainer table and kneels again like earlier.

Except now you’re sitting, and his face is close enough you can count the faint freckles on his cheekbones. You are fully in his gravitational forcefield.

You feel ridiculous. Tiny. Exposed.

He extracts an instant ice pack, cracks the inside unit with a short metal-thumb pressure, shakes it once, then cups your ankle again.

You’re sure the couch in the living room and a simple ice pack from the kitchen would have been enough. But Bucky’s always been a little dramatic.

You wince as he applies the ice.

He watches your expression, careful. Adjusts pressure. Finds the threshold between helpful and too much.

“Next time,” he notes quietly, voice a little rough, “ask someone to spot you.”

You feel heat edge all the way to your scalp.

“I didn’t expect this level of stupidity,” you argue, defensive, self-deprecating.

His mouth almost curves. Not a smile, just a flicker of wry acknowledgment.

“Accidents happen,” he replies, voice level but sympathetically warm.

You scoff. “Not ones this dumb.”

He looks up, a longer look. “S’ not dumb, doll.”

You look away from him. His sincerity freezes you more than the ice.

Your throat goes tight.

He holds the ice pack in place.

You clear your voice, small. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.” A simple statement.

He adjusts your foot again, more secure. His metal hand brackets the underside so the ice stays even.

“And yet,” you murmur, almost whispering.

He doesn’t look at you.

He just keeps his focus on your foot. His voice is calm, but there’s no exit, no loophole, no weakness in it.

“You wouldn’t have done it yourself.” Another verdict.

And you hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows you so well.

He keeps the ice there until the initial stabbing pain dulls into a deep, sullen throb. Your whole body is humming like a machine red-lining.

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he shifts the pack aside and carefully cups your heel again. His touch is slow and precise and light enough to heat up your skin.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft. “I need to see how bad it is. I’m gonna check range.”

You nod. Your throat is a mess.

He cups your heel with the metal palm - cool straight through your skin - and with his warm organic hand, he supports the arch.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he instructs quietly, gruffly.

He lifts your foot a hair, rotates it a tiny bit. His eyes never leave your face.

You want to die and also be like this forever.

“That hurt?” he inquires, careful.

You swallow. “No. I mean- yes. Kind of. I don’t know.”

His lips jerk the ghost of a laugh. “Okay. What about this.”

He shifts the angle two degrees right.

A tiny lightning strike of pain arcs straight to your skull.

You suck in air through your teeth.

He freezes.

His jaw clenches.

“That’s a no,” he concludes with a scowl. His thumb traces along the bone line with that careful pressure that feels like a spotlight.

Then he angles your foot inward.

You inhale sharply once more.

He holds still. Eyes on your face. “Top? Side?”

“Top,” you whisper, like shame is oxygen.

He nods once. “Alright.”

He lowers your foot back down with so much tenderness it almost offends you.

“Are you enjoying this?” you ask him with a small teasing curve of your lips.

He gives you a look.

“No,” he states plainly. “I’m trying to see if your metatarsals are intact.”

You blink.

He is so serious. Expression pulled so tight.

But he’s watching you with his face growing a centimeter softer, eyes doing that thing where they go half-warm.

Then he shifts your foot again. He uses his flesh hand to gently lift your toes - just a few degrees - just enough to check something internal and intangible and soldier-logic.

Pain punches through your entire leg in a clean bright line so harshly, you choke on your breath.

Your whole torso jerks back.

Bucky flinches with you. His brows slam together in a hard grimace.

He goes stone still.

His jaw goes hard.

“Okay,” he mutters, almost under his breath, as though he’s already adjusting his internal assessment. “That might be a break.”

Your stomach drops through the table.

“Are you sure?” you nervously ask.

Bucky grinds his jaw, still keeping his gaze on your foot, his hands holding it still. “Yeah. I’m guessing you might’ve fractured something.”

You curse under your breath.

“This is such bad timing,” you groan, instantly nauseous. “I’m scheduled to leave again in three days.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and the look is very Bucky Barnes you’re not doing that energy.

“No you’re not.”

“I have to.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” you insist, anxiety rising like steam. “If I bail, Fury will-”

He scowls. “Fury can’t send you anywhere like this.”

You cringe. Because you know Fury’s response would be well then get un-broken.

“Fury’s not known for compassion, Bucky. Especially not for something this ridiculous,” you say roughly.

Bucky’s jaw cements. “I don’t give a damn what he’s known for,” he bites out. “He’s not putting you on a plane like this.”

You sink your fingers into your forehead. “He’ll make me regret it.”

“He won’t,” Bucky utters, tone flattening to steel.

“Bucky-”

“You can’t even put pressure on your foot, sweetheart. Your job is to come home alive. Not to impress anybody with how much punishment you can absorb.” His voice is so low, it almost sounds like a threat.

You stare at him. Speechless.

He places the ice back on your foot, softly. Checks your expression again.

You deflate. Shoulders cave inward. Because you know he’s right. But it’s an awful feeling.

You look at your foot. The black-purple galaxy bruise swelling like cursed bread dough.

“When do you think I can go again?” you whisper, trying to sound casual and totally failing.

He angles his head, considering. He studies your foot again, but his expression softens. He is doing timelines in his head. Calculating bone health, trauma recovery, mission requirements, your ego.

“Depends,” he explains softly. “If it’s a partial fracture - five to six weeks minimum. If it’s a clean break - might take a while longer.”

You make a miserable noise.

He watches your face.

And then, very gently, he softens his tone.

“Look,” he offers, quiet, searching. “This happens, doll. You’re not indestructible. And Fury shouldn’t expect you to be. You’ve been stacking mission after mission, overclocking your system.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

He continues, softer still, eyes pinning yours like a hand on your sternum.

“Maybe this forces you to stand still for a while. And I think that’s not the worst thing. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

You huff a laugh that’s mostly sad.

“I don’t even know how to stand still.”

He smirks, barely. Almost invisible.

“Sitting still, then,” he revises dryly, glancing at your foot, “because you’re absolutely not standing on that.”

You let out a burdened sigh.

“I could hop,” you try again, because apparently, your brand is relentless denial.

He deadpans, not even looking up. “You can hobble into a worse injury. That’s all hopping gets you, doll.”

“You’re very bossy,” you grumble.

He lifts his eyebrows at you, a tiny glint of amusement lining up behind his eyes.

He shifts the ice pack a millimeter - just enough to reduce pressure - and you breathe out like a dying accordion.

“This isn’t a setback, doll,” he tells you empathetically, tone so soft. “It’s just downtime. Think it will be good for you. You stay put. You rest. You let your body catch up. And next time, you let me spot you.”

You blink at him with your eyes stingy because the word downtime feels like a permission slip you didn’t know how to write for yourself. Because the way he’s talking to you makes your spine light up in neon.

He looks down again - checking swelling, repositioning the ice once more - and the whole moment is so gentle you don’t know what to do with it.

“I’ll talk to Fury,” he announces, firm and resolute.

You blink at him.

“What?”

He shrugs one shoulder, not looking up at you. “You’re not taking heat for this. I’ll handle it.”

Your chest goes fizzy weird and unsafe.

You keep staring at him.

This man would go to war with an entire intelligence apparatus rather than watch you limp into one more dangerous thing.

And it’s too much to process so you look at your foot again because it’s easier than looking at him.

“You don’t have to, Bucky,” you reply, almost breathless. “I can deal with it.”

“I know.”

And yet.

“The hardest thing is to give up control when you’ve spent your whole life thinking it’s what keeps you safe.”

- Brené Brown

6. Snapshots and Sticky Notes

7. The Cat’s Approval

8. Paintball, Puns, and Plans

9. Operation Surprise Party

10. Under the Surface

11. Crossing Lines

12. Through the Alley

13. One Step Closer

14. A Wilson Welcome

15. Louisiana Lovin’

16. Beneath the Surface

17. The Weight of Silence

18. More Than an Act

18.5. Just us

19. No Going Back Now

20. Henna Hijinks

21. Mission: Matrimony

22. Shattered Illusions

23. Your Love is a Lie

24. The Space Between Us

25. Locked In or Locked Out

26. Forgiveness Comes Easily, Trust Does Not

27. The Hunger Games: Super Soldier Edition

28. Lost and Found

29. Words that Heal

30. Real, For Us

31. Wish Upon a Star

Epilogue: How to win an argument (and an orgasm)

“Why is your toothbrush flirting with mine?” Bucky questioned you one morning , hair a floppy mess , sleep blurry in his eyes , voice still gravelly from waking just minutes ago. He was in green cotton boxers and a t-shirt that looked older than both of you combined , blinking down at the brush like it had personally betrayed him.

You stepped up beside him , wrapped in a fuzzy ivory robe , sipping your coffee. “They’re in love. Leave them alone.”

He shot you a sleepy side-eye, “You say that like it’s not only your toothbrush making all the moves.”

You just shrugged, smiling over the rim of your mug. “Can’t help it. She’s a hopeless romantic.”

“I think they’re fighting,” he muttered , inspecting the bathroom cup.

“Oh no,” you’d gasp with mock horror laughing , “we can’t have them separate! Think of the children!”

It was ridiculous. And it was only the beginning.

-

Bucky Barnes was the worst kind of roommate.

Not because he was messy—he wasn't; he was actually very well cleaned and groomed. Not because he was rude—he was surprisingly polite for a guy with arms the size of tree trunks and a penchant for shirtless dishwashing.

No, he was deemed as the worst kind of roommate because he was clingy.

Clingy in that “I’m going to always scooch and sit way too close on the couch and pretend I’m not doing it on purpose” kind of way. The “oh, your room’s cold? just sleep in mine” kind of way. The “you went to the grocery store without me?” trembling lip , kind of way.

Clingy in the way that made your heart ache because you liked it more than you should admit.

-

It got especially bad for you when he started using pet names during his time of clingyness.

At first, it was just to be funny. 

“Mornin, sugarplum,” he’d say, pushing an already perfectly made mug of coffee toward you bright and early.

Or, “Did you miss Daddy?” when he came back from a jog and caught you watching The Great British Bake Off alone.

(You had not missed Daddy, for the record. And you told him so. Loudly. With a swat and telling Alpine to claw her Daddy)

But the thing was… he never stopped. The names got worse. Or better, depending on your ability to emotionally withstand Bucky calling you “honeybunches” in that deep velvet voice while wearing grey sweatpants.

And the worst part? You eventually started saying them right back.

“Pass the popcorn, darling,” you keened with your feet propped up in his lap petting your cat.

“Yes, dear,” he’d whisper, forehead pressed to yours during movie nights when you both fell asleep upright.

It was stupid. It was dangerous. It was perfect.

-

You cracked at 2:37 a.m. on a random Tuesday.

You had a nightmare. Something nonsensical and jarring—your house catching fire or a plane crash or Bucky deciding to move out. You didn’t even remember the dream fully, just the sense of loss. Of panic.

And before you could think it through, you were padding straight into his room, heart in your throat, stomach on the floor.

You didn’t ever knock and he never minded.

He was already sitting up when he heard the creek of the door hinges , blinking into the dark seeing your shoulders sunken silhouette.

“You okay?” His voice was low and cautious. Like talking to a small woodland creature.

You shook your head too fast making his cock his head. “Can’t sleep.”

“Come here, sweetheart.”

That was it.

Just come here, sweetheart, like he’d said it a thousand times. Like his voice wasn’t already carved into your bones.

You crawled, leaped into his arms and crawled into his bed. He pulled you in without question or comment. An arm around snug your waist, his stubbly chin resting in the crook of your neck like it belonged there as you straddle his hips clinging to his heat and comfort.

It wasn’t sexual. It was warm. Safe. Familiar.

You fell asleep wrapped in him like a weighted blanket , and when you woke up, his fingers were tangled ; laced in yours.

He never let you go.

-

After that, things were different and changed.

He wouldn’t let you sleep in your room alone anymore.

“You’re gonna abandon me like that?” he pouted one night when you yawned and stood up to leave the living room after hours of Netflix binging.

“I have a bed n’ its calling my name,” you whispered, yawning again slowly.

“You have me.”

You stared at him. “That was… flat out”

“I have needs.”

You blinked. “You mean you have abandonment issues.”

“I have you, and you’re trying to leave me for a memory foam mattress.”

You gave in. Again.

Because his bed smelled like him. And his shoulder was your favorite place in the world. And you were in love with your stupid, emotionally clingy, roommate.

But you weren’t saying it. Not yet.

-

It was Bucky who surprisingly broke first.

He always said too much. Too fast.

You were brushing your teeth. Your toothbrush, this time, firmly on your side. He leaned on the doorframe, watching you, arms crossed and a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“You’re cute when you foam at the mouth,” he quipped thinking he was hilarious.

You spit into the sink and blindly flipped him off.

Then, quieter–over the rushing water of the faucet: “You’re cute all the time.”

You blinked up, turning the water off with a harshness.

“What?”

“I said—” he stepped closer…“you’re cute all the time.”

You set your toothbrush down with a clank , heart thudding on your ribs.

“Are you… okay?” You lifted your palm feeling his forehead for high temp , making him only lean into it.

“Probably not,” he admitted, almost whispering. “I’m in love with my roommate. It’s a nightmare.”

You stared up at him. With a face you could only imagine was of pure dumbness , no thoughts no ideas on how to understand what just came out of his mouth.

“ I’m in love with you,” his voice barely above a whisper. “And I know it’s probably the dumbest thing I could’ve said while you’re standing here in toothpaste and one sock, but I couldn’t—” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

“Bucky.”

“I didn’t plan this,” he added quickly. “I didn’t move in thinking this would happen. You were supposed to be just my roommate. You were supposed to leave little passive-aggressive notes on the fridge and forget to buy milk and maybe hate me a little.”

“I do forget to buy milk.”

He huffed a soft laugh. You swallowed. Your eyes felt hot.

“I like everything about you,” he murmured. “Even the parts you probably think are annoying. I like your weird shower playlists and how you hum when you do dishes and how you never quite close cabinet doors all the way. I like falling asleep next to you–And I know I’m not saying it in the right way, and I probably should’ve said it before now. But I’m saying it. I love you.”

You turned.

Not slowly. Not cautiously. Just turned — like your body was already moving before your mind could catch up.

He looked nervous. Terrified, even.

So you reached for him.

One hand on his cheek, fingers threading into his damp hair. The other curled into the soft cotton of his t-shirt, fisting it gently at his chest.

His breath hitched.

And then — you kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t testing the waters.

It was like breathing after holding it for too long. Like reaching something you didn’t realize you were desperate for until it was in your hands.

He made a soft sound ,  something between a sigh and a gasp — and kissed you back like he’d been waiting for this forever. His hands came to your waist, gripping you tight, pulling you flush against him like he needed to feel every inch of you to believe it was real.

You tilted your head, deepening it, lips soft and slow and sure. You felt his heartbeat thudding in his chest  , fast, steady — as your hand slid around the back of his neck.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.

You whispered, voice cracking a little: “I love you too, you idiot.”

He let out a shaky laugh.

“Thank God. I was gonna be so embarrassed.”

You snorted and shoved him lightly, but he caught your wrist and kissed your knuckles, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth, like he wasn’t ready to stop.

Like he never would be.

-

Now

You’re brushing your hair in the bathroom. But this time, his arms are wrapped around your waist from behind, his chin on your shoulder.

“Look at our kids,” he murmurs, looking at your toothbrushes in a single cup in the middle of the two sinks now. Yours yellow , his blue. 

“They’re thriving,” you agree , laughing into the mirror.

He grins against your skin, placing a soft kiss to your neck. “I can’t believe it worked.”

“What, me falling madly for you?”

“No,” he says smugly. “The toothbrush thing. Genius move by the way.”

You snort.

Then he presses a kiss to your shoulder and mumbles: “Also yeah. You falling for me. That too.”

-end

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That was how you learned he had a cat. You didn’t know his name. He didn’t know yours. But you learned things.

You learned he had a short temper with machines and no patience for his own cooking. He learned you liked to play music when you did laundry, low and familiar, songs that carried the rhythm of memory. He heard you talk to your mother too loud on speakerphone, pacing barefoot, stepping over unfolded laundry piles and empty takeout boxes. You heard him talk to Alpine like she was someone who answered back.

Your lives ran parallel through thin walls. You tried not to listen, at first. But the quiet in this building had its own gravity, and sometimes his voice was the only sound that reminded you that you weren’t entirely alone.

He’d grown used to your sounds too. The creak of your couch springs. The uneven rhythm of your footsteps on the hardwood floor. The way you hummed, not shyly, but like you didn’t think anyone was around to hear.

He liked the sounds of you existing.

You never tried to speak through the wall. That would’ve made it real, and you weren’t sure you were ready for that. Neither was he.

One afternoon, you came home with grocery bags cutting into your fingers and sweat cooling at the base of your spine. Your thighs brushed with every step, your bra strap dug into your shoulder, and you hated how aware you were of your body as you climbed the stairs. You were soft, solid, full, and taking up too much space.

He turned the corner at the same time you reached the landing, going out somewhere with a leather satchel over one shoulder. His hoodie was slouched low, sleeves pushed halfway up one arm. His hair was pulled back, and his expression was unreadable, at least until he saw you.

He noticed you. Not with surprise, not with appraisal, but with that same quiet awareness you’d felt through the wall. You weren’t what he expected, not in that moment, not in the clothes you wore or the way you filled them, but he didn’t flinch from it.

His gaze dropped once, briefly, involuntarily, to the place your blouse lifted, revealing the curve of your stomach, and then back up. He didn’t flinch, didn’t react, just a simple acknowledgment. 

You nodded, enough to be polite. He gave a small smile in return, barely there, but not unkind. You passed each other slowly in the hallway, two ships in the narrow channel between lives. You didn’t speak, but curiosity crackled in the silence between your steps. 

Later, from your kitchen, you heard his door open, then close. You heard the faint thump of shoes being toed off, the rustle of paper as Alpine tried to investigate the contents of the bag. You leaned your back against the counter and listened until it was quiet again.

You didn’t know his name. He didn’t know yours.

But he knew the sound of your laugh when you watched something stupid on TV. And you knew the weight of his sighs, the unevenness of his sleep. And the wall between you, old, more paint than plaster, let everything through.

And somehow, that didn’t feel like a bad thing.

*****

The oven in 3B went quiet for a few days.

You still heard other things, the low sound of music, barely-there conversation with Alpine, the dull impact of something heavy being dropped or kicked. But there was no cursing, no banging of pans, no smoke alarm chirping through drywall. It almost worried you.

You’d baked because you needed the warmth. Not a metaphor, you needed actual warmth. The heater in your apartment had clanked twice and then given up for the day, and your sweater, stretched thin at the sleeves and worn soft at the elbows, hadn’t done much to fight the draft. So you made banana bread because you had three overripe ones on the counter and not much else. 

When it cooled, you sliced off two center pieces and wrapped them in foil. Two fat, warm slices, still slightly sticky in the center. No note, just a plate, a quiet knock, and the sound of you walking away.

You didn’t plan to linger by the door afterward, but you did. You weren’t close, just by the coat rack, pretending to look for your keys. Just long enough to hear the door across the hall open, a brief pause, and then close again. You listened, and moments later you could swear you heard a faint moan, as of someone enjoying the bread. 

The plate returned the next day, clean, outside your door. Nothing else. You smiled anyway.

That night, your door didn’t stick. It had been doing that since you moved in, catching at the bottom corner unless you yanked it hard. It usually closed loud enough to echo and announce every time you came or went. You’d grown used to bracing for it, pulling at the knob with your full body weight, thighs shifting, arm flexing awkwardly to hold the frame steady. Sometimes you swore at it under your breath. Once or twice, louder.

Now it moved like butter. Just a whisper of friction, then open. You found the note a moment later, stuck slightly askew beside the frame. Old-school yellow sticky, blocky handwriting that looked careful, like it had been practiced but not used in a long time.

Oiled the hinges. Shouldn’t have to slam it. —3B

No smiley face, no sarcasm. Just the plain fact. You kept it on the inside of your door for a week. He’d fixed it at some point when you were gone. 

You started paying more attention after that.

The shuffle of his steps. The clink of dishes. The way he cleared his throat when reading something aloud, like he wasn’t sure of the words. You imagined him sitting at a small kitchen table, hoodie sleeves pushed up over one forearm, the other covered, always covered, no matter how warm it got in the building. You didn’t know if he did it to protect something or hide it.

He heard you sing again. He heard the rhythm of your hands kneading dough you wouldn’t eat all of. He heard the way your voice softened when you played old love songs and let yourself sway through the room, hips moving with more care than confidence.

He liked that too. The sound of your movement. You didn’t try to be graceful, you were just you.

You both stayed in your lanes. He never knocked. You never thanked him aloud. But that slice of bread had said enough. And the hinge said it back.

*****

It had become a kind of lullaby, the sounds from 3B as he settled in for the night.

First, the creak of his bed. Then the low mutter, always the same cadence: something soft, gravel-edged, irritated more at himself than anything else. You never caught the words, just the rhythm of them, followed by the thud of feet hitting the floor again. Then the fridge opening, a bottle clinking, and the faint, questioning meow of Alpine.

Then the microwave beeped. Twice.

You lay on your side, under the worn cotton quilt your grandmother had pieced together years ago. The lights were off, but your apartment hadn’t gone quiet.

Neither had his.

The air felt different that night, less separate. “Warm milk?” you called through the wall, voice light. There was a beat of silence, just long enough to make you think maybe you’d crossed some line. 

Then, “…You been spying on me, 3C?”

Your breath caught on a surprised laugh. “You’re not that stealthy, 3B.”

You could hear the smile in his voice, even if you couldn’t see it. The way he shifted a little closer to the wall, barely a breath, but there.

He liked the sound of your voice when it was playful. When it wasn’t colored by exhaustion or your mother’s judgment or the lonely edge of the television.

You liked the sound of his when it was amused. When the gravel in it had softness behind it.

On the other side of the wall, he leaned back into bed with a grunt. Alpine chirped once, complaining, maybe, about her share of the blanket. He murmured something to her, voice too low for you to catch.

You stared up at the ceiling in the dark, the silence stretching just enough to make it feel like a question.

And then you said it. “Goodnight.”

It was small. Not loaded with meaning. Not asking for anything. Just a quiet offer in the dark.

There was a pause. He shifted again. “Goodnight.”

Simple, but he spoke with meaning, like he hadn’t said it to someone in a long time, or like he’d meant it more than you were supposed to hear.

You didn’t speak the next night, neither did he. But the silence between you wasn’t empty. It had tension and anticipation now. It felt almost as though the wall between you was holding its breath.

In 3B, he lay awake with Alpine curled into the bend of his knee, her purring barely audible over the hum of the radiator. He was thinking too much, again. 

He didn’t plan to speak, but his voice came anyway. “I liked your singing.” That was it. Nothing more. Just the words, resting gently in the dark.

You blinked. Then sat up a little, as if the act of moving might help you hear better. “…What?” you said, barely above a whisper.

“You were singing. Yesterday,” he said, still quiet. Still casual. “It was nice.”

You paused, let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thanks,” you said, just as softly.

There was a faint rustle, like he’d shifted against his sheets. “Night, doll.”

Your lips curved into a small, private smile. “Night.”

And that was all.

You stayed facing the wall for a while after that, tee pulled down over your hips, one hand tucked under your cheek, eyes wide open, listening.

The sound of him, still breathing on the other side.

*****

You hadn’t planned to do it that night.

But the apartment was still in a way that made even the sound of your own breathing feel loud. The street outside had quieted. No more sirens, no thud of footsteps overhead, no slamming pipes behind the wall you shared with 3B.

And the heat building between your thighs had long stopped being something you could reason with. It sat there, an ache, a demand, humming low and urgent in your belly. It had been following you around all day, a tension that lived in your spine, curled around your ribs, and now, stubborn and molten, refused to let you sleep.

You hadn’t heard a sound from 3B in over an hour. Not the scrape of a chair, not a muttered curse at whatever old appliance had offended him this time. Not even the occasional thud of his boots hitting the floor.

You figured he was asleep, and that assumption made you bold.

You reached into your nightstand, fingers pushing aside the soft folds of a scarf until they brushed against the familiar shape of your toy. A quiet flutter ran through you. Your heart thudded behind your ribs from the thrill of doing it with him just on the other side of the wall. He wasn’t in the room, he didn’t, couldn’t know, but the threat of possibility still thrilled you. 

Your hand trembled slightly as you pulled it free. You shifted onto your back, head sinking into the pillow as your thighs parted, the cotton of your underwear already clinging to damp skin. You pushed it aside with one hand, the other lowering the toy between your legs. The hum started low.

*****

In 3B, he froze mid-breath.

He should have been asleep. He’d been lying there in the dark, body splayed across the mattress in lazy defeat, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped low across his abdomen. The sheets were twisted around his legs, too warm and too tight. Static filled his skull, leftover adrenaline, leftover thoughts.

The ache had been with him all week, a slow build he’d tried to ignore. He wasn’t even sure if he’d touch himself tonight. It felt too risky, too intimate, and too close to the kind of thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

And then he heard it.

A soft, mechanical buzz, barely there, muffled by drywall and distance. He knew the sound, and worse, he knew what it meant.

He held his breath and strained to hear. He got his wish when your breathing changed.

A ragged exhale escaped him. His hand flew up to his face, covering his eyes like that would stop the image forming in his mind.

Fuck. You were doing it. Right now. Right there.

And God, you had no idea he was listening.

*****

The slow pulse of the toy wasn’t enough.

You shifted, one knee drawn up, foot planted against the mattress. Your other leg stretched long, toes curling, but you needed more. You pressed the toy harder against yourself, angling it slightly upward until it grazed just right against your g-spot. A wave of pleasure bloomed through you, and your hips rocked in search of release.

Your free hand slid over your stomach and down, fingers splaying, gripping where your thigh met your hip as your back arched. You turned your face into the pillow, lips parting as you tried to stay quiet, to keep your breathing measured, to hold in the little gasps threatening to slip free.

Your thighs tightened around your hand and the muscles in your stomach fluttered. You could already feel the pressure building, high and hot, your center pulsing.

The thought of being overheard should have stopped you, but it only made the heat rise faster. A secret exhibition, the thrill of unspoken risk. You even imagined you could hear him as well, you almost could, and it spurred you on.

You bit down on the inside of your lip to keep in a whimper. Your eyes squeezed shut.

*****

He was already stroking himself, fast and frantic. His fist was slick and tight around the base of his cock, his other hand braced against the headboard as if holding himself back from something. His hips jerked up into the rhythm, desperate and raw.

Your breath, that buzz, he could hear it all. Hell, he could feel it in his bones, like the sound alone was enough to get him off.

He was picturing you now, couldn’t stop if his life depended on it. You, laid out on the other side of the wall. Legs spread, mouth open, trying to stay quiet, chasing your pleasure. 

He heard your voice, that soft sound you made, almost a moan. It destroyed him.

His orgasm punched through him with no warning, sharp, blinding, and brutal. His hand barely kept up as he spilled across his knuckles, hot and messy, chest lifting in a sharp gasp.

“Fuck—” he groaned, the word ripped out of him, way too loud. His head tipped back, eyes screwed shut. His legs trembled with the aftershocks, the last few strokes wringing everything out of him.

*****

Your eyes flew open.

That wasn’t just a random noise. You knew that voice. That was him.

The vibrator was still pulsing against you, but the moment you heard your neighbor’s rough groan echo through the wall, your body jolted, like it had been touched, directly. A tight, aching surge swelled in your belly.

Your thighs snapped closed around the toy. Your back arched, your breath caught, your fingers twitched. 

And your climax broke over you like a wave cracking against stone.

Your body locked up, muscles clenching in a deep, desperate spasm. The sound that tore from your throat was soft but helpless, an unguarded cry still muffled into your pillow.

Your toes curled, one hand clawing at the sheets as the pulses dragged through you, wave after wave. You trembled, thighs wet, the hum of the toy pushing you almost into oversensitivity. Your chest heaved.

And somewhere inside the collapse, where your mind stopped whirring and your thoughts went white, you realized: It may not have been his name you moaned, but it was still him in your mind. He was always in your mind.

*****

His breath was still shaking out of him when he heard your gasp.

A soft, broken sound, barely a whisper, but it reached him like a slap. His whole body tensed again, already oversensitive, nerves raw. He’d just finished, hand still messy, chest still tight, when that sound bled through the wall.

Not an imagined moan, but real. Now he knew what you sounded like when you came. 

It was followed by silence so total it rang in his ears. His fingers curled into the sheet beneath him, knuckles tight, tendons flaring. He sat up slowly, like something delicate had been balanced on his spine and might shatter if he moved too fast.

The room was too warm. His skin felt hot and chilled at once, like shame and arousal were fighting under his skin for dominance. He stared at the wall, your wall, like it might open up, show him something, say something.

He imagined your mouth parted. Your chest rising and falling in soft gasps, still trying to come back down. Your legs still shaking.

He realized you heard him and you chose not to stop. You heard him and that was what sent you over the edge. 

And now you knew, you had to know, that hearing you was what sent him over the edge, too. 

*****

You were still breathing hard.

Your chest rose in uneven bursts. One leg bent at the knee, foot flat on the mattress, the other still stretched out and trembling. The toy lay beside you on the sheets, powered down now but still warm from use. Your wrist twitched like it hadn’t gotten the message yet.

Your thighs were wet and your pulse was louder than your thoughts. You didn’t want to open your eyes and face reality yet.

You’d heard him. You thought you’d been imagining it, but you’d heard every ragged gasp, that last choked curse, and every desperate stroke.

He hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t even tried to be quiet. And you hadn’t either at the end.

You turned your head toward the wall, slowly, cautiously, like it might bite if you moved too fast.

Your hand lifted, fingers trembling as they hovered. You pressed your palm flat to the drywall.

The surface was cool and smooth.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A tremor? A heartbeat?

But it stayed solid and blank.

Still, something had broken, and you weren’t sure which side the crack had come from.

*****

There was thirty seconds of silence.

A silence so thick it felt like sound itself had drowned. Only the faint tick of a pipe somewhere deep in the walls. Your blood rushed in your ears, and sweat cooled in lines down your neck.

Your whole body curled slightly on instinct, a small, shame-wracked shape of disbelief. You couldn’t pretend you hadn’t done it. You couldn’t pretend he hadn’t either. There were no illusions left.

You’d heard him come.

He’d heard you moan.

You should have run, covered yourself, hid. You should have done something, anything. But all you did was lay there, frozen, your hand still on the wall, as if it were the only thing keeping you tethered.

Then you heard sounds from across the wall.

Just the creak of a floorboard, then pacing back and forth: two steps, turn, two steps, turn.

It was like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. Like the air inside him was burning, and the movement was the only way to keep from combusting.

You pressed your palm tighter to the wall as if you could press yourself through it. 

And then his footsteps were moving away. You heard his door open and slam shut. 

A moment later there were three solid raps at your door. Not at all tentative; like he knew exactly what he was about to do.

Your pulse spiked. You sat up too fast, legs shaking, and stumbled toward the door.

You didn’t think, you just opened it.

He stood there, shirtless and flushed. You saw all of him, scars, a metal prosthetic, and you realized that was why he always wore long sleeves. But it was beautiful. All of him was beautiful. 

His chest moved with every short breath, his hair a mess, his lips parted, like he hadn’t quite come down from it. His hands hung loose at his sides, but his eyes?

God, his eyes looked at you like he held a storm back just behind them. He wasn’t sorry and he didn’t regret a second of it.

He didn’t say a word.

He just moved.

*****

His kiss was immediate. It was rough, desperate, and completely unapologetic.

His mouth crashed into yours like he was making up for every night spent on the other side of that wall. He kissed like he needed to taste proof that this was real, that you were real, under his hands, against his chest, and letting him take you without hesitation.

One arm wrapped around your waist, crushing you against him. The other tangled into your hair, fisting at the roots with just enough pressure to wrench a gasp from your throat. Your lips parted against his, and he didn’t wait, his tongue swept in, hot and demanding, tasting every inch like he’d been starved for it.

You kissed him back like your mouth had been shaped for his. Your body had been waiting for this, for him, and that pressure behind the drywall hadn’t been keeping you apart, it had been the only thing holding you together.

Your hip hit the door as you pulled him inside, and you slammed it shut with your heel. The echo cracked through the apartment, loud, final, and irreversible.

He gripped you hard under your ass and lifted you like you weighed nothing. You yelped into his mouth, but didn’t resist, your thighs wrapping around his hips on instinct as your back collided with the shared wall. The wall you’d both touched, breathed against, come against.

It made a sound, and somewhere through the drywall, Alpine meowed, displeased at the noise. You both ignored her. 

His mouth broke from yours, trailing down the curve of your jaw, over the line of your throat, down to your collarbone where he bit, and not softly. His hands were everywhere now, under your shirt, dragging up your ribs, gripping your waist like he owned it. One hand slid to your ass, squeezing roughly as he rocked you harder against him.

His breath was hot and ragged, teeth scraping over your skin as he muttered something low into your neck, words slurred by need, by heat. You didn’t catch it but you didn’t care.

You reached down between you, fingers sliding under the waistband of his sweatpants. The skin beneath was hot, fever-warm and slick with sweat, and maybe something else. You curled your fingers around him and gripped hard.

He gasped, a soft, broken noise into the crook of your neck.

You pushed his pants down fast. They caught around his thighs but you didn’t stop. You wanted his skin on your skin. You wanted him.

His cock was hard, heavy in your hand. He thrust once against your palm, groaning like the contact was already too much for him to handle.

“Fuck,” he gasped against your ear, voice shredded. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your shirt hit the floor, peeled up over your head and flung aside. Your underwear followed, dragged down between you in a tangle of legs and friction and impatience before he lifted you against the wall again.

He didn’t hesitate for even a second.

He didn’t ask permission.

You both knew you’d given it the second you moaned through drywall.

*****

The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

You cried out, head dropping back against the wall with a dull thud.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails digging in for something to hold onto as he drove into you, deep and unrelenting, his strokes smooth like he already knew the exact rhythm that would destroy you.

He set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward, dragging you down against him with each thrust. The stretch burned, full and thick, but it made your toes curl, your eyes roll, your lips part for air you couldn’t seem to find.

His mouth found your neck again, open and wet, tongue tracing the line of your pulse before he bit, hard enough to mark, hard enough to make your hips jolt forward. You whimpered into his shoulder.

You could feel every inch of him. Every drag, every deep, maddening thrust sent you spiraling.

His hands gripped the back of your thighs, lifting you higher, angling deeper until the next thrust made you sob.

“God,” he choked out, voice right at your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—”

“Wanted you.” You finished for him.

You clenched tight around him, muscles spasming, hips bucking forward in a sharp, involuntary rhythm. You gasped out a simple plea, not a just moan this time, but a confession, raw and helpless.

Your orgasm surged like a livewire down your spine, a sharp electric pulse that left your body shuddering in his arms. Your vision went white at the edges. You clutched at him, pulled him in, held him close as your body unraveled.

“Yes—fuck, yes—” you whispered into his skin, voice shaking, breath shattered.

That sent him over the edge. He drove into you once more, deep and hard, and then buried himself there, his whole body seizing with a growl. He came with a full-body tremor, forehead pressed hard to yours, chest shuddering, mouth open.

He stayed there, still pulsing inside you, jaw clenched, arms locked tight around your waist.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

*****

The air between you went quiet, but not still.

Your foreheads stayed pressed together. You were both still breathing hard, chests brushing with every inhale. Your shirt was a puddle at your feet. His pants hung low around his thighs. The wall behind you was damp with sweat, yours and his, and something more.

You didn’t look away.

You touched his jaw, soft now, your thumb brushing along the scratch of stubble. He leaned into the touch like he needed it more than the orgasm.

And then, quietly, as your breath caught, you asked, “What’s your name?”

He blinked, something in his expression softening at the edge. 

“James,” he said, voice low and uncertain.

He paused in the silence before asking,

“Yours?”

Tag list:

His eyes wash over you, and he thinks you're hot, maybe a bit younger than him, but you must be a hunter coz you don't flinch for a second seeing them covered in blood, and your tight shirt and even tighter jeans send his mind spinning onto every possibility.

He doesn't speak to you, doesn't even ask your names just looks at you. It takes Sam finally walking in and introducing himself for him to find out what to call you, and to find out you're Bobby's niece, or the closest thing he's got to one. Not that that makes a difference to Bobby.

And he doesn't talk to you that whole afternoon, just watches. Watches your ass as you walk past him, watches your boobs as you lean down to set another mug of coffee in front of him, watches the way your lips part when you speak to Sam and Bobby.

He's careful, every look small, just darting his eyes, tiny movements of his head, enough that he can take you in but not enough that you'll see.

But of course Bobby sees. Takes him a short while, but he sees.

Coz you've finally hopped up on the counter, legs dangling under you. And you look up at Dean, watching him watch you, until his eyes finally meet yours. And you smile a small smile, one that shows fire sparking behind your eyes, and Dean smiles back, all teeth and apple cheeks. And a few minutes go by, small stolen glances at each other. And now he's not even trying hide it, coz he's eyeing you like you're a steak dinner, or maybe you're just dessert, coz from the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips you can tell he's only got sweetness on his mind.

"Don't even think about it." Bobby speaks without even looking up.

You almost think he's talking to you, the same exasperated tone you've heard a hundred times. But then Dean starts stuttering, trying not to show any guilt, whole time looking guiltier than sin, and Bobby finally looks up at him.

"I'm serious, boy, if you're under this roof you don't look at her. You don't speak to her. As far as you're concerned, she don't exist."

And he tries to listen- god knows he tries- but he also knows forbidden fruit is all the sweeter, and now he's desperate for a taste.

Not that you're making it easy for him. He swears every time he sees you your jeans get just a little tighter, tops cut just a little lower. But of course, every time he tries to steal another glance, Bobby's there, handing you a sweater, hiding you away.

It takes almost a week for him to get you alone, well, for you to get him.

It's the sixth night of his stay, and you're laying in bed, looking up at the ceiling when you hear the distinct sound of someone walking to the kitchen. And you can tell right away it doesn't sound like Bobby, no you're used to that. So you take your chances, following the noise down, hoping it's the Winchester you're expecting.

When you make it to the kitchen, your hopes are confirmed - Dean Winchester, lit up only by the hum of the refrigerator light. And he can't see you yet, so you give yourself a moment to really take him in, body bathed in golden hue.

Shirtless, whole torso proudly on show. Strong shoulders, solid frame, but not bulging with muscle like you'd half been expecting. No, this is practical strength, fighting and training and running creating a body you'd have a hard time knocking back. His flannel pajama pants hang low on his hips, just enough that you can follow the shallow V of his waist down, and even from this angle you can see a glimpse of short dark hair poking out of the waistband.

You walk in, flick on the light in one movement and watch his whole body flinch in reaction, spinning to face you. You've caught him unaware, enough that for a moment he only stands there, hand resting over his chest as he feels his heart pounding, a bemused expression filling his face. And then he gets a proper look at you, short fabric booty shorts, tight tank top pulled low- Jesus this is everything Bobby has been hiding away from him all week.

"They should put a bell on you, doll."

And you've got this look on your face he can't understand. It looks like naivety, like there's no way you can know what you're doing to him. But it also looks like a dare, like you're just waiting for him to break.

But Dean just knows he isn't that lucky. And if there's one thing he's scared of, it's not the demons and the werewolves and the ghosts, it's the idea of Bobby walking in and catching the way he's staring at you.

So instead he turns back into the fridge, looking in there like it's the eighth wonder of the world. And he's letting the cool air wash over him, willing away the inevitable boner he just knows his pants aren't gonna do a damn thing to conceal.

You look at the back of him, trying not to laugh because you know exactly what he's doing. And then you walk to the sink, and you know he's watching you out the corner of his eye because he can't help himself when you're here all alone. So you reach up, to the highest glasses on the shelf, the ones you can barely reach, and now your ass is sticking out and your midriff is exposed and you hear him exhale all sharp because he can't believe what you're putting him through.

"You get me some ice?" You ask him, sing-song like behind a smile.

And of course he doesn't react, because he's not even listening, just trying not to look while looking all the same.

So you walk over to the sink, two glasses in hand, and fill them up, letting the sound of the water fill the room instead. But when you're done there's no hiding for him, because you turn back around and walk right up to him, waiting. And he's dumbfounded, just looking at you like he's never seen a woman before.

"Ice?" You smile again, trying to hide the laugh in your throat, and you hold up one of the glasses, hoping that maybe visuals will help.

He seems to understand, turning back to the freezer and reaching in without a word, and then he pulls out a big bag of it that Bobby's probably had in there for centuries already, and he puts a handful in each glass without even thinking.

"It's hot, right?" You hold out one for him to take.

It takes a moment, but he finally responds, realizing there's no way he can refrigerator himself out of this one, "Yeah, hot as all hell."

And he takes the glass from you, and you hold on for just a second longer than you need to, just enough that his hands brush against yours and you can feel the burning heat of his fingers compared to what you're both now holding. But you let him take it, stepping back only slightly, still close enough that he can reach out and touch.

You don't wanna torment him, not really, but you know it's the only way he'll finally break, so you reach into your own glass, pulling out an ice cube between your fingers. And you press it to your collarbone, letting the sensation shock you slightly as it instantly begins to melt against you, "Too damn hot."

And there's no world where he can come off as composed now, because his jaws hanging open and he's got a glassy look behind his eyes that tells you he's thinking everything and nothing all at once.

So you drop the ice back into your glass and take a sip of water. But you don't move, still looking at him looking at you. And he can tell now that look is a dare but he still isn't sure what he's supposed to do about it, because he's in Bobby's home and you're Bobby's family and he just knows if he acts on this he's gonna become Bobby's next murder victim.

But his arm moves without him realizing, because before he knows it he's lifting the glass right up to your bare neck. And the condensation that was barely clinging begins to drip down your skin.

And he watches as it starts to trail down, further and further, winding down like it's trying to tease him, a bead of water. And then it reaches the top of your cleavage, soaking into the hem of your top, and he just lets himself stare, because he's been trying to get a look at you all week and now you're here and he can't stop himself.

And he repeats what you said, because no other words exist to him right now, "Too. Damn. Hot."

Now you're the one who looks like a deer caught in headlights, because his gaze is setting your hairs on end and you're worried you're not gonna be able to keep yourself together much longer. And his eyes are just tearing you apart, hungry and animalistic, his jaw set tight, and you feel the air in your lungs just seem to disappear.

He pulls the glass away, and then he leans down, all slow like he just expects Bobby to walk into the room. But he doesn't. So Dean lets his whole body move closer to yours, only inches away, and he lets his head fall down to your neck, and then he's pressing his lips against your skin, so gentle you can barely feel it. The heat of his breath against the icy patch of your neck feels like it's burning into you, but you don't move, coz it's a good kind of burn.

He leans away again, eyes watching you the whole time, waiting for your response.

And then your lips are together, colliding with desperation. He lifts you up, your legs immediately wrap around him as he hooks his hands under your thighs, grabbing your ass with a squeeze.

You don't break away for even a second as he begins to carry you back through the house, his tongue's in your mouth now, face pressed against yours. He almost takes you to the guest room, where him and Sam have spent the last week, before realising his mistake, and stumbling his way back to your room. And he's trying to be quiet, but there's floorboards older than him in this house and he seems to be setting them all creaking.

So when he finally makes it to your room the only thing he can feel for a moment is relief, relief that you're both finally hidden away behind the door. He lowers you back to the ground, letting you lead him to your bed. You take his hand, pulling him down on top of you as you fall against your mattress, his body fitting back against yours like a jigsaw, like it's where he's just supposed to be, the heat of his bare chest flowing through you.

And you make out for a while. Hot bodies pressed against bodies, lips on lips, tongues battling tongues. And he brings his hand up to your throat, resting it there, not enough pressure to scare you, but just enough that you know he's making you his.

But it's just kissing. Coz he figures, right now, there's deniability. And if Bobby came in, making out ain't a death sentence.

But you're really not making it easy, your tank top riding up, your bare stomach pressed against his abs, and he can feel how soft your skin is against his. His hand tightens, only slightly, feeling your neck under him, and he hears as you let out a small whimper against his lips.

Now he can't unhear it, and he's craving more, that hungers back and there's no way to ignore it.

So he moves his hand, slow as he can, down your body. And he's trying to ignore your boobs, which are now pressed against him, moving in time with every heavy breath, but it's easier said than done and it's taking everything in him to go past them.

But he manages it, finding the bottom of your top instead, and he pushes his hands up slightly, just enough that his fingertips can find there way under the fabric. And he keeps them there for a moment as his kissing gets heavier.

But then you're moaning again and he can't help himself, so he lifts his hand up further, and he brushes his thumb lightly against your nipple, tentatively like he doesn't know what he's doing. But of course he does because you finally break your lips away from his to let out a proper gasp.

That only spurs him on. He takes the opportunity, to kiss your jaw, hot and heavy as he works his way down. And your neck is right there, ready to be marked up so everyone knows what he's done to you, but he stops himself, knows there's no way to come back from it if Bobby sees that. So he keeps his kisses light, feeling the way you shift under him at every delicate touch.

He keeps working his way down, brushing his thumb against your nipple again just to hear you moan. And he decides he's made it this far, what's a little further, so now he's pulling your top off over your head, and you're letting him.

You reach out to touch him but he moves your wrists back, pulling them above your head and pushing them into the mattress as a way to tell you to keep them there. He takes a long look at you, stretched out under him, your tits out, nipples hard, whole chest rising and falling as you breathe.

He leans down again, his finger tracing over your breast, a small line from your collarbone down, teasing you like that bead of condensation was teasing him earlier. And then he circles your nipple again and your whole back arches out for him and it's the best damn sight he's ever seen.

He lowers his face down to your other tit, his tongue darts out to your nipple and your whole body melts under him. He takes it in his mouth, teeth grazing only just, sucking at it, completely ravenous again. And he keeps his hand on the other side, moving from teasing your nipple to just grabbing your whole breast.

And he almost thinks this is enough, that he's happy with just making you feel good. But then you shift, and now his boner is pressed right up between your thighs, right where he really wants to be, and there's only the fabric of his pants and the fabric of your shorts between you. And you start to grind up against him, feeling his hardness press against you and he swears you just want him to fall into a thousand pieces.

You reach down to his waistband, letting your hand fall flat against his abs as you slide your fingertips in and he exhales a sharp breath, which only sends you writhing more because the cooling sensation flows right over your nipple. So you push your hand further down, hovering just above his pelvis and he just knows he's about to come undone right there and then.

He lowers his whole body again, kissing down your stomach, looking up at you with a glint in his eye that can only mean one thing. He trails his mouth along your ribs and down your hips and along the top of your own waistband. He's acting like he's trying to resist going further but you both know there's no hope of that now, so you just hook your fingers over your own shorts and begin to pull them down. Now that glint in his eye has turned to desperation as he looks down at you, helping you to tug your shorts off that last little bit.

You manage to get them off one leg and he just leaves them hanging off your other ankle coz he can't wait any longer. He pushes his whole mouth against you quick, burying himself in your folds. His tongue comes out to lap you up, swallowing you down like he's been desperate to for days, and he just can't get enough of you as he starts to fuck you with just his tongue. Your whole body reacts, your back arching, your legs tensing, your head rolling back as you let out a pleading gasp.

He sucks on your clit and stars dance behind your eyes at the feeling, bucking your hips into him so desperate for more. But you can tell from the way his eyes flutter shut, this isn't about you anymore. As much as he'd like to pretend it is- pretend he only cares about getting you off- this is all about him. Because you taste so fuckin' good and it's making his cock harder than it's ever been, and he's got you dripping down his chin as his tongue spreads through your folds. And he swears this must be what heaven feels like because he never wants to stop, wants to have your legs wrapped around his head forever.

He attacks your clit again, heavy and quick, and he opens his eyes to look at the way your back arches for him, tits up in the air, a small trail of his saliva running right down your body, showing him exactly where he's been.

He breaks away just long enough that his mouth can find your inner thigh, biting down hard, desperate to leave a mark somewhere no one but you will see. You gasp again, reaching down to grab his hair, tugging on it half to tell him to stop and half to tell him to carry on. But your hands only spur him on, coz now he's sucking a dark hickey into your skin, and your whole body leans into him in response.

He looks up at you again, that hunger still in his eyes, his cock hard enough that it's starting to ache and the only thing he needs is you. So he pulls his body back up, and your fingers are instantly at his waistband, coz you're just as desperate as he is. You pull at the drawstring, quick as you can, and now it's your turn to tug at his pants, pulling them off of him, letting your hands fondle his ass as you do.

His dick springs free as he pulls his pants off and throws them to the floor, and you swear you could almost salivate at how good it looks. But he doesn't even seem to notice your reaction, too pussy-drunk to care, just wanting to bury his cock inside you, coz he knows what heaven tastes like and now he needs to know what it feels like.

He does it quick, pushing into you, absolutely desperate, a groan escaping his lips. You're so tight around his cock he instantly knows he's not gonna last long, coz every inch of your pussy is just swallowing him down, begging for him. And he's rolling his hips slow as he can to really feel you, to really drag this out, his thick cock stretching your cunt. You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning, but your eyes roll back at the feeling, coz every time he pushes into you, you can feel his entire length filling you up, slamming all the way in.

But the lazy pacing can only last so long, it only takes a few minutes for him to start pounding into you, faster and faster. And the room fills with noises that'd make the devil blush, skin smacking skin, your pussy still so fuckin' wet, his balls swinging with every thrust. He has to focus on kissing you again just to keep himself sane, and you welcome it coz it's keeping you quiet as you let his lips hide your moans.

But it's still too much for him, so he moves his mouth down to your neck. And then he has to pull out again, replacing his cock with his hand, rubbing your clit, and pushing his fingers into you all at once. He wants to act like it's to make you feel good, but really it's coz he knows he couldn't stand the embarrassment if he came that quick.

His fingers are skilled, skilled enough that you almost forget what it is you really want, but they're not filling you up the right way, not the same way his cock had. You push his hand away again, grabbing his wrist to roll him off of you, and you follow him round, let your legs sit either side of his waist, and you sink back down onto his length. He lets out a desperate groan as you plunge down onto him, his hands gripping onto your hips tight. But he's not stopping you, instead he's coaxing you on, moving your body on top of him because as close as he is, he knows he can hold on just a little bit longer for a pussy this good.

He looks up at you, watching the way you move, your back starting to arch. Your tits are bouncing, and it's like he's hypnotized the way he reaches up to grab them both in his hands, palming them roughly as you grind on him. His thumb brushes back over your nipple again and you bite your lip to hold back another gasp. He moves his gaze back down to your pussy, watching as his cock disappears deep into it on every thrust, and he can't understand how you're riding him so well when you must feel him practically all the way up to your abdomen. He knows he's right on the edge, ready to spill over.

But Dean's never been that lucky. Because you can hear Bobby's footsteps down the hall, the ones you recognize so well.

Both of you clamp your hands over one anothers mouths instantly, just staring at each other. His hand is tight over your jaw and your hand is pressed down against his lips, feeling the breath from his nose all hot.

"You awake, kiddo?" Bobby's voice, all muffled behind the door.

And Dean cringes at the nickname, because it leeches a kind of innocent he just knows you don't have. His cock is still buried in you, and neither of you are moving but he can still feel your pussy fuckin' clenching around him and he's suddenly thankful for your hand over his mouth coz it's the only thing that's stopping him from crying out.

But he moves his hand away, slow as anything, a look in his eyes that's begging you not to say something that could fuck this up.

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, coz you know you'll moan if you try to speak any louder.

"Yeah."

"There's a couple drinks in the kitchen, they yours?"

And Dean feels like an idiot because no matter how careful he's been he's about to be foiled by a glass of water.

But your voice is smooth as butter, so much so he starts to wonder if you're feeling the same thing as him- "Not mine, probably the brothers'."- but then your cunt clenches again and he can tell you're just as desperate.

And he can't stand the feeling of you just sat on top of him anymore, so he grabs your hips, and pulls you up only a couple inches, enough that the base of his cock is exposed again. And he holds you there as he starts to push into you from below, thrusting his hips deadly slow, just staring up at you with wide eyes as your hand clamps down harder around his mouth as if that's gonna stop your own moaning.

"Dean's not in his room, y'seen him?"

You almost think Bobby's testing you, but if he knew what was happening right now he'd have already broken the door down. Dean speeds up, his mind only on his dick, and how good your pussy feels wrapped around him. He's barely even paying attention to what's actually happening above him.

"He must've went out."

"Car's still here." Bobby replies, and Dean starts wondering if this is a set up because why won't he just leave. But it doesn't stop his thrusting, coz if he's about to be killed, he'd rather it happen while he's buried deep inside you.

You swallow hard, taking a second to compose yourself, "Late night walk?"

Dean has to hold himself back from laughing, coz you look at him with your eyebrow quirked like even you can't believe you said that.

But it seems to work. You hear Bobby's footsteps heading away again, just in time coz Dean can't help but let out a groaning "fuck" as you move your hand back down to his chest, rolling your hips in time with his thrusting so his cock can hit that sweet spot over and over again

He moves one hand up to your throat, holding it there again, the way that makes you whimper and your cunt tighten around him. And his other hand moves to your thigh, holding it like a vice, fingers digging into your skin, and you just know if he wasn't so scared of leaving marks that's exactly what he'd be doing to your neck.

Your orgasm is rising fast, right in your gut, as he fills you up, over and over. Your thighs begin to quiver, and he can see how close you are from the look on your face, and the way your pussy is constricting around him.

So he speeds up again, trying to hold himself back as long as possible, listening to your soft breath gasp out for more, watching your tits bounce, your cunt swallowing him so good.

His grip on your neck tightens, only just, and it's enough for you to fall completely apart, your walls spasming around his cock, your back arching out, your whole body shaking. Your vision starts to blur for a second as your pleasure dances behind your eyes, so full of cock you can't think straight.

And it's a vision Dean could only dream of, the way your mouth parts, your eyes rolled back- Too damn hot.

He comes with a desperate groan, hips jerking, pumping his hot cum deep into you, filling you up so much it starts to spill over his cock and right back out of you. And even though you're absolutely full of him you keep your body moving, pulling every ounce of pleasure out of him, half coz you want to ride out his orgasm and half coz you're so drunk on pleasure you don't even think to stop.

It takes a second for him to come to his senses, but when he finally does he rests his hands back on your hips, slowing your movements. And you sit there for a moment, cock still buried deep in your cunt, and he can feel the aftershocks of your orgasm still pulsing around him. Then you pull yourself off of him and lay down by his side, both of you breathing heavy, your bodies covered in the glow of sex.

--

The next morning he can barely work up the courage to walk into the kitchen, but when he does you don't even look up from your coffee, just sitting there, chatting to Sammy like nothing ever happened.

And he can picture your thigh with the hickey, and then it all floods back, your lips parting, your tits bouncing, your cunt clenching. And the whimpers. The fucking whimpers.

He has to remind himself not to stare at you, not to even look at you, so he opens the fridge again, staring into it all damn interested, like it's completely different from the night before.

But Bobby doesn't seem to notice, not one bit.

Which is almost worse. Coz Dean knows he got away with it.

Pieces of normalcy that don’t sit quite right. Loose shrapnel from the fallout of who he once was. 

Like learning how to smile at strangers without feeling like he’s giving something away. Or making small talk that doesn’t spiral into awkward silence.  

Some things feel closer to second nature, though he still needs the safety net of familiarity and trust, like that time he flirted with Sarah just to rile Sam.  

But then again, the prospect of anything with real stakes, like when that blonde barista slipped him her number, sends him running for the hills. 

And between all the tiger photos on Tinder and—again, what the fuck was the deal with all the zodiac signs?—he’s quickly discovered that ‘dating’ in the 21st-century isn’t quite like it used to be. 

You ever hook up with a girl?   

He had just stared at Sam, then, with a slow lift of his metal arm like it was explanation enough.

Of course, there was the whole other issue of… mechanics. 

Something so unspoken and personal he’s barely admitted it to himself.

And he’s tried just about everything short of pills to fix it.

Articles, advice columns. Porn. Even dug out an old magazine or two for nostalgia’s sake, half-hoping it’d jog something loose. 

But most nights he’d come up limp, staring down a bottle of cheap whiskey as restlessness swallowed him whole.

And he tells himself it’s fine. 

Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list. 

His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. 

Until he met… you.

Caught him off-guard one night, in the produce aisle of some corner bodega, when he was busy frowning at a peach that didn’t look like a peach.

Donut peaches. Crazy, right?

Cocked him an easy smile, a basket full of groceries by your hip as you plucked a different fruit off the stand, its skin leathery smooth and blush pink. 

They’re out of season, though. Might wanna try these nectarines. 

Your smile stayed with him longer than it should’ve. 

So did the sound of your laugh, bright and untroubled, when you apologized for what he could only assume was an irresistibly charming grimace on his part. 

Shoot, sorry, occupational hazard. 

I like your jacket, by the way. 

And just like that, you had him.

The next few weeks were a blur of excuses to visit your small bakery, down by 22nd street. Setting up his laptop like he actually had work to do, just so he’d feel less like a creep when you’d step out from behind the register and spark up easy conversation. 

And somehow, between testing all your newest bakes and staying back till closing to walk you home, he’s missed that fragile window where it felt appropriate to tell you who he is—was. Whatever.

That the gloves weren't some quirky fashion choice, or because he’s got poor circulation. 

But then again, maybe it wasn’t all that accidental.

Because you’re virtually the only person alive who knows him as Bucky—only Bucky—and he thought offering up the truth would change things.

The way you smile, call him handsome. Tug him closer by the lapels of his jacket. 

Kissed him outside that wine bar in Brooklyn, then fixed his hair and the corner of his mouth where your strawberry lip gloss smudged. 

Grabbed his hand and draped it deliberately over your thigh, that one time he took you to see a picture about aliens and space wars—though he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember a single plot point afterward. 

That memory is a warm thing that turns cold fast. A flicker of heat curling low in his stomach, his hand twitching instinctively toward the space between his legs. 

Then, the spark would fizzle out, like a bucket of ice water dumped over his thoughts.  

And that’s when the spiral would start, the endless rabbit hole that is sex advice by strangers on the internet. Hunched over a dim screen, browser history stacked a mile high with unanswered questions about modern dating, with one particular query searing into his thoughts:

How long should you wait before having sex with someone for the first time?

Because, supposedly, the internet says three dates. To see if you’re really compatible. 

After that point, why even bother? 

And he had to lean back and hold his breath at that, because, shit—tomorrow was date #3. 

So when he showed up to the jazz bar you’d been wanting to try, at exactly ten minutes to 8, the bouquet in his gloved hand was quivering. Like the time he asked out Lucy Ann from the 7th grade.

He'd sought temporary reprieve in the way you gasped, delighted, branding a smile on his cheek with a chaste kiss. Just like you had for the flowers on the first date, then again at the second.

(Because, apparently, no one does this kind of thing anymore, and he had scoffed because—jesus, did guys make it this easy to impress a date nowadays?)

Later, you’d pulled him close under the neon glow of a sidewalk marquee, kissing him soft and slow like you had all night.  

Taste of merlot and something sweeter on your lips when you'd muttered: my place?

And that brings him here, in the narrow hallway of your apartment, just a couple steps from the door because you couldn’t wait for the couch.  

He’s got you pressed against the wall, lost in the plush yield of your lips, the smooth curve of your cheek under his thumb. Because he loves this part, he really does—the way you arch into him, slide your hands under his jacket. Your breaths, shallow and sweet, mixed in with the heady scent of your perfume.

How you smile, for no apparent reason other than the fact that kissing him seems to make you happy. 

But then there’s that quiet thought, again.

And he desperately wishes he was holding your hips for a different reason than to pull away. 

“Maybe,” he pants, swallowing hard because your eyes were making it hard to focus, “maybe we shouldn't…”

Your gaze settles on him for a brief moment, hazy and heavy-lidded. From the wine or from something else, he’s not sure he wants to know. 

Then, you pull back promptly, slipping under his arm and disappearing somewhere behind him. 

Now, he’s blinking, staring at an empty wall. 

Convinced that he’s fucked this all up, heart leaping to his throat, something pounding in his head—

Until he realizes that the vibration drumming against his ears is music. 

The soft croon of a clarinet, the brassy blare of trumpets—a familiar melody sweeps over him, and it makes his brows pinch because he knows this one.

A tune he can recognize, for once, wedged somewhere between humid nights on Coney Island and crowded USO dance halls. 

“C’mon!”

Your high pitched laugh against his ear, a gentle tug at his wrist. 

It hits like whiplash, then, the realization of what you’re asking him to do.  

And he feels like an assuming jerk for all the scenarios he’s been playing through his mind since last night—because while he was busy coming up with excuses for why he couldn’t get hard, or why he’s got a metal arm, or why he wakes up in the middle of the night hearing screams that might be his own—you had wanted to… dance. 

He lets himself be drawn by your radiant smile, into the tiny pocket of space where your kitchen meets your living room.

His heart stutters when your hand slides to his back, the other lacing around his gloved fingers. He’s supposed to lead, isn’t he?

Yet, his steps flow in tune with yours, falling into place like they never strayed in the first place.

“Not too bad,” you tease, eyes sparkling, body swaying. 

“…I gotta be honest, I—oh!” A high, happy sound tickles your throat when he spins you, arms arching high over your head. “—didn’t peg you for a dancer!”

His fingers itch to hold you closer. Adoration humming under his skin, threaded with disbelief, because how the hell did he manage to find this? To find you?         

“Guess I’ve got a few surprises left.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Mm, I like that. I’ll have to see what else I can get out of you.”

And the way you say it—all innocent and just a hint too sweet—sends a sudden rush of heat through him.

His breaths halt, feet frozen to the floor.

Shit, is that…?

Heat licks at his nerves, sparks jumping under his skin, and before he can stop to question it, it’s there. 

And instead of running, he leans in. 

The next twirl is deliberate, his hand steady against your waist as you come spinning back to him. 

He grins, the thrill of something new rising to the top of his list.

“Just try to keep up, huh?”

Alexei was slouched back in his chair, arms folded, halfway into a pout and 100% still bitter he couldn’t wear his suit to the meeting.

Yelena was eating out of a bag of off-brand popcorn. Loudly.

Walker sat with both arms on the table, chin lifted just enough to pretend he wasn’t being judged.

Ava was in the farthest corner, half-faded, watching everything and nothing.

And Bucky? Bucky looked like he was calculating how fast he could jump out the window.

At the head of the table stood Valentina Allegra de Fontaine—heels clicking, posture stiff, holding a coffee she clearly didn’t like and an attitude sharp enough to slice glass.

Her assistant, Mel, stood beside her. Silent. Tall. Holding a tablet and radiating the vibe of someone who’s seen five too many NDA breaches.

Val tapped the screen behind her.

The monitor flashed up a still from the yesterday’s press conference: Alexei blocking a camera lens with his massive hand while Yelena flipped someone off in the background.

“Let me be clear,” she began, voice sugar-coated poison. “This—this is what the American public now associates with the term ‘Avengers.’”

“Iconic,” Yelena said around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Disastrous,” Valentina snapped.

Mel cleared her throat gently and read, without inflection, “Social media sentiment is currently down 83% across all demos under 35. Trending tags include: #WalmartAvengers, #BudgetCrisis, #YikesTeam, and #WhoEvenIsThat.”

Walker perked up. “Well at least they’re talking—”

“About how pathetic you look,” Val interjected smoothly.

She turned on him. “John, you smile like a campaign ad for expired cereal. You can’t speak without sounding like you’re reading from a teleprompter in hell.”

He blinked.

“Do you even like the team?”

“I—”

“Exactly.”

She pivoted.

“Alexei. I don’t even know where to start with you.”

“I was protecting camera woman!” he protested.

“You were about to throw her into traffic because she got too close.”

“Is not my fault she was squishy.”

Mel, without missing a beat, “Three civil suits pending.”

Val turned.

“Yelena. You flipped off a priest.”

“He was filming me,” she said blandly. “And staring at my chest.”

Val nodded slowly. “And you said, quote, ‘God gave you two hands—use one to hold your phone and the other to go f—’”

“I’m sorry, is there a point?” Bucky interrupted.

Bad move.

Val beamed.

“Oh. Bucky.”

The room got real quiet.

“You were an actual a congressman,” she said sweetly, venom practically dripping. “A congressman. You were on the floor of the House of Representatives, and you still don’t know how to string a sentence together for press.”

He scowled. “I’m not here to charm people.”

“No,” she agreed, sipping her awful coffee. “You’re here to grunt monosyllabically in public like you’re allergic to communication.”

Mel clicked through another slide. “The phrase ‘Is Bucky okay?’ has been trending for 48 hours. Also ‘blink twice if you’re in trouble.’”

Val took another sip of her coffee. Winced. Put it down like it had personally offended her.

“I’m going to be honest—because none of you seem to grasp reality,” she said, stepping closer to the table like a headmistress about to assign detention to six grown adults.

“I don’t know how this team came together. Seriously. You’re all walking liabilities with shiny backstories and anger management issues.”

Alexei raised a hand. “I have good management—”

“You threw a vending machine at a janitor.”

“He insulted Mother Russia.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, slouching deeper in her chair. “You act like you didn’t cause this disaster,” she said. “You sent every mercenary you’ve ever hired to the same mountain and told them to kill each other. That was our team bonding exercise.”

Val didn’t blink. “Great point, but wrong,” she chirped.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “How.”

“Because I didn’t send all of my mercenaries.”

She straightened, like she’d been waiting to say this.

“In fact,” Val continued, spinning slightly to pace, “there’s one I kept in my back pocket. A… contingency. Someone smart. Refined. Lethal—but good for optics.”

“Sounds fake,” Walker muttered.

“Sounds expensive,” Bob whispered.

“Oh, God, please let it not be another American," Ava added under her breath.

Val ignored all of them. Her eyes lit up like a stage light had just turned on.

“You see, unlike the rest of you drama magnets, this one knows how to handle a camera and a kill order. This one knows how to wear leather without looking like a sex cultist. This one, ladies and gentlemen…”

She turned toward the doors, gesturing with a graceful, almost dramatic sweep.

“…might actually be beneficial to the New Avengers brand.”

Yelena snorted. “God, what a speech.”

Walker leaned back. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Val didn’t miss a beat.

“I would’ve sent her to that little mountain retreat with the rest of you,” she said, voice low, satisfied. “But I didn’t. Because I knew she’d be the only one to walk out of it alive.”

Silence.

Mel glanced at the door, tapped something into her tablet, and said flatly, “ETA: thirty seconds.”

Val smiled.

“Time to meet your upgrade.”

The door opened.

And the entire room fell silent.

You stepped inside like you owned the place—not loudly, not theatrically. Just… completely. Like the room had always been yours and the rest of them were lucky to be invited.

A black suit dress, cut sharp as a razor and cinched at the waist with a leather belt, hugged your frame like it had been tailored by regret itself. Legs for miles beneath it. Heels that made actual noise. The kind of confident click that didn’t just announce you—it warned people.

Hair perfect. Expression unreadable.

You looked like you’d walked off the cover of a Vogue magazine, stopped to kill someone on the way, and still arrived early.

Valentina grinned like a mother presenting her favorite child at a beauty pageant-slash-funeral.

“Everyone,” she said, clearly savoring the effect, as she introduced you.

You smiled. Not a grin. Not a smirk. An award-winning, dazzling, dangerously pretty smile.

And that’s when the team snapped out of it—sort of.

Yelena sat up straighter in her chair and shoved her popcorn aside, her gaze narrowing like she wasn’t sure whether to fawn over you or interrogate you.

Walker’s jaw did something unfortunate.

Bob knocked over his water.

Ava blinked—once, sharp, observant.

Alexei just exhaled, reverent, like he’d seen a vision.

Only Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes?

They didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

Valentina clapped her hands once, sharp and smug.

“Well, don’t all drool at once.”

Yelena leaned forward first, elbow on the table, eyes sharp. “So what—did we order you out of a catalog or something?”

You gave her a half-smile, sultry and lazy. “Would’ve been a premium subscription.”

Walker raised a brow, trying to reclaim some footing. “What exactly is it that you… do?”

You tilted your head slightly. “You mean besides everything you can do, but better?”

He blinked.

“Excellent start,” Val said brightly.

Ava crossed her arms. “She’s too polished. What’s the angle?”

You turned to her without hesitation. “Polished is what you call it when someone doesn’t announce their trauma within thirty seconds of arrival.”

Alexei let out a choked laugh. “I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Yelena muttered.

Bob finally found his voice, though it was somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. “You, uh… you have a codename?”

“Nox,” you said, still smiling. “Like the night.”

Valentina beamed. “See? Magnetic and discreet.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed again. “So you’re here to do what, exactly?”

Before Val could answer, you did. Voice smooth. Impossibly calm.

“Damage control.”

The room went tense.

Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and even. “Whose damage?”

You looked at him then. Met his stare with one of your own. Held it. And smiled—just a little.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

────────────────────────

Service Corridor, Just Before Midnight [3 Months In]

He caught you between meetings.

Not planned. Not really. But Bucky had gotten good at learning your patterns—how you moved through the Watchtower with that unbothered grace, all silence and purpose and elegance wrapped in something almost dangerous.

You didn’t flinch when he stepped into your path. Just looked at him. Calm. Composed. Head slightly tilted like he might be a puzzle piece out of place.

“James,” you said. Voice even. Smooth.

A pause.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Everyone’s already obsessed with you, you know.”

You raised a brow. “And you’re not?”

That threw him. Just a little.

He gave you a half-shrug, like he couldn’t help himself. “I don’t trust you.”

“Good,” you replied. “Means you’re not stupid.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping closer—not threatening, not dramatic. Just enough. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe right.

“Everyone thinks you’re the reformed soldier,” you continued. “Quiet. Broody. Tragic. But I don’t buy that. You don’t keep looking over your shoulder like that unless you think someone’s still coming for you.”

He swallowed once. Hard. “And what—are you?”

“Am I coming for you?”

You smiled.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The space between you shrank by inches, thick with something sharp and burning. You smelled like danger and something softer—something expensive and clean. And the way you were looking at him?

Like he was a locked file you’d already memorized.

Then, softer—just for him, “You’re different than the others.”

“How?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You stepped even closer, eyes flicking over him like a readout. “Because you know what it’s like to be used. Bent. Broken. Rebuilt.”

You said it without pity. Without fear. Like it didn’t phase you at all.

He looked at you then—really looked. And there was something in his chest that twisted hard.

You leaned in. Close enough for your breath to hit the edge of his jaw.

“But you’re still here.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare to touch you.

And then—like it never happened—you stepped away.

Back to your perfect posture. Back to composure. Back to safety.

“Good talk, Sergeant,” you said with a wink.

And you walked away.

Leaving Bucky in the hallway, staring after you, already desperate for another interaction.

────────────────────────

4 Months Ago

The office was dim, filtered in violet and amber light from frosted glass and a skyline too expensive to care about. You stood across from her desk in silence—hands folded neatly, eyes unreadable, your silhouette painted against the city like an omen.

Valentina didn’t look up right away. She was typing. Slowly. Carefully.

Then, without ceremony, she said, “I have a job for you.”

You blinked. “That so?”

She looked up now. Chin high. Lipstick perfect.

“The New Avengers.”

You tilted your head slightly. “The ones you recently just named on live television?”

She gave a humorless smile. “Yes, those ones.”

There was a beat. A pause that settled between you like a blade waiting to be drawn.

“You want me to kill them?” you said flatly.

“I want you to handle them.”

“‘Handle’ as in seduce? Sabotage? Slit throats?”

Val smirked. “Dealer’s choice.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Why?”

She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands over her knee. “Because they’re liabilities. All of them. Unstable, unmarketable, emotionally broken liabilities. Half of them have kill orders from former employers. One of them’s a war criminal. Another literally fades in and out of visibility depending on how she’s feeling.”

“And you made them the face of American heroism?”

“PR move. Politics. Theater. I needed the chaos to stop. Now I need it… cleaned.”

You arched a brow. “So you created your own monster and now you want me to put it down.”

Val’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t be dramatic. I tested them. Now I’m correcting the curve.”

“And why me?”

She stood now. Walked around the desk. Her heels were quiet, but deliberate.

“Because I trust you,” she said. “Because you’re efficient. Elegant. Indisposable.”

You met her eyes.

“And because I know you,” she added, voice low. “You don’t get attached. You finish what you start.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just let the silence hang.

Then you said, dry as bone, “You really think I can take them all out?”

“I don’t think, sweetheart. I know.”

Another pause.

You glanced at the manila folder on her desk—labeled with the team’s photos. A cross-section of broken people and barely-contained chaos.

You nodded once. “Fine.”

Val smiled. “I knew I kept you for a reason.”

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Living Quarters, Late Afternoon [5 Months In]

They were spread out across the common room like children too exhausted to cause more trouble. The air was warm. Dimmed light poured in through the angled windows, golden against the muted steel of the Watchtower’s architecture. For the first time in weeks, they weren’t training. Weren’t fighting. Weren’t trying.

And so you watched.

Not because you had to.

Because you couldn’t not.

Yelena was curled sideways across one of the oversized chairs, legs draped over the armrest, eating a half-melted popsicle from a coffee mug like it was a normal thing to do. She was laughing at something Bob said—sharp, bright, uninhibited.

She kept trying to hide her warmth. But it spilled out anyway.

Ava sat opposite her, perched on the floor with a half-disassembled gadget in her lap, fingers working silently. She hadn’t looked up once in twenty minutes. But you could tell she was listening—tracking every conversation, every breath. Her gift wasn’t just stealth. It was restraint. Self-control wrapped in bitterness.

If Yelena burned like a firecracker, Ava was a cold fuse waiting for permission.

Bob had taken the corner of the sectional, crisscrossed like a teenager, a tablet balanced on one knee, a half-eaten sandwich dangling from one hand. He spoke too much. Said too little. But he was sweet. In a world that didn’t reward softness, he still had it. Still offered it.

Which made him the most dangerous one in the room... besides the fact he was a walking bipolar superhuman.

Walker was slouched back with his boots on the table,remote in hand, flipping through channels without watching a single frame. Restless. Bored. Trying too hard not to feel inferior. You knew his kind. Soldiers trained to think they were legends before they ever earned the scars. His righteousness would rot him from the inside eventually.

But you weren’t sure whether he’d burn the world down out of pride—or loneliness.

Alexei had commandeered the entire loveseat and was loudly, badly retelling the story of how he once arm-wrestled a mutant in a Siberian prison. Again.

He told it differently every time.

Today, there were two mutants. And a polar bear.

He was a relic, a fossil with fists, but the strange thing was—he never lied to impress. He believed his stories. Like they were sacred. Mythic. And somehow, that made it easier to let him speak.

You sat on the edge of it all. Legs crossed, drink untouched, eyes half-lidded.

…And then there was him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The soldier-turned-congressman-turned-reluctant superhero.

He wasn’t like the others. Never loud. Never performative. Always lurking just outside the center of the chaos, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged or if he even wanted to.

You watched him now—seated on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, watching Alexei lie through his teeth for the fiftieth time. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll his eyes. Just… watched.

Observant. Withdrawn. Dangerous in the way old scars are—quiet and unflinching.

His face had been sculpted by war, but it hadn’t dulled the beauty. The high, sharp cheekbones. The straight line of his nose. The furrow carved into his brow like regret lived there rent-free. And those eyes—God, those eyes—sad and blue like a glacier swallowing itself.

But it was his mouth that always caught you off guard.

Unnaturally pink. Like it didn’t belong on a man so grave. So heavy with history. Like softness had been stitched into his mouth as a joke.

You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He didn’t speak to you unless he had to. But when he did, it was always measured. Calculated. Like he was searching for something in you he couldn’t name.

There was something pulling about him. Like gravity in reverse.

You didn’t know if you wanted to stab him or fuck him.

Maybe both. Maybe at the same time.

And that unsettled you more than any mission brief ever had.

────────────────────────

Rooftop in Prague.

The rain came down in sheets. You stood at the edge, scope aimed dead-center on Alexei's exposed silhouette as he darted through a broken alley, backlit by gunfire. The kill shot was lined up. He’d never even feel it.

You lowered the rifle.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t fire.

“Target repositioned,” you muttered into the comm.

Your finger never touched the trigger.

────────────────────────

Warehouse In Marrakesh.

Yelena was bleeding from the side, back to a concrete pillar, breath ragged as the wall exploded beside her. You could’ve let her fall. Easy. Clean. Too much noise, not enough cover. Her odds were terrible.

You moved anyway.

Tossed a flash. Dragged her out by the collar. She laughed through a mouthful of blood, saying, “I was handling it.”

“Sure,” you replied, voice flat, pulse louder than the bombs.

You never explained why you’d done it.

────────────────────────

Helicopter Extraction Above Bangkok.

Walker was hanging off the side of the landing rail, barely gripping the bar. The metal was slipping in the rain. Bucky was piloting. Ava was too far. You were closest.

You watched him dangle.

Then grabbed his wrist and hauled him up with a grunt.

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t,” you replied. “You’re heavy.”

He never brought it up again.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Your Bedroom

The dossier was spread out on your desk.

Pages torn. Notes scribbled. Photos frayed.

Each marked with opportunities.

Moments you could’ve taken.

Didn’t.

You stared at them in silence. Lips parted slightly. A strange pressure blooming beneath your ribs—one you couldn’t quite place.

Not guilt. Not fear.

Something worse.

Attachment.

You shut the folder. Locked it back inside the drawer.

And told yourself the same lie you always did:

It’s not over yet.

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Eastern Europe, Nightfall

The city burned behind you. Smoke coiled through the rain-slick streets, orange glow flickering against soaked concrete. Gunfire had finally stopped, but the echoes still rang in your ears like the ghosts of enemies who didn’t get out fast enough.

You and Bucky moved as one.

Shoulder to shoulder. No orders. No plan.

Just instinct.

You’d both bled for this one—him from a deep graze on his thigh, you from a cut along your temple—but you hadn’t stopped moving. You never did.

It was the alley, two blocks from the evac point, where it finally snapped.

You pressed your back to the wall, pulse hammering in your throat, blood trickling past your eyebrow. Bucky stood across from you, chest heaving, eyes wild and locked only on you.

No words passed. Just tension. Just truth.

And then he moved.

Fast. Certain.

His hand hit the side of your face, pulling you to him, and his mouth crashed into yours like something that had waited too long to be allowed.

No warning. No hesitation. Just heat.

And instead of reaching for the knife at your thigh—

Instead of taking advantage of the distraction like you'd trained your whole life to do—

You grabbed him by the collar. Fisted the fabric. And devoured his mouth like you’d been starving.

The kiss turned sharp—teeth and breath and need—his metal hand on your waist, the other in your hair, your back hitting the alley wall like it had been waiting for this moment, too.

The blood didn’t matter. The bruises didn’t matter.

Only the way he kissed you. Like he didn’t know if he’d ever get to again.

And the way you kissed him back? Like maybe you wouldn’t let him stop.

────────────────────────

Late Night — Days After the Kiss [7 Months In]

It was never supposed to go this far.

You weren’t supposed to let it.

You’d trained your whole life for control—for the cold clarity of distance, of mission, of orders. You didn’t get attached. You didn’t get close.

And yet—

His hands were on your hips, bruising and reverent all at once, as you moved above him like the war inside you was the only truth left. Your thighs clenched around his waist, slick heat swallowing him again and again, his name bitten off your tongue like something sacred and forbidden.

Bucky.

You weren’t supposed to crave him.

You weren’t supposed to know what it felt like to be wanted like this—devoured like this. His lips had trailed down your collarbone, your chest, worshipped the slope of your neck like he was memorizing a language only your body spoke. He said your name like it was the only word he remembered.

And now he lay beneath you, naked and sweat-slicked, muscles straining, head tilted back in awe as you rocked your hips harder, chasing your release on top of him.

“You weren’t supposed to be this,” you whispered, breathless, the confession splitting you open.

His hands gripped your ass, guiding your pace, mouth parted with a groan that made your spine arch.

“I don’t care,” he rasped. “I don’t fucking care.”

He looked at you like he’d give anything—everything—just to keep you here.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Because you felt it, too.

The break. The fracture. The pull of him inside you—not just physically, but the way his presence cracked something in you you’d spent a lifetime keeping sealed.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your hips met his again, harder, faster, like if you just kept moving you wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to feel.

But you did.

You felt him everywhere.

And the conflict that had haunted you for days—the guilt, the mission, the lie—faded to static when his hands slid up your spine, pulling you down to him, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so desperate, so hungry, you could’ve drowned in it.

“You ruin me,” he murmured, voice low, trembling.

You didn’t respond. You just kept moving.

Because if you stopped—if you let the silence in—then you’d have to admit the truth,

You weren’t a weapon anymore.

You were his. Even if only for tonight.

Your breath hitched as he thrust up into you again, your hips slamming down to meet him—harsh, unrelenting, perfect. The headboard rattled behind him, a soft percussion against the wall, drowned out by the slick, obscene sounds of your bodies crashing together again and again.

Bucky’s hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, dragging his fingers over the curve of your breasts like he didn’t know what to touch first. His lips were parted, flushed, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you like you were something he was praying to and falling apart under all at once.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “You feel so good—God, you—”

You cut him off with a kiss, crushing your mouth to his, swallowing every ragged sound like it would keep you from shattering. His tongue met yours with the same hunger you were trying to deny, messy and wet and real, your teeth grazing his bottom lip as you rocked harder, faster, chasing the rush that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with him.

He met every grind of your hips with thrusts so deep, so precise, they had you moaning into his mouth, your fingers digging into his chest hard enough to leave half-moons in his skin. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Look at me,” he said suddenly, voice wrecked, one hand curling around the back of your neck to keep you there, close. “Please, baby, look at me—”

You did.

And that was your end.

The way he looked at you—like you were the last thing in the world worth bleeding for—sent a white-hot spike down your spine.

Your body trembled as you fell over the edge, your orgasm tearing through you like a current, your thighs shaking around him, a broken gasp ripped from your throat as you came—hard, clenched tight around him.

Bucky cursed, bucking up into you, desperate and lost.

“I’m not gonna last,” he choked, voice raw as he held your hips down, driving into you faster, deeper, chasing his own high. “I—fuck, I’m—”

“Do it,” you whispered, still breathless, your lips brushing his ear. “Come in me.”

That shattered him.

With a guttural groan, he spilled inside you, hands fisting in the sheets as his hips stuttered beneath yours, jaw clenched, body taut like a drawn bowstring.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing like survivors. His hand cradled the back of your head. Your heartbeat thundered against his ribcage.

And for a moment—just one quiet, burning moment—you let yourself stay there.

In the ruin. In him.

────────────────────────

The light outside was a soft gray, bleeding through the curtains like regret. The room was still. Still humid with the afterglow, your bodies tangled in a quiet that should’ve been peaceful. Should’ve felt like a victory.

Instead, it sat like a blade in your throat.

You lay on his chest—skin to skin, heart to heartbeat—listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. He was asleep. One arm loosely slung around your waist, the other resting against the sheets, fingers curled gently inward like he’d been dreaming.

His head tilted slightly down, as if instinctively drawn to you even in unconsciousness. His brow, usually furrowed, had smoothed. And his lips—those soft, ridiculous, obscenely pink lips—were parted just barely, like a secret trying to escape.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem.

Because he looked so human like this. So real. So unguarded.

You could kill him.

Right now.

Your knife was in the drawer next to the bed. Seven inches of forged steel. You could reach it in half a second. Press the blade to his throat in one. End it all before he even stirred.

And he wouldn’t fight back.

Not like this. Not with the way he held you.

He trusted you.

Fool.

Your chest tightened.

What were you doing?

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be with him. This wasn’t affection. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

You were the contingency plan. You were the weapon Val sent to finish the job.

And here you were—laying on the man you should’ve gutted by now. Letting his breath warm your hair. Letting his heartbeat lull you into a sleep you didn’t deserve.

This wasn’t mercy. This was weakness.

You clenched your jaw. Blinked slowly.

His arm tightened slightly around you in his sleep, like his body knew you were thinking of leaving. Like it would pull you back in even if his mind couldn’t.

And the worst part? You didn’t move. You didn’t reach for the blade.

You just stayed. Hating yourself for it. Hating that you didn’t know why.

His chest rose and fell beneath you, steady as ever. Unaware. Unafraid.

And that only made it worse.

You closed your eyes—but the darkness behind them felt louder than the room. Thoughts crashing like gunfire, one after another.

You were supposed to kill them.

That was the job. That was always the job.

Every decision Val made, every lie you echoed—it all came down to this: infiltration, then execution. Simple. Cold. Efficient.

And they’d made it so easy. They trusted you. All of them.

Bob with his stammering kindness. Ava with her guarded nods. Yelena, teasing you with every spar but pulling you closer with every glance.

Even Walker—dumb, righteous Walker—looked at you like maybe you were the one person who didn’t pity him.

And Alexei… the fool. He already had your name etched in some bizarre corner of his broken heart.

You could end it tonight. Slit throats. Slip poison. Vanish before sunrise.

And yet—

You couldn’t.

Not to them. Not now.

Especially not to him.

You looked up again—his face still soft in sleep, lips slightly parted. Hair tousled across his brow.

The man who should’ve been your first target. The one whose past was wrapped in so much pain, you recognized it in yourself.

You were never supposed to touch him.

But now you knew how he tasted. How he whispered your name. How he looked at you like you weren’t a weapon, or an operative, or a mask.

Like you were worth saving. You could never hurt him.

But you already had.

Every kiss, every touch, every breath you took beside him—a lie.

If he found out—if he ever knew why you were sent here—he’d never forgive you.

And you couldn’t blame him.

It was a no-win scenario. There was no exit that didn’t leave something broken behind.

Tell the truth? He’d turn on you.

Run? He’d never understand why.

Either way, it would end the same—

In ruin.

Because you weren’t built for happy endings. You were built to destroy them.

And he’d never see it coming.

Unless you stopped this now. Unless you left. But you stayed.

Even when every cell in your body screamed to run, to vanish, to disappear before the sun came up and this all became something real.

You stayed.

Because there was no happy ending for people like you—not with him. Not with anyone.

But God, you wanted it. You wanted him.

And that need burned louder than the guilt.

So you shifted—slowly, carefully—until you were hovering above him again, chest brushing his, hair falling forward around your face like a veil of shadows.

His arm was still around you, limp in sleep. His face turned toward you, jaw soft, lashes fluttering against his cheek. He looked younger like this. Human.

Yours. And it hurt.

Your lips brushed his jaw first—light, tentative. Then his cheek. His temple. And finally—finally—his mouth.

A soft kiss. Then another.

He stirred beneath you, lashes fluttering, lips parting as he blinked himself awake.

“…hmm?”

He was groggy. Beautiful. Confused.

You kissed him again—firmer this time, lips trembling now, your hand resting on his chest like it was the only thing holding you together.

And against his lips, you whispered—

“I need you again.”

He blinked, still caught in the haze. “You—what?”

Your hands slid to his shoulders as you straddled him, slipping fully over his waist, grinding down slowly, purposefully. “I just—need you,” you repeated, breath catching. “Don’t ask why. Just… have me.”

His hands found your hips, warm and grounding. His voice was still rough with sleep, but the way he looked up at you—that gaze—it was like you could ask for anything in this world, and he'd be willing to give it.

And you leaned down—pressing your mouth to his again—like it was the only thing keeping you from breaking completely.

Because it was. Because he was.

And even if it would all burn down soon, for now, you could pretend there was something here worth saving.

Bucky was still half-asleep, blinking up at you with those soft, dazed eyes, his voice low and rasped with confusion.

“You okay?” he asked, hands instinctively anchoring at your hips, warm and callused and so steady it nearly undid you.

You didn’t answer.

You just rocked against him once—slow and deep—and watched his lips part with a breathless gasp as your heat slid over him again. Not teasing. Not playful.

Just aching.

“Shit,” he whispered, his brow furrowing, but his hands didn’t stop—they gripped tighter, like he was scared you’d disappear. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You kissed him instead of answering. Pressed your lips to his jaw. His cheek. His mouth. Each one slower, deeper, needier. You weren’t trying to get him hard. You were trying to feel him—to burn every inch of him into your skin like it would somehow keep you from unraveling.

He was already thick and aching beneath you, body reacting to you even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

But it didn’t matter.

You reached between you, lined him up, and sank down slowly—so slowly—with a broken breath that scraped the back of your throat. His hands shot to your thighs, mouth falling open in a groan as your walls fluttered around him.

“Fuck—oh shit—” he hissed, jaw clenched as you took him inch by inch, your nails digging into his chest for balance. “What is this—why now?”

“Don’t talk,” you whispered, voice barely there.

He didn’t. He just watched you. Let you move. Let you set the pace.

And God, you moved like it was the last time you’d ever get to—hips slow and deep, rolling in a rhythm carved from sorrow and want and a need to forget everything else.

Bucky’s hands roamed—your hips, your thighs, your waist. He kissed your sternum. Your ribs. Over your heart. He whispered your name like it was a prayer, trying to read you, trying to understand.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And still—he gave you everything.

He thrust up just enough to meet you, not rough, not rushed. Just there. With you. Matching your rhythm, matching your breath, letting you take and take and take.

Until your head dropped to his shoulder and your body trembled against his, thighs quivering, your moan caught between a sob and a plea.

His arms locked around you.

Holding you as you shattered again, pulsing around him in a slow, aching climax.

And still—he didn’t ask.

He just kissed your temple. And held you tighter.

Like that would be enough.

────────────────────────

Weeks Later

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not just what you did, but how it felt.

And that was the problem. Because it wasn’t just sex.

It was him.

Bucky.

The way he held you. The way he whispered your name like he knew you. The way he looked at you with that stupid, open-eyed devotion, like you hadn’t spent every hour of your life perfecting the art of being unlovable.

And now… you hated yourself for how easily you let him in.

Your unbreakable mask—gone. Your hardened shell—disarmed.

That perfect, glacial facade you built with blood and bone and discipline was slipping more every time he touched you.

And he touched you a lot.

Not just in bed, but everywhere.

His hand brushing yours in passing. That lazy, half-smile he wore only for you. The way his arms curled around your waist at night like he couldn’t sleep without anchoring to you.

It was addicting. And it made you sick.

Because every time you let yourself melt into his warmth—his breath against your throat, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder, your bodies tangled beneath sheets—you felt less like a weapon and more like a lie.

He trusted you. And you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror.

You were supposed to be stronger than this. Sharper. Smarter.

But now all it took was his voice in the dark and his fingers on your skin to make you forget that this was all a fucking trap.

That you weren’t supposed to feel this way. Want this.

Crave this.

────────────────────────

Late Night [10 Months In]

The sheets were a mess. Twisted low on your hips, warm with the heat of two bodies tangled together and wrecked by want.

Bucky’s chest rose beneath your cheek, slow and steady. His arm was wrapped around your back, fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

The room was quiet.

But not empty.

He broke the silence first.

“Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t lift your head. “You already are.”

His chest shook with a soft chuckle. “You’ve been on this team for ten months,” he said, voice low, rough with exhaustion but laced with something… earnest. “And I still don’t know anything about you.”

You stayed still, heart tightening.

“I mean—” he continued, “I know you. I’ve fought beside you. Slept beside you.” His hand slid up your back, palm warm. “But I don’t know where you’re from. Or how you got to this point. Or what made you… you.”

You exhaled through your nose. Still didn’t lift your head. “That’s three questions, James.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell.”

He sighed. You could feel the frustration in his chest. Not anger—just that same yearning that always bled into his voice when it came to you.

And maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the warmth of his skin. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t slept in days without him beside you, because of the team's last mission.

But something in you cracked just enough.

“My favorite color’s blue,” you said softly.

Bucky blinked. “Blue?”

“Mhm.”

He smiled at the ceiling. “Okay… blue. What else?”

“I like summer.”

“Yeah?”

“And I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji.”

That made him laugh—soft and surprised, mouth curved against the crown of your head. “Fiji? Seriously?”

“I said I wanted to. Doesn’t mean I ever will.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You just…” he started, then stopped. His voice was lower now, honest in a way that made your skin itch. “You say things like they don’t matter.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

You finally lifted your head.

Looked at him.

And the weight of that gaze—so open, so damn earnest—made your chest tighten in ways you hated.

“I don’t do sentimental,” you said flatly.

He nodded slowly. “Then don’t. Just… let me know you.”

The silence returned. That soft, almost sacred hush that filled the space between your breaths. His fingertips brushed slow circles over your lower back, his heart steady beneath your hand.

Then, softly—almost like it didn’t want to be heard—you whispered, “If I told you all my secrets… you’d probably hate me.”

His hand stilled.

The words hung heavy in the air, and you swore you could hear his heartbeat stutter once. Then,

“I could never hate you.”

He said it so firmly. So damn sure. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

Like he didn’t care what you were hiding. Like he’d already decided you were still worth loving. And that was too much.

And it hit you square in the chest.

Too deep. Too close.

You couldn’t let it linger.

So you leaned in—lips brushing his, then pressing harder, swallowing whatever else he might’ve said. Your kiss was slow at first, soft and searching—then it shifted. Changed. Turned sharp and demanding.

A distraction.

The best kind.

You kissed him again, your tongue slipping against his as your hand slid down his chest, and then you shifted—swinging a leg over and settling into his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist.

Bucky pulled back with a breathless laugh, still half-caught in the tangle of sleep and heat. “Already?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, that familiar hunger blooming in his gaze.

“Shut up,” you whispered against his mouth.

And you kissed him again.

Harder this time.

Grinding down slowly, deliberately, feeling him already hard beneath you.

He let out a small grunt, fingers gripping your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to slow you down or help you go faster.

You rolled your hips again, chasing that friction, burying the ache in your chest beneath the ache in your body.

Because this—this—you could control.

This, you understood.

You kissed him again. And again.

Until the words you didn’t say disappeared into the dark.

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

It was quiet again.

That kind of stillness only the early hours knew—when the world outside was asleep and nothing dared to move. The room was cloaked in shadow, the only light spilling from the streetlamps outside, soft and gold against the sheets.

Bucky slept beside you.

One arm wrapped around your waist, his body pressed close, legs tangled in yours like he was trying to become a part of you.

He held you like you were home.

And it broke you.

You watched him, barely blinking, your eyes tracing every line of his face like they were sacred. The furrow in his brow. The faintest scar near his temple. Those lips—soft and parted in sleep, exhaling slow, even breaths.

You wanted to remember him like this.

Wanted to keep him like this.

But that was a fantasy.

And you didn’t get fantasies.

You got orders.

And you’d failed them.

Worse—you’d betrayed them.

And now everything was coming to a head. Every secret. Every night. Every lie you fed into his mouth while he kissed yours like it was salvation.

So you made your decision.

The coward’s way out.

Not a confession. Not a fight. Just… disappearing.

Slowly, carefully, you shifted.

His arm around you was heavy—solid, warm, safe. You held your breath as you lifted it just enough to slip free, your chest clenching at the soft noise he made in his sleep.

His brow furrowed, his body shifting toward yours, almost instinctively trying to pull you back.

You froze.

Waited.

Watched him settle again.

His hand landed on your side, reaching for you like he could sense your absence even in sleep.

You closed your eyes.

Bit your lip.

And pulled away anyway.

Each movement felt like a sin. Your feet hit the cold floor like a finality. You turned, standing there in the dark, watching him one last time.

And for a second, you almost climbed back in.

Almost said fuck it. Almost stayed.

But instead—

You walked out.

And didn’t look back.

────────────────────────

The Next Morning

The first thing Bucky felt was the cold.

A strange emptiness across his chest where there had, without fail, been warmth. Soft, steady breath against his skin. A thigh draped lazily over his own. Fingers curled into his shirt like they belonged there.

But not this morning.

This morning, there was only space.

He blinked awake slowly, groggy and disoriented, the light through the window pale and early. He ran a hand over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, your warmth, the familiar curve of you still curled against him.

Instead—just linen. Cool. Still.

His brow furrowed.

He sat up slowly, glancing around the room. Your clothes weren’t there. The chair where you always dropped your heels was empty. The bathroom door was open.

He rubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight.

She probably went back to her room.

That’s what he told himself. Logical. Reasonable. No need for alarm.

He slid out of bed, standing slowly, cracking his neck as he moved to the bathroom. The shower hissed on—he stepped under the spray, the water beating against his shoulders, grounding him.

She had an early start. Maybe she had to prep something for Val. Maybe she’s just avoiding feelings again.

He pushed down the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind.

That sense that something was… off.

That you never left without kissing his jaw. That your heels were still gone. That your scent wasn’t lingering the way it usually did.

He shook it off.

Don’t spiral, Bucky.

You were probably fine. Probably just fucking with him. Playing aloof like you always did after things got too soft between you.

He stepped out of the shower, drying off quickly. Dressed. Pulled on his boots.

Still—

That feeling didn’t leave.

That cold in his chest stayed.

But he forced it down. Forced a breath into his lungs.

He stepped into the kitchen, toweling off his damp hair, still trying to shake the unease from his bones.

The room was already buzzing.

Yelena sat on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box like it was an art. Walker leaned back on the couch, boots on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone. Ava sat curled in an armchair, sharp eyes flicking toward Bucky as he entered. Alexei was… well, loudly chewing something questionable. And Bob was somewhere behind the fridge door, mumbling to himself.

Bucky grunted a quiet greeting, opened the cabinet, pulled a mug from the shelf.

“Anyone seen… her?” he asked, voice low, neutral. Too casual to be casual.

Yelena looked up first. “Probably passed out in your bed,” she said around a mouthful of cereal. “Or under you. You know, standard Tuesday.”

Bucky froze mid-pour.

Walker snorted. “Took long enough, honestly.”

Alexei thumped his fist on the table. “I knew there was something! You always look at her like she’s the last shot of vodka in the room.”

Bucky turned slightly. “What are you all talking about?”

Ava didn’t even glance up from her tablet. “You’re not subtle, Barnes. The way you stare at her? Please.”

Bob peeked around the fridge door, cheeks already red. “Yeah… you uh… you hover. A lot.”

Yelena grinned, sharp and smug. “I am jealous you didn’t let me ride your motorcycle first.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Hmm.” Ava finally looked up. “Sounds like deflection.”

He muttered something under his breath, jaw tight, the discomfort turning into quiet agitation. His eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Forget I asked.”

He set the mug down—untouched—and turned on his heel, heading straight for your room.

Bucky reached your door, knuckles lifting halfway to knock—

But something stopped him.

A feeling. A chill.

He frowned, then pushed the door open. The room was… still. Not quiet. Still. Like no one had moved in it for days.

And that was the first red flag.

He stepped inside slowly, his boots too loud on the floor. The bed was perfectly made. Not military-perfect, but untouched. Not slept in.

He blinked.

The chair in the corner—empty. No discarded jacket. No shoes. No weapons.

He moved toward the dresser, a cold weight forming in his stomach.

The top was bare. No hair ties. No mug. No trace of your usual chaos. And then he pulled open the drawers.

Empty.

He turned to the closet. Swung it open. Gone. Everything. Your clothes. Your gear. Your dresses. Your coat. Even the scent of you—faint, fading.

His stomach dropped.

Hard.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs. Sudden. Brutal.

You were gone.

Not just left-for-the-morning gone. Not “I’ll be back later” gone.

Gone gone.

Completely erased. As if you’d never been there at all.

Bucky stood there, frozen. His hands at his sides. His breath shallow. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

The room blurred. His throat burned. And somewhere, under all of that…

A voice whispered, She left you.

Bucky stood frozen in the center of the room, the emptiness of it clawing at his chest—

When something caught his eye.

A folder. Sitting alone on the dresser. Plain. Unassuming. Perfectly placed. Like it was meant to be found.

He stepped toward it slowly, his breath shallow. His fingers brushed the cover.

A small note sat on top. Folded once.

He flipped it open. Four words.

“Please don't hate me.”

His chest tightened instantly. Something hot twisted in his throat.

He stared at the handwriting—familiar now, too familiar—and turned the note over with a slow hand.

Scrawled in the same ink:

“Valentina still wants you all dead.”

His blood turned cold. The air left his lungs. With shaking fingers, he opened the folder. And there it was.

Page after page.

Files.

Meticulous, terrifyingly detailed notes. About all of them.

Yelena Belova: Range, reaction time, pressure points. Preferred weapons. Known trauma responses. Jonathan F. Walker: Blind spots in combat. Trigger phrases. Patterns of behavior. Ava Starr: Phase irregularities. Nervous system anomalies. Strategic isolation preferences. Robert Reynolds: Emotional leverage. Psychological profile. Manipulation tactics. Alexei Shostakov: Adrenaline patterns. Hand-to-hand vulnerability. Mental deterioration markers. James Buchanan Barnes: …his stomach clenched.

Your notes on him were brutal. Precise. You’d seen everything.

Handwritten notes. Tactical sketches. Surveillance photos. Labeled files. Bullet-point lists.

It was you. All of you.

Strengths. Weaknesses. Combat habits. Psychological profiles. Interpersonal tensions. Detailed analysis of the the New Avengers.

And suddenly he understood.

You were the failsafe.

The one she kept hidden. The one she trusted to take them all down if they became a liability.

And you’d been with them the whole time.

Sleeping in his bed.

Waking up in his arms.

Loving him.

Lying to him.

His fingers curled around the folder so tight the edges bent.

And still—he couldn’t let it go.

Because beneath the weight of betrayal, beneath the rising devastation, one thing stood out above all:

You’d told him without telling him. You’d warned him. You left him the truth.

This was your assignment. Your mission. And you didn’t complete it.

Instead—

You left this behind. For them. For him.

Bucky’s hands trembled slightly as he lowered the folder. He stared at the wall in front of him, jaw locked, heart pounding.

And somehow… even now—

He still didn’t hate you. He didn’t think he ever could.

Six Months Later

The skies above the compound were slate gray, a low growl of thunder humming across the horizon as if the world itself was unsettled.

Inside the facility—steel, silence, surveillance. Maximum security. Triple-reinforced cells. No exits that didn’t require biometric clearance, retinal scans, and six layers of authorization.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine sat in the center of it all.

She wasn’t in chains—of course not. Not her style.

But she was contained.

Her hair had grown out. Her posture was still impeccable. And her smirk? Untouched.

Through the glass, a monitor flickered with news feeds: charges listed in bold. Conspiracy. Treason. Unlawful black operations. Attempted political destabilization.

The Thunderbolts—no, The New Avengers—had done what she never expected.

They had turned on her. And they had won.

The victory had been quiet. Painfully methodical. But every step had followed the trail you left behind: the file you abandoned in your room. The names. The operations. The buried contracts. The coded transactions.

Every lie she’d built unraveled. Every secret surfaced. And now? She was a traitor to her country. A ghost of her former power.

And the world was watching.

────────────────────────

Time passed.

But not in the way that healed.

Not for him.

The New Avengers, now officially recognized—were busier than ever. Diplomatic calls. Rogue cleanups. Recovery missions. Global surveillance detail. Big threats. Bigger egos.

And Bucky? He did the work. Showed up. Fought hard. Kept his head down when he had to, stepped in when it mattered. The world was grateful. Headlines were clean.

But the ache never left.

Because even in the victory—even with Valentina locked away, even with the press finally calling them heroes—you were gone.

No sign. No contact. No coordinates.

Just silence.

And it haunted him.

Every mission, he looked.

Not deliberately—never enough for the others to question it. But it was there, always. In the way his eyes lingered too long on unfamiliar silhouettes. In the way he checked behind every mask, paused too long on female contacts with a certain walk. In the quiet that came after every debrief, when his jaw tightened just slightly as he scanned the room.

You weren’t in Moscow. You weren’t on the Omega Bunker list. You weren’t at the safe house in Tbilisi, even though it still smelled faintly of your perfume, though that was definitely his imagination. You weren’t on the encrypted black ops list Ava recovered from the Andes.

You weren’t anywhere.

And that—that—was what hurt the most. Because if anyone could disappear, it was you.

And you’d chosen to. You didn’t leave a signal. Or a clue. Or a damn apology.

Just that folder. That warning. And him. Alone. Still reaching for something that wasn’t reaching back.

────────────────────────

The briefing room was quiet.

Dim light. Flickering monitor. Stale coffee left forgotten on the edge of the table. The latest mission files spread in a neat arc—intelligence, recon, target maps.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at any of it.

He sat in the corner, arms folded, brow furrowed—not in focus, not really there.

Yelena noticed it first. Of course she did. She always noticed.

She crossed the room slowly, boots soft on tile, then leaned against the edge of the table across from him—arms folded, eyes sharp.

“Hey,” she said, flat. “Earth to Sad Eyes. You here or still hoping Ghost Barbie shows up mid-mission?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Yelena snorted. “Jesus Christ. Still with this?”

He looked up, jaw tight. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t have to.” Her voice sharpened. “You haven’t been present in months.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been chasing shadows. Running recon like you’re not hunting leads, and we all know who you’re really looking for.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I said drop it.”

Yelena stepped in. “You do remember she betrayed us, da?”

He stared.

“She was Valentina’s insurance policy. The kill-switch,” Yelena went on. “Sent to eliminate us if we got out of line. Got information on all of us—every weakness, every flaw—and you still look at her like she’s gold.”

Bucky stood. “She didn’t use it.”

“Yet.”

“No,” he insisted. “She had it. And she didn’t use it. Not once.”

Yelena scoffed. “You think that’s love? That’s not loyalty, Barnes. That’s indecision. That’s unfinished business.”

“She had every chance to kill us. You. Me. All of us. And she didn’t.”

“Because she got in too deep. Doesn’t mean she loved you.”

Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “It means something.”

Yelena didn’t soften. Not even a little.

She crossed her arms tighter, her stare unwavering as Bucky stood there, jaw clenched, shoulders tight, drowning in every word she’d just thrown at him. But she wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

“You need to wake the hell up, Barnes,” she said, her voice low but sharp, the kind of voice that cut because it had to. “You’re chasing a ghost. And I get it—I do. She had that perfect face, that mystery, that voice—we all felt it. We were drawn in.”

Bucky didn’t look at her. Just stared past her, like maybe if he stayed still enough, he could hold onto the last pieces of you.

“But I need you to feel this,” Yelena continued. “She played us. Every single one of us. For months. She gathered data, memorized habits, logged vulnerabilities like a fucking Hydra operative. She knew how to kill us before we even started to like her.”

She stepped closer.

“And you let her in the furthest. You let her crawl into your bed, into your chest, into your head. And now? Now you’re acting like maybe she was the victim in this. Like she just didn’t know any better. That she was confused.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed, but he didn’t speak.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Here’s the thing, she knew exactly what she was doing. Every calculated smile. Every touch. Every slow night where you let her inside and thought she'd actually stay—she planned that.”

His hands clenched at his sides. She saw it.

“And maybe—maybe she cared, somewhere in there,” Yelena added, a bitter twist to her voice. “Maybe she didn’t pull the trigger because some part of her felt something. But she still left. No note, no trace. Like you were just another mission she couldn’t finish and didn’t want to explain.”

She took one more step. Right into his space.

“So you’ve got two choices, Soldat: keep pining like a lovesick idiot and let her haunt you forever, or get your head back in the goddamn game and remember who you are. Because while you’re busy looking over your shoulder, the rest of us are picking up the slack.”

Silence stretched between them.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just sat there, hollowed out and burning, her words settling like ash in his chest.

And Yelena, finally, exhaled.

“I’m not saying forget her,” she added quietly. “I’m saying either find her and get answers… or stop bleeding for someone who doesn't care.”

And with that, she turned.

Left him sitting there alone, in the echo of all the things he didn’t want to hear—but needed to.

One Year Later

Yelena didn’t look up from the mission tablet at first. Her boots were propped on the edge of the table, fingers tapping absently as she scrolled through next week’s ops schedule. Bucky stood near the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his reflection faint in the glass.

“I’m leaving.”

She didn’t react at first. Just blinked, brows pulling together as she slowly looked up.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?”

Bucky didn’t turn around.

“I mean I’m done.”

Yelena sat up straighter. “Done with the mission? Or…?”

He finally turned, his eyes tired—not just from the day, or the month, but from years. From everything.

“With all of it.”

She scoffed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re quitting? You?”

Bucky just nodded. No bite. No drama. Just done.

Yelena stared at him. “You can't be serious.”

“I am.”

Silence.

She stood now, closing the tablet, crossing her arms. “Okay. No offense, Barnes, but what the fuck are you even talking about?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’ve been giving pieces of myself to someone else’s mission for a so many years, Yelena.”

Her jaw tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “I’ve been alive a hundred years. Most of it, I’ve been used. As a weapon. As a ghost. As some tragic propaganda machine. First, the Army. Then Hydra. Then the U.S. government, then Congress, and now this—superhero bullshit.”

He looked back out the window. The city shimmered.

“I’ve done what everyone needed. What they told me was ‘right.’ What would ‘make it right.’ And it never did. It never will. There’s always another war. Another mission. Another reason to shove who I am back down just to fit the narrative.”

She opened her mouth. He cut her off.

“And don’t tell me I matter. Or that I make a difference. I know that. I’ve made peace with that. But I’m tired. Bone deep, soul deep. I’m tired. I’ve never done anything just for me. Not once. And I’m not gonna die with that still being true.”

Yelena was silent for a beat.

Then, quietly: “So what? You just walk away?”

He shrugged, voice soft. “Why not?”

“You’re a leader.”

“You’re better.”

“You’re still needed.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be down my partner.”

That one hung in the air.

Bucky exhaled, finally meeting her eyes. “You don’t need me. You never did. You just didn’t want to be alone at the top.”

Yelena’s jaw worked for a moment. But she didn’t argue.

Didn’t because—damn it—he wasn’t wrong.

He looked at her, something in his expression softer now. “You’re the best shot they’ve got. You always have been.”

She swallowed thickly.

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on her shoulder. “But I can’t keep doing this, Lena. I need to figure out what my life looks like without being a weapon. Or a mascot. Or a ghost.”

“…So what does it look like, then?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want to find out.”

She blinked fast. Then, finally—finally—nodded.

“Just… don’t disappear without a damn postcard.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

If someone had asked him ten years ago—hell, even five years ago—where do you see yourself? Bucky Barnes would never have answered Fiji.

But here he was.

Fiji.

The sun was hot. Unrelentingly so. Not in the way that choked or scorched, but in a way that settled into your bones, warmed you from the inside out. He’d never felt heat like this without the edge of a battlefield waiting on the other side.

There were no missions here. No directives. No knives tucked under pillows. No coded radio chatter in the dead of night.

Just waves.

Just air thick with salt and lazy breeze.

And quiet.

He sat barefoot on the edge of a wooden deck, knees drawn up, sunglasses slipping slightly on his nose. His metal hand—gloveless, finally without shame—rested on the railing beside him, catching the sunlight like it had been born to. For once, it didn’t feel like a relic of war. It just felt like part of him.

The water below sparkled like someone had poured diamonds across it. The breeze brought the scent of fruit and ocean and something sweet he couldn’t name. Every few minutes, a bird called out, or a scooter whirred by in the distance.

It felt like another world.

One he didn’t belong in. Not really.

But he was trying.

Trying to belong to himself, finally.

He’d never taken a vacation before. Never even thought to. The idea of sitting still without guilt had always felt foreign. But now? Maybe this counted. Maybe this—quiet mornings, soft shirts, no schedules—was vacation. Maybe it was also retirement. If he let it be.

He didn’t have a plan. Didn’t know what came next. But for once, that didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt like freedom.

The beach bar was little more than a thatched roof, a polished wood counter, and a few half-drunk tourists slowly melting into their plastic chairs.

The scent of citrus and rum hung in the air, and some lazy guitar version of an old Marvin Gaye song drifted through the speakers.

Bucky stepped up to the counter, brushing a bit of salt off his sunglasses, the sand still warm between his toes. He leaned against the bar, gave a polite nod to the bartender.

“Beer, please. Whatever’s cold.”

The bottle landed in front of him with a satisfying clink. He popped the cap one-handed and brought it to his lips just as a voice slid in—smooth, familiar, laced with something sharp and knowing.

“You’re a long way from New York, Sergeant.”

He didn’t turn right away.

Just took a sip. Swallowed. Let the faintest smirk touch his lips as he rested his beer back down.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Guess I finally figured I deserved a vacation.”

A pause.

“Why Fiji?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still forward, letting the sea wind hit his face for a beat longer.

“Clear skies. Soft sand. Water so blue it hurts to look at.” He finally turned, his gaze sliding to the left—to you.

“And… beautiful women.”

There you were.

Hair sun-touched and swept back. Skin glowing from the sun. Dressed like you belonged to this place—effortless, radiant, wild. And yet you didn’t blend in. Not at all. You never blended in. You could’ve been wearing armor or silk or nothing at all and you’d still feel like a presence.

His eyes lingered on you.

And when they met yours?

Everything else—every sound, every breeze, every wave—faded.

For just a second.

You leaned one elbow on the bar, casual like the past hadn’t happened, like this was just two people on a beach at the end of the world. Your eyes flicked over him—sunglasses, salt-tousled hair, beer bottle sweating in his hand like he’d actually managed to settle into this place.

You lifted a brow, just enough mischief behind it to crack the tension.

“So…” you said, voice like silk. “Planning on staying?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His gaze was still fixed on you, the way it always had been. Steady. Intent. Like he was memorizing every new beauty mark, every glint of heat behind your eyes.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve got a pretty good reason to.”

Something flickered across your face. The faintest pull at your lips. You could’ve said something sharp, something defensive—but instead, you just turned slightly toward the bar, tapping your fingers once on the counter.

“Then buy me a drink, James,” you said, flashing a sly smile. “So long as you're planning to make it a roundtrip to forgiveness.”

His mouth curled.

And for the first time in a long time, the air between you wasn’t just heavy with uncertainty.

It was full of possibility.

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

The first thing Bucky felt was the warmth.

Not the sun, though that was already creeping in through the wooden shutters, slanting across the room in golden bands. Not the heat from the open window, or the lazy tropical breeze curling through the linen curtains.

No—the warmth was you.

Your body sprawled across his, half-draped over his chest like you’d always belonged there. Bare legs tangled with his, skin soft and sun-kissed, your breath slow and even where it fanned against his collarbone.

He could already hear the waves outside, steady and close. The faint rustle of palms, the rhythmic hum of island life waking up. It should’ve been loud—but it wasn’t.

It was perfect.

For the first time in… maybe ever, he’d woken up before you.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, he just lay there, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist, the other resting behind his head. Relaxed. Grounded. Not braced for attack. Not aching from loss.

Just present.

His eyes drifted over your face—peaceful, still, impossibly beautiful. And he let himself look. Really look.

No dread curled in his chest.

No panic waited behind his ribs.

Because you were here.

You’d stayed.

And he’d woken up to warmth.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

You'd forgotten the way it felt to pause.

To inhale.

To just be.

And so when your mission schedule coughed up an unexpected day off - when the universe, in its infinite chaos, cracked open and let you go outside - you listened. You laced your boots, grabbed a book you'd been pretending to read for weeks, and walked until the city felt like a dream someone else was having.

The park smells like grass and laughter, and there is a soft breeze tracing letters across your skin like some sort of code you don’t need to decipher.

You find a bench under a flowering tree that doesn’t know how to stop blooming, and you sit, and you breathe.

The sky is soft today.

A blue that’s been washed too many times in the sink, but still looks beautiful. It hangs wide over the park, spills over the grass, and you feel it warming the top of your head.

You don’t want noise. Or missions. Or anyone asking you how you’re feeling because they already know the answer is complicated. You just want this. A park. A book. A sky.

And apparently, a Bucky Barnes.

You don’t notice him until he’s standing right in front of you and you turn a page that suddenly means nothing.

Bucky moves like guilt and history and poetry someone tried to erase. You didn’t see him coming. Didn’t see him watching. But there’s a silence following him. Something you always pick up - the subtle way the world makes space when he walks through it. You look up and your breath catches on his name.

His hair is slightly windswept. The clean-cut line of his jaw is staring right at you. He’s wearing that navy jacket you like, the one with the collar he keeps turning up when he’s pretending not to care what you think. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there as if it’s normal.

You don’t know what to do with your hands.

“Hey,” he then says, voice low and slightly raspy.

You tilt your head. “Did you follow me?”

“Nah,” he lies. “I was just walking.”

You look at him. At his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The slight slope of his shoulders. The shadows under his eyes he wears like war medals.

“You were following me,” you say, slightly amused but soft, as though the words might bruise if you breathe on them too hard.

He looks away, mouth twitching as if chewing on a confession. He shrugs. “Didn’t have anything else going on.”

Which is a lie. You know it. He’s always got something going on. Missions. Meetings. Therapy. Hunched broodingly over the kitchen counter. Steve breathing down his neck.

He chose to come here. He followed you. And maybe that shouldn’t make your heart flutter the way it does, but it does. It flutters like a page caught in wind.

“Can I sit?” he asks, pointing at the place right beside you.

You nod before your heartbeat remembers how to say no.

Bucky sits beside you. You hear him let out a breath.

You open your book again, but the words are blurring slightly. He’s warm beside you. A slow, solid warmth. Like safety, if safety had stubble and blue eyes that refused to meet yours.

You glance at him, but he’s looking at the book in your lap as if it holds answers. As if it holds you. “What’re you reading?”

You show him the cover. He nods as though it means something to him, but it doesn’t. You know it doesn’t.

“Read to me?” he asks quietly.

Your gaze falls to him.

He doesn’t look at you when he asks. Just stares straight ahead, as though the request might have been an accident. As though allowing you to simply ignore it.

But you don’t.

You nod. It’s all you can do. You start reading aloud, the words trembling slightly at first, but then softening with the wind.

Bucky listens with the kind of attention you might think he’d use only on a battlefield. When it’s about life and death. But he listens to you as if your words are a map, and he’s trying to find his way home through the sound of your voice.

At some point, you forget what the story is about.

Because you can feel his gaze on you. Not constant - just glancing. As if trying not to be obvious. As if memorizing your profile in stolen pieces. The curve of your cheek. The way your lips move when you say words like hope and light and tethered.

You pause to turn the page, and his fingers brush yours.

An accident, probably.

You keep reading anyway.

He leans back, one arm stretching across the back of the bench. As if it belongs near you. And every now and then, his fingers touch the sleeve of your shirt and your skin forgets how to be still.

He closes his eyes. Maybe wanting to remember the sound of your voice. Trying to memorize it, tuck it away, in case he doesn’t get to hear it again soon.

You steal a glance at him when you think he won’t notice.

But he notices. Of course, he does.

He opens his eyes, catches you looking, and instead of looking away, you both just hold your gazes there. Caught in the space between chapters. Between breaths. Between all the things you’ve never said out loud.

You want to tell him he didn’t need to come. That he could have stayed back at the tower. You want to tell him that this is your favorite kind of day and now it’s somehow better.

But all you say is, “You like it?”

He doesn’t look away from you when he answers. “Yeah.”

“A specific part?”

He swallows. “All of it.”

And maybe he means the book. Or the breeze. Or the way you sit beside him and read to him as if he’s not someone dangerous.

Maybe he just means you.

You don’t answer. Not with words. Just a smile. A real one. The kind that starts in your chest and climbs all the way to your eyes.

He shifts, a little closer, until your knees brush. Until the warmth of him sinks into your side and you feel less like one person and more like a sentence that finally found its ending.

And you keep reading.

Because it’s the only way to keep breathing.

Because if you stop, you might say all the things you’ve been carrying, and he might say them back.

And the world might turn around.

“How do you know I won’t make her uncomfortable?”

The words are quietly spoken, and Bucky’s eyes stay fixed on the dark liquid in front of him.

“Buck,” Sam says softly. “I told her I was going to ask you to do it and that I trust you completely.”

Bucky looks up to meet Sam’s eyes.

“She was fine with it. She said, ‘if you trust him then I do too.’”

He’s tall, with tousled dark hair and a strong jaw covered with dark stubble. He stands and waits, his arms crossed over his torso in a way that makes the muscles in his chest and forearms shift deliciously. And his eyes…his eyes are a shade of blue that rivals the ocean. They’re gorgeous-like the rest of him.

Taking a deep breath, you remove yourself from the hidden shadows just outside the gym door and grab the handle.

His head snaps in your direction, his gaze turning fully on you and making your heart skip a beat.

He says your name; his voice is low and gravelly, and it skates down your spine with a tingle. You nod and say hello.

“I was wondering how long you were going to stand out there.”

You suck in a breath and your lips remain parted.

“First lesson,” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, “always be aware of your surroundings.”

“Right,” you manage to say as you step inside and let the door shut.

An hour later, after stretching and taking the time to talk through any jitters you’re standing in front of Bucky in your best defensive stance.

“That’s really the best you’ve got?” he says, his tone neither mocking or malicious.

“I’m more dangerous than you think,” you bluster.

The corners of his mouth rise into a challenging smirk.

You hate how beautiful he is. It’s a distraction and if you really want to learn you’re going to have to steel yourself against it.

He wiggles his fingers in your direction, and you pause.

“Shouldn’t you be attacking me first?” you ask. “Isn’t that why I need to learn to defend myself…you know self-defense.”

“I just want to see what I’m working with here,” he replies, keeping those perfect lips titled upward.

You let out a long exhale and rush toward him, barely able to register what happens before you’re wrapped in his arms, your back pressed tightly to his chest. You struggle in his grip, moving against him to try and loosen his hold.

He goes still and you swear he stops breathing for a heartbeat before he let’s you go.

You spin and face him again, breathing heavily and not from exertion. This time he moves toward you, and holy shit he’s fast. You try to swipe his feet out from under him in a move that he artfully dodges and captures your arm. The earth spins and you brace for the impact of your back smacking the mat but instead all you feel is the strength of his arms behind you as he holds you up and slowly lets you sink down. He leans down so his face is only inches from yours, “you’re strong,” he whispers, “but you’re gonna need more finesse.”

You huff in response, but he releases you and stands, offering you a hand. “We’re not done yet. We’ve barely gotten started.”

He tugs you to your feet, then twists your arm behind your back and yanks you against his hard chest, pinning your joined hands before you even catch your balance.

“Shit,” you snap, trying to steady your breathing.

He releases your hand and steps back and you whirl, going for a punch to his throat. He knocks your hand aside easily.

“Good,” he says with a smile, deflecting your next blow without even breaking a sweat. “Going for the throat is always a good option as long as it’s exposed.”

You kick out again, mostly from frustration, and he captures your leg, this time, holding it for a second before dropping it to the mat with a frown. “I expect you to learn from your mistakes.”

Your frustration turns to fury, and you glare at him, noting the way he stands there with loose arms, rocking back on his heels.

“You’re not even trying,” you grit out.

His lips curve into a smile and this time you don’t think, you just act, going low and kicking out the backs of his knees. He goes down hard, and you pounce, trying for a headlock. Doesn’t matter how big someone is- they still need to breathe.

Instead of going for your arms, he twists, grabbing a hold of the backs of your thighs so you lose your leverage and your bodies careen into a roll. Of course, he lands on top.

His forearm rests against your throat and his hips have you pinned; your legs useless on either side of his as he lies heavily between your thighs. Your body becomes so acutely aware of him that he’s all you can feel. Your breath catches and your body warms.

“Where did you learn that move?” he asks with an approving smile.

Your chin lifts. “Sam taught me a few things here and there.”

“If your opponent is bigger you need to stop going for moves that will expose you,” he explains, keeping you pressed to the mat with his weight. “A rib shot would work just fine.” He gently pulls your hand free and drags your fingertips down his side. Then he guides your hands around his back. “Kidneys are a good fit from this angle too.”

You swallow hard, refusing to let your mind wander to other things that are a good fit in this position.

He leads your hands to his waist and you’re sure you feel the muscles of his abdominals tense under your touch. “There’s weakness here too. Three easy places to strike.”

You stare at him, your fingers still pressed against his shirt and feeling the hardness beneath.

“You hear me doll?”

You nod.

“This looks promising,” Sam says with a mischievous tone.

You’re suddenly reminded of your surroundings and the realization of your current entanglement with Bucky makes your skin heat.

“Sam!” you say as you try and get out from under Bucky.

Bucky presses up from the mat a few inches and then slides your hand away from his side, slowly, inch by inch.

“That’s it?” you ask, surprised at the disappointment you feel.

“I hate to break it up, but I need Bucky,” Sam says.

Bucky pushes up all the way, removing his weight from your body and offering you another hand. You don’t take it this time and rise from the mat with ease. His approving smile makes you feel warm all the way down to your toes.

Sam’s smile is wide and knowing but you ignore it, focusing on Bucky.

“I’ll be right there Wilson,” Bucky says, the short dismissal enough to get Sam to give you two privacy.

“You did well,” Bucky says, filling the space in front of you.

Your head drops and you scoff, kicking at some invisible object on the mat. Warm, strong fingers press gently under your chin and raise your face until your eyes lock with ocean blue.

“You did,” he says again.

“Thanks,” you whisper, mourning the loss of his fingers when he drops his hand.

“I’ll be more organized next time…if you want to do this again.”

“I do,” you answer quickly. “I want to feel safe. And strong.”

Bucky nods. “You will doll.”

The next week you’re back at the gym, feeling more confident and even more comfortable. After your first session you and Bucky exchanged phone numbers, the text messages flowing easily between you the past few days. This time you open the door without hesitation and find Bucky leaning against the far wall, cutting the pieces off a plum with a knife. His eyes lift and lock with yours just as he opens his mouth to pop a bite in.

Your entire body tingles.

He didn’t lie when he said he’d be more prepared and organized for this session. He works you through some stretches and a warmup and then takes you through several take downs step by step, each one building on the next. You’re moving faster and even getting a few hits in here and there. The confidence fuels you and coupled with some adrenaline you really push yourself, pressing Bucky to work you harder.

He does but when you try something new, something he wasn’t anticipating, you end up ramming your ribs into his metal forearm. It’s completely by accident but knocks the wind out of you nonetheless and you fall to your knees to catch your breath.

“Shit doll,” Bucky says, falling down next to you and grabbing your shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

You wheeze out an “I’m ok,” and when you look up to reassure him, the lines of worry etched into his features make it even harder to breathe.

“Let me see,” he says, the panic in his eyes softening your own before he looks down at your side.

“I’m fine,” you say.

His focus snaps back to your eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“It hurts,” you admit after a stuttered inhale.

“Let me see,” he says again.

“Is that a request or a demand?” you ask, trying to sound teasing.

“You pick as long as I can check to see how bad it is.”

You swallow, then nod, reaching for the hem of your shirt. He stops you with a soft hand and then with surprising gentleness his fingers skim your bare skin as he slowly lifts your shirt. You suppress a shiver, locking your muscles so you don’t melt against him.

“Sorry if my hands are cold,” he says, clearing his throat as more of your skin is exposed.

Your eyes meet and warmth flutters in your stomach. He drops his eyes and inspects your side, gentle fingers stroking your ribs before they prod carefully.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a bruise doll. I really am sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong and thanks for checking.”

He drags your shirt back down, letting his knuckles graze you skin in the process. He waits for you to stand, watching you closely and letting out a relieved exhale when he notices your breathing is more even.

Your eyes widen when he drops to his knees in front of you. “Your shoe is untied.”

“Oh.”

Your hands twitch at your sides, his long, soft strands of hair at the perfect level for you to run your fingers through.

“Thank you.”

He gives you a real smile, not a cocky smirk or a teasing tilt to his lips. A real, honest, heart-stopping smile that you’re anything but immune to.

“It’s the least I could do after…that.”

“Not your fault Bucky,” you assure him again. “It happened by complete accident.”

Bucky texts you at least forty-seven times over the next week, constantly checking in and asking about your ribs. But you’re still surprised when the day before you’re next session he calls, asking if you want to meet for breakfast beforehand.

“This place has the best coffee. And muffins. And scones,” he says as he holds the door open for you.

You laugh and walk through, instantly soothed by the smell of coffee beans and baked goods. “And you know this because you’ve tried them all of course.”

“Of course,” he says while rubbing his stomach.

Your eyes track the movement and you’re positive you can see ridges of muscles beneath his shirt. It takes all your concentration to tear your gaze away and focus on the menu. After ordering your drinks and two of everything baked you head for your seats.

You try it all and let Bucky eat the rest, marveling at how he packs it away and doesn’t even seem fazed.

“I wish I could eat like that and look like you.”

The comment comes out before you can stop it, and your eyes widen slightly when they meet his narrowed ones.

“You look perfect,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Eat whatever you want. You’re gonna need the energy today.”

He gives you one of his signature teasing smirks and you stand. “Bring it on Barnes!”

The walk to the gym is short but the weather is warm, and you can feel a light sheen of sweat coating the back of your neck. The hot coffee you’re drinking doesn’t help either but it’s too good to not finish.

He holds the door open for you and then walks in, sipping his coffee as he goes. You bend over to retrieve something from your bag, and he takes a misstep, his focus on your ass instead of where he’s going.

With a tumble forward his coffee follows suit, his momentum forcing the liquid out of the cup and onto his shirt. He catches himself before he looks like a complete fool, but the damage is done. His shirt is soaked through on the front with the last of his coffee.

“AH shit,” he sighs, pulling the wet material from his stomach.

“What happened?” you ask, your brows furrowed as you turn toward him. “Did you trip?”

“Um…yeah, something like that,” he says. “I have to change.”

He reaches behind his back and starts to lift his shirt, slowly revealing tanned skin that’s all sharp lines and barely restrained power. You’ve seen shirtless men before. Many times. But never Bucky Barnes. You’d start counting his ab muscles if the rest of him wasn’t just as good to look at. Your mouth waters when he turns around and you see the muscled expanse of his back. Even the gold and gray metal plates of his arm move beautifully as he searches for a new shirt.

“Sam usually keeps some stuff stashed in here,” Bucky says.

You think you heard what he said but you’re shamelessly wondering how his skin would feel under your fingertips, how your body would react to having every ounce of him on top of you, over you…in…”

The slam of the small storage door draws your attention downward, and you shake your head to snap out of it.

“Ready?” he asks, a new shirt securely in place.

You walk to the mat and wait.

“Are you sure you’re not still in any pain…?”

“Bucky,” you sigh. “I’m really ok. I have been for days. I appreciate your concern but I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to be able to work through pain sometimes. I don’t think anyone who attacks me will care if I’m injured…”

“You’re right,” he says, pride shining in his eyes. “Let’s go…but first…”

You watch with rapt admiration as he pulls several hidden knives free, his smile growing when he takes the last one out from his boot.

“I want you to learn how to use a weapon. You can carry it with you…just in case.”

He hands you the blade and you hold it in your open palm, noticing the weight of it and how the handle seems just right.

“Wow,” is all you can think to say.

“I had it made for you,” he explains. “Most blades are made for men…you know, big hands, long fingers.”

As if to drive his point home he splays his hand in front of you, showing off just how big and long they can be.

“Right,” you whisper. “I don’t know what to say…thank you Bucky.”

He smiles again. “Now let me teach you how to use it.”

Before you can prepare or react he has you on your back, his weight settled between your thighs. It takes all your willpower not to reach up and brush the stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“You didn’t even give me a heads up,” you whisper, leaning up slightly and letting your lips brush the shell of his ear.

He jerks up, and the heat in his gaze makes you all too aware of everywhere your bodies are touching.

“You know…” he says, his eyes glittering, “distraction is a great way to do some damage.”

His eyes drop to your mouth.

“Are you distracted?” you murmur.

Before he can answer you use a move he taught you and roll him on to his back.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you sing song.

His eyes meet yours under the fluorescent lights of the gym before dropping to your lips. His metal arm slides up your back, but not in a way to remove you, it’s slow and purposeful for a completely different reason. You can feel the warmth of his touch through your clothing, your skin unbearably hot.

When you shudder in his arms his smile is like a caress and his free hand moves to your cheek, brushing across your skin.

“You have incredibly soft skin,” he murmurs. “I’ve been aching to feel it again since I checked your ribs.”

The admission makes you suck in a breath, and he studies you with an intensity that makes you sway closer. His thumbs stroke along your cheekbones and his heated gaze moves to your mouth. Hands flexing, he draws you forward a few inches before he stops.

“I…” he starts, groaning when your tongue traces your lower lip.

“Bucky.” His name comes out like a whispered plea and it’s all he needs to close the distance. He was just out of reach and now his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent. He cradles the back of your head, trapping you against him as he lays on the mat and you feel every hard line of his body. You clutch the material of his shirt at his chest, parting your lips when he angles your head for a deeper kiss.

“Fuck baby,” he moans, and the sound makes you ravenous. Your hands lift to his hair and it’s just as soft as imagined, your nails scraping lightly over his scalp.

His hips tilt upward, and you gasp at the friction but it’s not enough and in a move that rivals all the others you’ve seen him do he flips you onto your back, the impact so soft you gasp into his mouth. You surrender completely, going pliant beneath him as he claims every line and curve of your mouth with a reckless edge that makes your body sing. He breaks the kiss, sliding his mouth across your jaw, your neck, whispering words of praise as he explores every inch of your skin his lips can find.

The sound of the gym door startles you enough to pull away, but your eyes never leave Bucky’s and when you hear Sam’s voice you let out a giggle.

“You look like you’re…defending yourself well,” Sam says from above you.

“Your timing sucks,” Bucky sighs. “And she could have totally handed me my ass right now if she wanted to.” He smiles down at you with a wink.

Sam pulls Bucky away once again but before he leaves he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth then one to your lips, lingering until Sam starts shouting from the doorway. Later that night you get a text from Bucky-‘I can’t stop thinking about kissing you again.’

You read the words over and over again as your body continuously reminds you exactly what it feels like to have his mouth on yours. Your stomach flutters and you actually press a flattened palm against it, hoping to calm the eruption of butterflies.

After washing up and throwing on some pjs you’re just about to spend the rest of your night watching something streaming on Netflix when you hear a knock at your apartment door. You check the time. It’s late and you’re not expecting anyone…maybe it’s your neighbor?

Standing on your tippy toes you check the peep hole and barely stifle your gasp of surprise.

“I’m glad you checked to see who it was first,” Bucky says when you swing the door open. “That’s part of smart self-defense.”

You stare at his face, then the flowers in his hand, then back at his face.

“Is it too late? Were you asleep?”

His eyes fill with worry but before you let him fret too long you grab his free hand and drag him into your apartment, slamming the door shut and pushing him against it. Without a word you kiss him, softly at first, just a brush of your lips, but he instantly takes over, resting the flowers on the small table by the door and taking you in his arms, spinning you and caging you with your back to the door.

“You always get the upper hand,” you smile against his lips.

“Better get used to it,” he teases, resting his metal hand next to your head as he leans back in, letting his eyes do a warm sweep of your body from head to toe.

“You look magnificent,” he murmurs.

“I’m in my pajamas.” Your reply comes out breathless.

His fingers drops to your shoulder, tracing the soft curve before ghosting down your arm and sliding to where the hem of your tank sits just above your shorts.

“Magnificent,” he repeats, slipping one finger under the material to touch your skin. “And So. Fucking. Soft.”  

“Bucky,” you whisper.

“I know doll,” he says, “but I need to take my time…I want to get my hands and mouth on every inch of you.”

They split up to look for her, and he didn’t want to wake anyone up since it was late, but he was worried since Alpine had gone past his neighborhood. She was his little buddy, his kindred spirit. He wanted her to be okay. He didn’t want her to get lost or hurt.

“Alpine?” he asked, rounding a corner and looking around. His shoulders dropped when he didn’t spot her. “C’mon, Al.”

He went down another block when he heard an unfamiliar voice in the distance, his body going stiff. “Oh, my GOD. You are seriously the cutest cat EVER.” Was this stranger talking about his cat? “Your fur is as white as snow and so soft. OOH. Is your name Snowball?”

“Snowball?” he muttered, jogging in the direction of your sweet voice. Wait, why did he think your voice was sweet?

“You’re a little purr machine! I just want to take you home and cuddle with you and keep you FOREVER.”

“Oh, no, you fucking don’t,” Bucky snarled, rounding another corner. He didn’t care how sweet you sounded. You were talking about possibly stealing his cat, and he wasn’t going to let that happen.

He sighed in relief when he saw Alpine before his brows furrowed. She was curled up in your lap as you sat in the middle of the sidewalk. He had to blink to be sure his eyes were working correctly. Alpine never took to strangers like that. She liked Steve and Sam, but it still took her time to warm up to them.

Shooting them a text to let them know he found Alpine, he wondered who you were and why she was snuggling with you. 

“Al.” He whistled as he jogged the rest of the way over. Instead of jumping out of your lap like he expected, she curled into you more and purred. Maybe you had some sort of special power that made his cat relax. 

You tilted your head up and Bucky forgot how to breathe for a second. Even under the harsh light of the sidewalk lamp you were beautiful. Fuck, maybe you had some sort of special power over him, too. “Hi!” you said a little too loudly, like you didn’t have a clue how late or quiet it was. Inhaling, he could smell the alcohol on your breath from where he stood. Jesus, were you drunk? “Hooooooooe, my God. You are the hottest man I have ever seen in my life. Just… ” You waved a hand at him. “Holy fucking shit.”

He was thankful that it was either too dark for you to see or you were too drunk to notice the pink in his cheeks. Not to mention, he was in jeans and a black t-shirt. He hardly looked hot. “You’re drunk, but thanks for the compliment,” he stated, reaching out for Alpine who stubbornly stayed put. Seriously, what was her deal? She didn’t know you. He didn’t know you.

“Annnnd I’ll be sober when I wake up tomorrow, but you’ll still be really hot. That’s totally not fair.” You giggled after a moment and held Alpine up to look at him. “Isn’t he hot? Like a model or a god or something made up in a lab.” You tilted your head. “Or my dreams.”

Bucky frowned, as if he didn’t talk to his cat on a regular basis. He was trying to ignore that you were clearly physically attracted to him. That wasn’t the usual reaction people had when he came around. Not in today’s age at least. His glare didn’t even phase you since you continued to smile at him. “Al’s a cat. She can’t-”

“Meow.”

Your smile turned into something triumphant. “See, she agrees with me,” you said, rubbing your cheek against Alpine’s before you gasped. “Wait, you called her by a name. Do you know her?” Bucky let out a breath, wanting to get back home and get some sleep. He had had a long day. “Yeah, she’s my cat and she got out a bit ago. Could you please give her back so I can go home?”

Your lower lip trembled and he feared you’d burst into tears. He had no clue what to do if you cried. “I’m soooo sorry. I didn’t know she was your cat. I swear.” His eyes widened when you tried to get to your feet, his hands going to your hips to help steady you. He was reluctant to let you go, and he felt like an ass because he probably scared you. “She just came right up to me and I only wanted to pet her for a minute.”

Bucky kept a hand on your hip when Alpine finally moved into his other arm. He felt better, but wouldn’t relax completely until he was at home. “It’s okay. I’m glad she did,” he said honestly. Because Alpine went to you, it made it much easier to find her. “Wait a second.”

“What?” you asked, making him lose his breath again when you looked him in the eyes.

He had to blink a few times and snap himself out of his stupor. What was wrong with him? “Why the hell are you out here by yourself?” he asked, trying to keep his anger in check when he took in your outfit. He was so concerned about Alpine that he didn’t clock right away that you were in a semi-revealing black dress. It was gorgeous, and that kind of look could attract all sorts of attention. Even if you weren’t drunk and all alone, the thought of someone taking advantage of you made his blood boil.

You nodded to the building beside you. “My place is RIGHT there, but it’s soooo sweet that you care about my wellbeing.” 

“Which apartment?” he asked. 

“Okay, you may be really hot and I may be drunk, but I don’t know you, so I’m not telling you my apartment number.” You wrinkled your nose. “That’s how true crimes start.”

He snorted before he could stop himself. At least you were smart enough not to tell him. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re alone out here.”

“My friends and I were celebrating a birthday at the bar a few blocks away and the birthday girl wanted to play drinking games and my luck was terrible tonight since I kept losing, or I guess winning if you count drinking as winning?” you explained, shaking your head. “Anyway, my sober friend dropped me off, but your cat walked over before I could go inside,” you continued, smiling and scratching behind her ears. At least you hadn’t walked home alone. “And it would’ve been rude of me to ignore little Snowball.”

“Her name’s Alpine,” he corrected you, but there was warmth in his tone instead of annoyance.

“My apologies, Queen Alpine.” You booped Bucky on the nose. “And what is your name?”

Bucky blinked and blinked again. He couldn’t believe you just booped him. If Steve and Sam had seen that… “It’s Bucky.”

You didn’t react to his name, simply giving him your name, too. “Do people call you ‘Buck’?” you giggled. “Because Buck rhymes with-”

“I think you should get inside,” he cut you off. “And make sure you drink some water and have some aspirin waiting beside you when you wake up.”

“Awwwwwwwwwww. You really do care about my wellbeing,” You leaned into him, stars in your eyes. “You’re a good man. I can tell.”

Bucky cleared his throat. Why would you think he was a good man? “Well, if Al likes you, you can’t be all bad.”

“I can be bad if you want me to,” you whispered exaggeratedly and winked. “Sorry, I have no filter when I drink.”

“Yeah, I sensed that,” he deadpanned. It was kind of refreshing. “Do you always flirt with strange men like this?” he asked, feeling a surge of jealousy for no reason.

“Just you, stranger,” you answered. He believed you only because you seemed too sweet to lie. “Thanks for being nice and letting me snuggle with your cat.”

You had to be drunk to say he was nice. “I’m a grump.”

You booped his nose again. “Whatever you say, Mr. Grump,” you said, giving Alpine one last pet. “See you later, Alpine.”

The meow Alpine let out sounded so sad it almost broke Bucky’s heart. “It’s late, Al. She needs rest, and so do we.”

“Night night!” you called back, somehow managing to walk in a straight line up the building door. “Sweet dreams!”

“What if Al wants to see you again?” he asked. 

You paused and smiled over your shoulder. “If you want to see me again, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

As tempting as it was to ask for your number or give him yours, you were drunk. You’d probably forget all about him in the morning. Besides, you might have a boyfriend. So he held Alpine closer and watched you go inside, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

“You gave me a real scare, Al,” he said, walking away as Alpine looked back at the building. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll see her again.”

For Alpine’s sake, he hoped they’d see you again.

And for his own sake, he hoped you were single.

Had to be done, lovelies! When and where will he see you again? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

“You know, I think you might be the only agent that would complain about getting to pose as Bucky’s wife,” she hums, grabbing a dark colored lip liner and leaning down to begin outlining your lips. When you’d asked her for help, you only meant with the false eyelashes - but you can’t deny that having someone else do your makeup does seem to be calming your nerves a bit, so you let her continue. “As far as undercover husbands go, you could do a lot worse.”

“It’s not that posing as his wife sounds bad,” you huff. “It doesn’t sound bad at all. I’ve just.. never pretended to be married to someone for an operation before. I don’t know if I can fake something like that.”

Something like that being holding hands, dancing, embracing, gazing lovingly, maybe even kissing if it comes to that…

You’re not an actress. How are you supposed to do all of those things with one of the most attractive people you’ve ever seen and it not fuck with your head?

Not just attractive. Caring, and brave, and funny, and selfless too.

“So don’t,” Nat shrugs. “Let it be real. Just for the night.”

You scoff. You don’t blame her for the suggestion – she’s gone on countless undercover missions like this. This kind of thing comes effortlessly for someone like Natasha.

“Easier said than done,” you sigh. You don’t elaborate – you don’t need to. She gives you a look that tells you she knows exactly what you mean.

“So, where’s my ring?” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your bare fingers. “If I’m going to do this, I better get to wear a shiny rock on my finger for the evening.”

She purses her lips together in an attempt to hide a smirk.

“You’ll have to get that from your husband.”

••••••

After giving Bucky’s bedroom door a few soft knocks, you readjust the uncomfortable satin material that squeezes your curves for the dozenth time since you put it on less than half an hour ago.

The two of you should be well on your way to an estate located in the Upper East Side of Manhattan by now, but after waiting for Bucky in the common area of the compound for the last twenty minutes, your anxiety couldn’t handle waiting any longer, so you decided to go check on him.

“Bucky?” You call out when you he doesn’t answer the door after a moment. “We really need to head out, we’re gonna be late—”

The door swings open, revealing a disheveled and frustrated looking Bucky. Your eyes immediately go wide as you take in his appearance. You ignore the fact that he isn’t even dressed yet – still wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a white t-shirt – you’re more surprised with the state of his hair. Or rather, the lack thereof.

When you’d seen him demolishing a pile of breakfast taquitos just this morning, the ends of his hair had dusted the tops of his shoulders. Now, judging by the strands of brunet hair that litter his t-shirt and the electric hair trimmer that he clutches in his hand, it’s apparent that he’s in the process of attempting to give himself a haircut. Your eyes trail back to his face, noting that he’s clean-shaven for the first time in a few weeks.

“Fury suggested that I shave and get a hair cut to change up my appearance before we go undercover,” he explains. “Figured I’d do it myself since I used to cut my own hair back in the forties, but…” He trails off, seemingly avoiding looking you in the eye. “I can’t get the back of my head even.”

You give him a sympathetic smile, no longer caring that you’ll likely arrive to the party later than planned. This is probably his first real haircut in well over half a century. In the time that he’d been living at the compound, his hair had always been long enough to at least cover his ears.

“Want some help?” You offer. “I don’t have much experience cutting men’s hair, but you’ve already done most of the work for me.”

A large part of you expects him to tell you not to worry about it, so you’re surprised when after a brief second of hesitation, he opens his door the rest of the way and motions for you to come inside.

When you step through the doorway, it dawns on you that you’ve never been in his room before. In fact, you don’t think anyone has, other than Steve. You’ve seen glimpses of it from the hallway, but this is the first time that you’ve stepped inside.

Unsurprisingly, it’s pretty bare bones. A dresser, a nightstand with only a lamp on it, and a king sized bed that looks as if it has never even been slept in. You can’t help but notice that in the corner of the room, a singular pillow and a throw blanket lay on the floor. The implication that he’s been sleeping on the floor isn’t lost on you, but you say nothing as you silently follow him to his en-suite bathroom.

The bathroom shows further evidence of his haircut attempt. There’s dark strands from both his beard and head on the counter, as well the floor in front of the sink. The black suit that he’ll be wearing for the evening hangs on the door, waiting for him to put it on.

“How do you wanna do this?” Bucky asks you, hints of hesitation and embarrassment in his voice.

“Um..” You hesitate. You hadn’t thought of the logistics of it – he’s taller than you, so you need him to come down closer to your level. You look around, realizing that the only place for him to really sit is on the toilet. You close the lid, and motion for him to take a seat.

Once he’s in front of you, you’re able properly see the back of his head. You look at his hair from different angles, deciding exactly where it needs to be evened out.

“How bad is it?” Bucky sighs, handing you the trimmer over his shoulder.

“It’s not bad,” you assure him quickly. “Not bad at all. Just a couple hairs here and there need to be trimmed, and then everything will be even.”

His shoulders seem to relax at your words. You take the trimmers from him, turning them on the lowest setting and getting to work. It only takes a couple minutes – you were being honest when you told him that it wasn’t bad. Considering it’s his first time cutting his own hair since the 1940s, you can’t believe what a great job he did.

When you think you’re finished, you back away before inspecting him from the front, back, and each side.

You can’t deny that you think long hair suited him very well – you’d be lying if you were to say that you hadn’t been partial to it. But looking at him now, all freshly shaven and his hair the shortest that you’ve seen it since you met him, you feel as if you are looking at a picture of him straight out of 1944.

“What is it?” Bucky hums with an amused lilt. His voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You glance up, meeting his gaze in the reflection of the mirror in front of you. There’s a faint smirk on his face, as if he heard your thoughts. Your cheeks warm at the idea.

“Just looks really good. That’s all,” you shrug, playing it off. He’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your fucking life is what you’re actually thinking, but you bite your tongue.

“You really think so?” He asks, standing to take a closer look in the mirror. “It’s been so long since I’ve had short hair. I barely recognize myself,” he sighs with a forced chuckle.

“I really think so, Bucky,” you assure him. “It’s a big change. Give it a few days. If you don’t like it, you can always grow it back out once the mission is over.”

Silence falls over you. He meets your gaze in the reflection of the mirror once again, an indecipherable expression on his face as he seems to truly take in your appearance for the first time since you knocked on his door. His eyes flicker from the dress that you already can’t wait to get out of and then up to your face that feels overly caked in makeup. You know that Natasha did a great job with applying it, but the boldness is out of your comfort zone and the way he’s looking at you certainly doesn’t help.

“Speaking of the mission,” he murmurs, breaking the silence after what feels like an eternity. He steps around you, his arm grazing against yours due to the limited amount of space in the small bathroom. He reaches into a pocket of the suit hanging on the door, retrieving a small, black velvet box.

“I suppose you’ll need this.”

He opens the box, revealing a large, sparkling marquise cut diamond with a gold band. He removes the ring from the box, pinching it between two of his flesh fingers before grabbing your left hand in his vibranium one. Your breath catches in your throat, the room suddenly feeling even smaller and a dozen degrees warmer as he slips the ring onto your finger.

It's just for the mission, the voice in your head reminds you. Nothing to stop breathing over. You take a breath, examining the ring up close once he drops your hand. He could’ve just handed you the box and let you put it on yourself, the voice contradicts itself.

“What do you think? Is it good enough for this evening?” He asks, his voice teasing.

“I think it’ll do,” you laugh. “I don’t even wanna think about how expensive it—”

Your watch vibrates. You glance down at the small screen at that same time that he looks at his own. It’s Sam – wondering where the hell the two of you are at.

“I’ll uh – I’ll leave you to get dressed,” you say with a nod towards his suit. Before he can say anything else, you exit the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You pause for a moment, massaging the thumb of your right hand over the goosebumps that the cool metal of his hand had caused when he held yours in his.

••••••

In your experience, undercover operations usually involve outdated Motel 6 rooms, a lot of gas station coffee and too much fast food.

From the moment that you saw the dress that you’d be wearing tonight – and the Rolls Royce that you and Bucky were given for the evening – you knew that you were out of your element. As if pretending to be married wasn’t intimidating enough, you also have to pretend to be millionaires – tech investor Henry Monroe and his wife, Cecelia.

If Bucky is as nervous as you are, he’s good at hiding it. He appears calm and collected in the driver’s seat beside you, whereas you’ve spent the duration of the drive to Manhattan picking at the cuticles of your freshly painted nails.

You glance at him from your peripheral every so often, which does little to settle your nerves. He looks damn good in his suit, and you can’t seem to stop your eyes from settling on the gold wedding band that adorns the ring finger of his left hand. Nanotechnology disguises the normally vibranium appendage as human flesh, preventing the metal from giving away his identity.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Bucky tells you softly as he pulls up to the front of the estate, bringing the vehicle to a stop beside a valet driver. “Just remember, we have been on missions far more risky and complex than this before. We mingle, act a lot richer than we are, get the information that we need, and get the hell out.”

“I know,” you nod in agreement, and hope that it’s convincing. “The objective is simple. Lying is just… not really my thing. That’s all.”

He huffs a laugh before unbuckling and getting out of the car as the valet driver opens the door for him. Within seconds, Bucky walks to the passenger side and opens the door for you, offering you his hand. You accept, letting him help you out of the SUV.

“So convince yourself it’s true,” he shrugs, looping his arm through yours and leading you up the cobblestone steps to the entrance. “Anytime you need a reminder, just look at that ring on your finger. For the next few hours, I'm your husband. And you are my wife.”

You roll your eyes. “You sound just like Natasha.”

The first half hour after arriving is spent conversing with other guests – socialites, investors, and business moguls who you’ve never heard of and will likely never see again. Bucky introduces you to so many people that you lose count – the many faces pumped with excessive Botox and filler begin to all look the same after the first dozen.

He keeps an arm around you or a hand on you at all times. You know it’s not truly necessary, but you find it comforting and appreciate it nonetheless. You’re only mildly distracted by the musk of cologne and the feeling of his hand on the small of your back. You can always tell it’s his flesh hand by the warmth that it produces – his vibranium hand disguised by nano-tech just doesn’t radiate the same heat.

Both of you have small, discreet communication devices in your ears. Your instructions are to blend in and act as if you’re just any other guest at this party until your team taps into the security system and someone gives you the go ahead to sneak upstairs to the off-limits, private office of the owner of the estate – Carmine Vance, billionaire tech CEO who happens to be trafficking illegal arms. Once you’ve made it into his study, all you have to do is hack into his computer long enough to upload intel to a hard drive that is tucked inside Bucky’s coat pocket.

“See?” Bucky says lowly when the couple you two had been chatting with excuse themselves to get another drink from the full service bar catering the event. He loosens the hold he has around your waist, but doesn’t retract his arm entirely. “This isn’t too bad, yeah?”

“Not too bad,” you agree, taking a small sip of your own drink that you’d been nursing for the sake of keeping up appearances. “I mean, it helps that everyone here is too inebriated to notice or care about the fact that no one actually knows us. It also helps that you happen to be an incredible storyteller.”

You turn into him, your chest brushing against his. “The story you told about how we met at a ski resort and it was love at first sight. Did you think of that ahead of time or did you make that up on the spot?”

Bucky laughs. You think you see a hint of blush bloom on the apples of his cheeks, but you chalk it up to the room’s low lighting and the martini that you’ve been slowly sipping on for the last half hour.

“I came up with that in the moment,” he all but whispers, glancing around to make sure that no one is listening in on the conversation. “When I was being prepped for the mission, I was told that if I get asked questions about our history to draw inspiration from the truth and just.. embellish it. Of course, we didn’t meet at a ski resort, we met at the compound. I don’t know if you remember, but… it was snowing that day.”

You’re taken aback by his answer. He’s right – you hadn’t made the connection when he was telling the story, likely because you were too busy being impressed by his ability to lie so effortlessly, but he’s right. To say that it had been snowing when you met would be an understatement. It was nearly a damn blizzard, even by upstate New York standards. Wanda had practically begged you to come outside with her, convincing you only after promising to build the biggest snowman that you’d ever seen with the help of her powers.

When Steve pulled up to compound with Bucky in his passenger seat that afternoon, snow was still steadily pouring down. Looking at him now, you can still envision the amused look on his face when he saw the twelve foot tall snowman in the front yard of the compound.

“I remember,” you say, shaking your head when you realize you’re just staring at him. “Of course I rem—”

“We’re tapped into the security system,” Sam’s voice erupts from the communication device in your ear, startling you and cutting you off. “The second floor is empty right now. You two are clear to head up to Vance’s study.”

“Copy that,” Bucky murmurs.

“We’ll be watching so that we can give you a warning if you’re about to run into anyone. Otherwise, just pretend we're not here.”

The device clicks off a second later.

You and Bucky lock eyes for a split-second before he raises his hand and cups the side of your face. You’re momentarily taken by surprise, but quickly remind yourself that right now, he’s your husband. Right now, you can’t make it obvious that you’ve never experienced such an intimate gesture from him. Right now, you can’t let your micro-expressions give away just how brand new his touch feels.

“Just follow my lead, yeah?” He whispers. Before you can even nod in affirmation, he lowers his mouth to yours. It’s soft and short-lived, but you instinctively close your eyes and melt into it. It’s easy to forget that you’re surrounded by dozens of complete strangers, until he pulls away and breaks the kiss with a soft grin.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” He asks. His voice is still low, but loud enough to cause the couple standing a foot away from you to shoot their eyes in your direction.

That was his goal, you realize. If any guests happen to question the whereabouts of Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, at least one couple witnessed the two of you wander off to some less crowded part of the estate because you’re so in love and just can’t keep your hands to yourself.

“Please,” you giggle, mimicking the playful expression on his face.

He guides you through the throng of guests, keeping a hand on your lower back. You try to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other in an futile attempt to steer your thoughts away from the feeling of his lips on yours.

The two of you navigate the less populated areas of the house in silence, relying on both Bucky’s keen hearing and Sam’s visual on the cameras to anticipate any security guards who might question what you’re up to. You’re not concerned about running into Vance himself – when you’d last seen him just minutes ago, he was downing his third shot of some kind of whiskey that is undoubtedly older than you and costs more than your car.

“We’re on the second floor,” you whisper as you turn down a long corridor with at least a dozen doors on each side. “Which room is his office?”

“Sixth door down on your left,” Sam answers back right away. “No one has been in or out since we gained access to the cameras, but that doesn’t mean no one will. Stay alert and get out as quick as you can.”

To no surprise, the door is locked. You breathe a sigh of relief when you see it’s a simple lock on the knob, nothing fancy about it. Dumbass.

Bucky, being the more mechanically inclined of you two, pulls a simple lock-picking kit out of his pocket and kneels down so that he is eye-level with the lock while you keep watch. “He must not be too concerned about anyone getting inside,” Bucky mumbles as the lock clicks open. “Because a determined seven year old with a paperclip could.”

You both step into the room, the door softly clicking shut behind you. It’s the most mundane, stereotypical looking office that you’ve ever seen – not at all like the extravagant ballroom the party is being held in or the lavish kitchen you’d passed on your way upstairs. No décor whatsoever, mostly empty shelves with a book or two here and there, and one large, L-shaped desk in the far corner of the room. On top of it sits a desktop computer, which is where you come in.

“The room was easy to break into,” you agree, taking a seat in front of the computer. “I doubt we’ll be able to say the same about this.”

“You’ve got this,” Bucky assures you, taking a seat beside you on the edge of the desk. He reaches inside the jacket of his suit, pulling out the hard drive and handing it to you. “There’s no one better at this than you, but let me know if I can be of any help.”

Your cheeks heat at the his compliment. You advert his stare, focusing on the screen in front of you instead. “Just sit there and look pretty,” you snort.

As soon as the screen turns on, you know you have your work cut out for you. Of course it isn’t a simple numerical passcode like Vance’s wedding anniversary or his only child’s birthday. That would make your job way too easy. You can’t even tell how many firewalls you’re going to have to bypass just to get into the damn thing –

“Uh, guys,” Sam’s panicked voice suddenly breaks the silence. You immediately cease typing, looking up at Bucky. “Three guards are storming up the stairs to the second floor right now. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re headed your way.”

“What?!” You whisper-shriek. “I’m not even into the system yet—”

“I know,” Sam interrupts. “It must have sent out some kind of alert when you powered the computer on. Do whatever you’ve gotta do to get out of there without causing a scene. We'll figure out another way to get the intel.”

“They’re almost here,” Bucky sighs, grabbing the hard drive back from you and shoving it inside his suit once more. “We’ve gotta play this off. I need you to trust me and go with what I’m about to do.”

“Of course I trust—”

“Stand up,” he commands. The authority in his voice leaves no room for hesitation. You do as he says, knowing security guards will likely be walking through the door any second now.

He all but lifts you onto the edge of the desk, causing you to let out a small yelp in surprise. Your dress hikes up just enough for him to ease between your thighs. The newfound close proximity – in addition to the knowledge that you’re about to be caught – has your heart beating a mile a minute.

“Now I need you to act like you’re really fucking into me,” he whispers, grasping your face in his hand and making you look him in the eye. “Think you can do that?”

You nod, your throat suddenly bone dry. “I am. I mean, I am your wife—”

He cuts you off by bringing his lips to yours for the second time this evening. Whereas the kiss in the ballroom was short and sweet, this one is fast and fervent. He wastes no time slipping his tongue past your lips, exploring your mouth as you pull him closer to you. You shove his jacket off of his shoulders – some tiny part of your brain is thinking rationally enough to know you need to make the scene look believable. He catches onto what you’re doing and copies your action, tugging the straps that sit atop of your shoulders down your arms so that your breasts threaten to spill over the neckline of the dress. His fingertips trail back up your arms, until his hands come to rest on either side of your neck. He tips your head back, allowing him to deepen the kiss –

“What the fuck is going on in here?”

You knew it was coming, but the loud, thick Russian accent startles you nonetheless. You and Bucky break apart and you quickly tug your dress straps back into place. Bucky feigns a few oh shit, shit, oh shits under his breath, while you immediately jump into a stream of apologies.

“This room is off limits to all guests,” a second guard booms, taking a step closer to the desk. “You shouldn’t even be on this floor. What are you trying to do with that computer?”

“Computer?” you ask innocently, glancing behind you as if it’s your first time seeing said computer. “Oh, I’m sorry. I must have accidentally turned it on when we were—”

“We were just looking for somewhere more private, that’s all,” Bucky interjects with an embarrassed laugh. “Just couldn’t wait to get my wife home. Can you blame me?” He gestures towards you.

The three guards exchange awkward, uncertain glances. They appear to be torn between believing your ruse as horny newlyweds, and throwing you off the second story balcony.

“We’re very sorry,” you apologize once more, racking your brain for a way out of this. “Henry here has been out of town for the last few weeks, and this is our first day back together. I’ve just been so, so lonely and really need—”

“Okay, okay,” the third guard speaks up for the first time. Visible discomfort is written across all three of their faces. “Just… get back downstairs. Don’t let us see you wandering this way again, or we won’t be as forgiving.”

“Of course,” Bucky nods, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you with him as he begins to exit the room. You adjust your dress that is still bunched uncomfortably high around your thighs, not looking back at the guards again as you thank them and apologize several more times.

“I thought you said you were a bad liar,” Bucky says with a breathy laugh after you’re far enough away from the guards.

“I said lying isn’t really my thing. I never said I was bad at it.”

You don’t exhale the sigh of relief you’d been holding in until your feet hit the stairs leading back down to the main floor.

“I think I need to flush my ears out after having to listen to the sound of you guys make out,” Sam’s voice rings in your ear. You grimace at the realization that he and God knows who else had been listening to the entire ordeal. Had you moaned? Whimpered? You had been so caught up in making it believable that you weren’t even sure.

And goddamn, it had been easy to get caught up in. It couldn’t have lasted longer than fifteen seconds start to finish, but the feeling of his lips moving in tandem with yours made it easy to forget that you were kissing for show. None of this is real, but for a few seconds, you could have convinced yourself otherwise.

“No one forced you to listen, pervert,” Bucky grumbles before reaching up to his ear to click the device off. You hear Sam begin protesting before you decide to follow suit.

“Well, that was a fucking bust,” you grumble under your breath. “This was pointless.”

Back on the main floor of the estate, the party looks exactly the same. Vance is still entertaining a group of his guests, and other couples still mingle amongst themselves. No one bats an eye at you and Bucky as you reenter the room.

“Let’s just be glad those security guards are bad at their jobs and believed us,” Bucky sighs. “We should probably go ahead and get out of here.”

An unmistakable wave of disappointment washes over you. You know that you should feel relieved. From the moment you’d been assigned this mission you could hardly wait to be back at the compound, in your pajamas, eating whatever you decide to treat yourself to from DoorDash in the comfort of your bed. But now that it’s actually time for your time as a couple to come to an end, you can’t help but wish that you could extend your time here just a little longer.

It's silly. Borderline stupid. But who knows if you’ll ever have the chance to kiss him again after you leave this building?

“Maybe we should wait a little while,” you say hesitantly. Bucky raises his brow, as surprised by your words as you are yourself. “If we leave now, it'll look suspicious. If we were really just innocently fooling around, we'd have no reason to get out of here so quickly. We don't wanna raise any more red flags.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, though there’s an edge of uncertainty in his voice. “That’s a fair point. We'll hang around long enough to have another drink. But then I want to get you away from these people.”

You agree, knowing that the sooner you get out of here, the better. But you made a fair point, you think – you hadn’t just been innocently fooling around, but if you had been, would you leave right away after getting caught? The guards hadn’t asked you to leave the premise. They had essentially given you a stern talking to with the order to get back downstairs and behave.

At least, that’s how you rationalize the decision to stay a little bit longer in your mind.

Since you’d already had a martini upon first arriving earlier, you decide that a second drink while you are technically still on the job wouldn’t be the wisest decision. So, Bucky goes to the bar to get you both Shirley Temples while you text the team’s group chat, letting them know that you and Bucky would be staying a little longer for the sake of keeping up appearances and that you’d let them know as soon as you’re on the way back to the compound.

After sending the message, you put your phone back in your clutch. You look up, searching for Bucky at the bar across the room. Beside him stands a woman with long blonde hair wearing a short, cherry red cocktail dress. Their backs are turned to you, so you can’t see their expressions or attempt to read their lips, but you can tell that she’s speaking to him. You’ve always prided yourself on being able to read people's body language – and right now, with the way that Bucky is awkwardly angled away from her while he taps his fingers against the bar top, you find it obvious that he’s uncomfortable.

At first, you can’t help but hold back a giggle. You’re sure she’s the wife of some business mogul who hasn’t paid an ounce of attention to her tonight because he’s more concerned with making connections and stroking his own ego – she’s likely just tipsy and bored. You can’t fault her for jumping at the opportunity to make conversation with someone as attractive as Bucky.

But then she places her hand on top of his with her long, French manicured nails and all of your logical thinking goes out the window. Your feet seem to move of their own accord, transporting you from your spot in the quiet corner of the room and across the crowded floor of the party towards the bar. You don’t even know what you’re going to say – hey, can you please not put your hands on my fake husband because it makes me irrationally fucking angry? Thanks. I like your shoes, by the way. Where’d you get them?

There’s an instantaneous expression of relief overcome Bucky’s face as he glances out of the corner of his eye and sees you storming towards him. You step into the small amount of space between where Bucky sits and she stands beside him, forcing her to back away a few inches in surprise.

“Ah, there she is,” Bucky smiles at you.

“Everything okay here?” You ask in a sickly sweet voice as you shoot her a venomous smile.

“Oh, yeah,” she answers quickly. Her face flushes beet red. “I was just—”

“Hitting on my husband? Funny how your hand was on his but you somehow didn’t notice the wedding band on his finger.”

She’s stares at you, eyes wide and mouth agape when the bartender walks up with her drink. You turn to Bucky, not wanting to cause any kind of scene. “I’d like to go home now, honey,” you say with a squeeze to his bicep.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he hums, an amused smile on his lips. He stands up from the barstool, forgetting all about the Shirley Temples that he was still waiting on.

“Have the night you deserve!” you call back to the woman as you practically drag Bucky away from the bar.

Once you’ve made it out of the busy party room and enter a practically dead corridor, you loosen your hold on his arm but don’t slow down. You know you’re allowing your emotions to get the best of you, and you don’t like it one bit. You’ve never considered yourself to be the jealous type, but now you’re suddenly fuming over a stranger simply touching the hand of your pretend husband? A man who you’ve never so much as kissed before tonight?

Screw hanging around for a while to not raise suspicions. You need to get the fuck out of here before you make yourself look even more foolish.

“Slow down,” Bucky laughs as he pulls you to a stop. He glances around to make sure there’s no one behind you before his gaze settles on you. It’s another one of those looks that makes you wonder if he can actually read your mind. For a brief moment, his eyes flicker down to your lips. “What happened to wanting to stick around long enough to play it off?”

“I changed my mind,” you shrug, feeling small under his intense stare. “Is that cool with you?”

“Changed your mind?” He asks in a tone that makes it obvious that he doesn’t believe you.

“Yep,” you retort, making sure to pop the p at the end. “I just wanna go get some food and go the fuck ho—”

You’re cut off by him suddenly backing you against the wall directly behind you, effectively pinning you between him and the wall. He rests a fist against the wall beside your head, his face just inches from yours as he peers down at you.

“Wanna know what I think?”

No, you don’t think you do.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. The smirk on his face tells you that he finds your lack of response amusing.

“I think,” he starts, bringing his other hand to your face. He cups your jawline in his palm, placing the pad of his thumb on the swell of your bottom lip. You have to consciously remind yourself to breathe. “That you got a little jealous when you saw blondie coming onto me.”

“And?” you whisper. “What if I did?”

If he’s surprised by your answer, he doesn’t let it show. You could cut the tension that hangs in the air with a knife.

"So that's all it takes, then? I kiss you one time and you get all possessive over me?"

He hardly gives you time to respond before he pulls you away from the wall, wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins to quickly maneuver the both of you further down the hallway.

“Bucky? Where are we go—?”

He comes to a stop in front of a door. He gives it one brief knock before barging in, pulling you inside with him. It's a bathroom – a really fucking fancy bathroom, but still, a bathroom. You’re acutely aware of the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by a lock turning.

“How'd you even know what this room was?” You scoff, leaning against the sink countertop.

“Lucky guess,” he breathes, closing in on you. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

So that’s all it takes, then? I kiss you one time and you get all possessive over me?

He looks down at you expectantly.

“You didn’t kiss me once,” you shrug. You reach for his tie, gently tugging on it so that he’s face level with you. “You kissed me twice. And unless you’re planning to go for number three, I’d really like to get the hell out of here.”

You might regret it when this mission is really and truly over. When you’re driving home in loaded silence or you’re back at the compound, trying to fall asleep while replaying tonight’s events over and over again in your head. When you wake up in the morning and wonder if you dreamed it all or when you have to sit across from him at breakfast and act like nothing happened.

He inches his face closer to yours, until the tip of his nose brushes against yours. You have to close your eyes to keep the room from spinning around you.

“And if I do that…” he murmurs, his breath fanning across your face. “Should I do it as Henry Monroe? Or as Bucky?”

You give his tie another sharp tug, bringing his mouth the rest of the way to yours for the third time that night.

You take your time, knowing that this kiss isn’t for show. It’s less rushed, less panicked. Your hands find the short tufts of his hair and his find your waist, both of you pulling the other as close as possible. Without any interruptions this time, you take your time, not pulling away until you’re both dizzy from lack of air.

“As Bucky. My Bucky.”

thanks so much for reading!! comments and reblogs are super appreciated 💖💖

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“Fun?” 

Monica snorted from beside you. 

“Babe, this is war. Do you even know who that is?”

You glanced over at the very grumpy man two stations down. His broad shoulders strained against a black apron that read Tough Guy, and his arms were crossed like he’d rather be anywhere but here. His biceps popped as he folded them tighter. 

Damn. 

And then his sharp blue eyes flicked to yours. You definitely got caught staring. Bucky’s scowl deepened and you suppressed the urge to stick out your tongue.

“Should I?” you asked Monica, arching a brow.

She leaned in conspiratorially. 

“That’s Bucky Barnes. Co-owner of Howling Commandos Baked Goods. And you know they’ve been stealing our customers with their ‘no-frills, real-deal, rustic baking’ nonsense.”

You rolled your eyes. 

“Oh no. Not rustic baking,” you mocked.

“I’m serious!” 

Monica flapped a hand. 

“Foodie blogs won’t shut up about them. And he and his partner, Sam Wilson, act like they’re too cool for anything frilly.” 

She air-quoted dramatically. 

“AKA us.”

You shrugged. 

“Guess we’ll have to prove them wrong.”

But as you turned back to your ingredients, you felt it, that distinct sensation of being watched. And when you glanced up again, Bucky was still looking. 

Not just looking, but assessing. 

Outright staring.

Then, at the last second, his mouth quirked in the faintest smirk. A silent challenge.

Your stomach flipped. 

Yes. This was going to be interesting.

—

Bucky was already regretting this.

The second Sam convinced him to sign up for this competition, he knew it was a mistake.

"Dude, it’s good exposure. Plus, imagine the free marketing when we crush everyone else."

Bucky had reluctantly agreed. But now, standing in this tent, surrounded by pastel-colored mixing bowls and way too much cheerfulness, he was rethinking everything.

Especially when he saw you.

You.

You, with your too-bright smile and sugar-dusted cheeks.

You, adjusting your apron, hands moving with the ease of someone who loved this. 

You, already chatting with the other contestants, laughing like this was a Saturday morning bake sale instead of a competition.

And the worst part?

You were good.

He hadn’t tasted a single thing you’d made yet, but he could tell.

By the way that you measured your ingredients with confidence.

By the way you scanned your recipe, fully in control. 

By the way you smiled like baking was fun.

Sam elbowed him.

“Dude. You’re staring.”

Bucky grunted. 

“Sizing up the competition.”

“Yeah? Or are you just into her?”

Bucky fixed Sam with a glare.

“She’s the enemy.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” Sam snorted.

Bucky clenched his jaw and turned back to his station.

This was just a competition.

Nothing more.

—

You never expected this when you signed up for The Best in Brooklyn Bake-Off.

Stress? Absolutely.

Flour in your hair? Without a doubt.

A full-blown panic attack over an underbaked sponge cake? Practically guaranteed.

But Bucky Barnes?

Never in a million years.

And yet, there he was, the grumpiest, scowliest contestant in the history of televised baking.

"Are you serious?" he muttered, watching as you carefully piped pink buttercream onto your cupcakes.

You glanced up, blinking adorably up at him.

"What?"

He jerked a thumb at your apron, enjoying the view as he eyed the logo printed across your breasts. 

"Baby Cakes."

You flashed a proud grin. 

"That’s our bakery."

His scowl deepened. He already knew that. He was there for your introduction.

Of course, you would own a place called Baby Cakes, a bright, pastel-colored bakery specializing in mini cupcakes and love-themed treats. It was the exact opposite of his and Sam’s Howling Commandos Baked Goods, where everything was dark wood, bold flavors, and exactly zero sprinkles.

"Figures," he muttered.

Bucky told himself he didn’t like the way you smile. That the sound of your laugh wasn’t cute as hell. 

And that was a problem because every time you smiled at him, it got that much harder to pretend he didn’t love it. And every time you laughed, it became difficult as hell to not laugh with you.

And the way you looked. He took the opportunity to appreciate your generous curves, and the way your thick curls hid your cute as a candy button face as you were concentrating on what you were doing.

The thought popped into his head that wanted to taste you.

Where did that come from?

He cleared his throat as you finished piping, straightened up, and extended your hand. Bucky hesitated, then took it grudgingly. 

Your name rolled easily off your tongue, warm and inviting. He uttered his in return, then slowly extracted his hand, swiping the bit of frosting you left behind onto his finger.

And then, he licked it off.

You shouldn’t have found messy hands sexy. But watching Bucky Barnes taste your buttercream, his tongue swiping slowly over his fingertip? 

Yeah. That definitely did something to you.

You let out a small hum before you stopped yourself.

Or was that a moan?

His blue eyes flicked up, knowing, teasing, and challenging you.

"Way too much sugar," he muttered, backing away as he took note of your dilated eyes.

He thought about your reaction to him and almost tripped over Sam while trying to look cool. You bit your lip to hold back your laughter as he stormed back to his station, looking like an actual thundercloud.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, shaking his head. 

"Man, you’re screwed."

And for the first time in his life, Bucky wondered if maybe Sam was right.

—----

Day after day, you and Bucky clashed.

He rolled his eyes at your sprinkles. You teased him about his obsession with “serious” baking. 

But somewhere between the macaron challenge and the lightning round, something shifted.

One night, after a particularly brutal bread challenge, you found yourselves alone in the kitchen. The others had gone, but you were still cleaning up when Bucky leaned against the counter, watching you.

“You surprised me today,” he said gruffly.

You glanced over at him, raising a brow. 

“Because I made a decent brioche?”

He smirked, just a little. 

“Because you didn’t let the stress get to you.”

You scoffed. 

“I did cry a little behind the fridge.”

That almost-smirk softened into something dangerously close to a smile. And you almost swooned at how handsome he was.

“You care about this. That’s… kinda cool.”

Your heart did a funny little flip.

Bucky should have walked away. Should’ve ignored the way you looked at him like he wasn’t the grumpiest asshole in the tent. 

But he didn’t. Instead, he reached out, swiping a bit of frosting from your wrist.

“Lemon?” he guessed.

“Vanilla bean with a hint of lime,” you corrected.

He licked it off his finger, his blue eyes never leaving yours. You grew warm as you noted the twinkle in those true blue eyes. 

You began to wonder if he did it on purpose, if he knew how it affected you last time.

He nodded.

“Not bad, Baby Cakes.”

And just like that, you knew that maybe grumpy, scowly Bucky Barnes wasn’t such a tough guy after all.

——-

By the fifth day of the competition, tensions were high.

And not just the who’s-going-to-win-the-grand-prize kind of tension. 

No.

This was something else. Something hotter.

Which is why, when you snuck into the kitchen after hours to squeeze in some extra practice, you weren’t even surprised to find Bucky Barnes already there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his black apron slung over his shoulder like he owned the place.

“Seriously?” you sighed, setting down your mixing bowl.  “You couldn’t pick another time to lurk in the shadows like some kind of kitchen goblin?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile you’d gotten from him all week.

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed a whisk. 

“Well, I was here first.”

“No, you weren’t.”

You huffed. “I was in spirit.”

That did it. 

Bucky let out something suspiciously close to a laugh, a low, raspy sound that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. Shaking it off, you started working, pouring flour into a bowl and focusing on your batter. 

Or at least, you tried to.

But you could feel his eyes on you, staring at you intently. After a few minutes, you glanced up, exasperated. 

“What?”

“I didn’t peg you for the burning-the-midnight-oil-so-you-can-win-the-competition kind of intense.”

"I’m not usually," you admitted, nudging a stray bit of flour with your foot. 

"Just… nerves, I guess."

He pushed off the counter and strolled over to you.

"You’re gonna dominate this competition, Baby Cakes. You’re good.”

You blinked. Did Bucky Barnes, the king of scowls, just compliment you?

Your brow furrowed. 

“Is this some kind of mind game? Because if it is, I’m not falling for it, Tough Guy.”

He shrugged, and this time, he smiled. A real one. Just a flicker, but enough to make your pulse trip.

“No games. Just calling it like I see it.”

You were incredulous.

“You do know I’m your biggest competition, right?"

"Yeah.” His eyes searched your face.  “And I still meant it."

Something in your chest tightened. And it was bad. Really bad. Because for the first time since this competition started, you weren’t sure if you wanted to beat Bucky Barnes.

Or kiss him.

You mentally rattled off all the reasons why that was a terrible idea, but before you could get through them, his voice cut through your thoughts.

“I can hear your brain going, you know.”

You gasped, half-thinking he could actually read your mind.

“You’re an over thinker,” he said, quiet but certain, like he already knew you.

“And your worst habit is scowling at my cupcakes like you're judging them,” you teased, desperate to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

Bucky laughed again. 

“I am judging. Too much frosting.”

You were ready to fire back, but the moment your eyes locked, the words caught in your throat. The dim kitchen light softened him. Made him look less guarded, more real. His sharp blue gaze flicked over your face, lingering on your lips just a second too long.

The air between you shifted, heavier than before. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerators and your own heartbeat pounding way too fast.

You gaped at him. 

"Well, you!... I mean, do you, um…,"  

You cleared your throat and looked around at everything else in the tent except Bucky.

"You have a favorite moment from the bake off so far?"

Bucky studied you for a beat, then smirked. He was making you uncomfortable. How interesting. He wasn't alone in this infatuation.

"Yeah."

You waited, expecting him to say something about his caramel tarts or his perfect sourdough. Instead, he took a step closer.

"It was the first day," he murmured. 

"When you walked in with that ridiculous pink apron and told the judges your bakery was called Baby Cakes. I remember thinking…" 

He shook his head. 

"Damn. I’m in trouble."

Your breath hitched.

"Bucky…"

But before you could say anything, before you could do anything, he stepped back, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.

"Night, Baby Cakes," he said, his voice rough.

And just like that, he walked away, leaving you standing there, your heart racing, brain spinning, completely and utterly ruined for him.

—

After that night, everything between you and Bucky changed. You still bickered. Oh, did you bicker. But now every jab carried a tension that coiled tighter with every glance.

"Too much sugar, Baby Cakes," he mumbled during the pastry challenge, his voice low as his sharp eyes raked over your cherry almond tart with disdain.

"Too much salt, Tough Guy," you fired back, swiping a taste of his dark chocolate sea salt ganache before he could stop you.

He froze as you licked the spoon clean, your tongue sliding across the curve with deliberate precision. His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as if he was wrestling with something he couldn’t name.

Oh.

“That’s debatable,” he finally managed, though his voice came out rough, almost strained.

You smiled, thinking you might have a lot power.

And then came the announcement that made your stomach flip. The dreaded Team Challenge.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Bucky groaned when the producers called your names together.

"Oh, come on," you teased, bumping his arm with a grin you hoped looked more confident than you felt. "You’re gonna love working with me."

"Doubt it," he grumbled, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The challenge? A three-tiered wedding cake, elegant and sophisticated. 

A perfect harmony of flavors, the producers said. In reality, it felt like a recipe for disaster.

Your styles clashed like oil and water. You craved delicate piping and romantic floral details; Bucky wanted bold flavors and sharp, clean lines. 

Hearts versus hands. 

Sugar versus salt.

But somewhere between rolling fondant and whipping buttercream, something shifted. 

He steadied your hands when your piping wavered, his warm fingers brushing yours just a little longer than necessary. You softened his scowls with quick jokes, your laughter breaking through the walls he tried to keep firmly in place. 

You moved like you’d been baking together for years, finding a rhythm that felt natural.

When the final timer buzzed, you both stepped back, staring at your creation in awe.

Three tiers of vanilla bean sponge cake, layered with a tart blackberry compote and tangy lemon curd, wrapped in pristine white fondant. Gold dust kissed the edges, while delicate sugar roses cascaded down the sides like a fairytale.

It wasn’t just good. It was breathtaking.

For the first time, Bucky turned to you without his usual smirk or scowl.

“Nice work, Baby Cakes,” he murmured, his voice low.

“You too, Tough Guy,” you whispered, your heart racing at the way his eyes lingered on you.

The judges swooned, declaring it the best cake of the show. You and Bucky won the challenge.

Without thinking, Bucky picked you up, arms wrapped around your waist and spun you around. The broad smile on his face disappeared as you slid down his body back to the ground.

Both of you cleared your throats and went opposite ways out of the tent, as Monica and Sam shared a look.

Later that night, after the cameras stopped rolling, you found yourself outside by the catering table, sneaking an extra slice.

"Thought you’d be sick of it by now," Bucky said, leaning beside you, his presence close and warm in the cool night air.

"Never," you grinned, licking a dollop of frosting off your thumb before realizing how much attention he was paying to the movement.

“Although,” you added, suddenly self-conscious, “I should probably stop sampling the wares. My jeans are struggling.”

You looked away, cheeks warming, thinking about how you had to jump to put your jeans on, but when you glanced back, you caught him looking. Not just at you, but at your ass in your jeans.

“Looks like a productive struggle,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a husky timbre that made your pulse skip. “Don’t change a thing, Baby Cakes.”

Bucky licked his lips, his gaze trailing back to your mouth, and before you could process what was happening, his thumb brushed your lips, swiping away some frosting. 

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or frantic. It was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the moment, savoring the essence of you. Bucky tasted like buttercream and something more flavorful, something with more depth. Something like him. 

His lips moved against yours with knee-weakening confidence, one hand sliding to the small of your back, the other cradling your jaw. 

When you finally pulled away, breathless and dazed, you couldn’t stop yourself from murmuring, "Not bad."

He chuckled, his breath warm against your skin.

"Not bad at all."

The kiss felt like magic, like folding sugar into butter, like the perfect meringue gaining its peaks. But then reality came crashing back.

“Well, well, well!”

You and Bucky sprang apart, both turning to see Monica standing there, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

"Uh," you stammered, feeling your stomach drop.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at Monica.

"So, are you two, like, together-together?" Monica asked, her tone dripping with amusement. 

"Or was this just a ‘we made a wedding cake and got caught up in the moment’ thing?"

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Bucky beat you to it.

"We’re not together," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Ouch.

You fought to keep your expression neutral, but Monica’s raised brow told you she wasn’t buying it.

"Riiight," she drawled. "Well, if you were together, you’d make a killer duo. That cake? Best one I’ve had in a long time."

She sauntered off, leaving you standing there, cheeks burning and heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

"Listen, Baby Cakes," Bucky started, his voice tight, but you held up a hand.

"Nope," you said quickly, your tone sharp. "It’s fine. We’re here to bake, not… whatever that was."

His jaw clenched, but he nodded stiffly. 

"Right. Baking. That’s what we’re here for."

Later, at the bar celebrating with the crew, you avoided him entirely, but you felt his eyes on you all night.

“Bucky’s over there looking like someone stole his candy thermometer.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder and found him watching you moodily. You rolled your eyes and turned back to your drink.

“He’ll be aight.”

Monica shook her head.

“Ya’ll are two hard heads, but that’s one of my business.” 

When Monica left you alone, you thought about what happened earlier. How embarrassed you were when Bucky denied anything between you. And now here he was, moping around because you wouldn’t speak to him.

Too bad, you thought bitterly. Bucky blew his chance. You weren’t about to let yourself get hurt again.

But deep down, you couldn’t shake the question: Why did that kiss feel like the start of something?

At first, Bucky told himself he’d dodged a bullet. You were too bubbly, too happy, too... everything he wasn’t. It would never have worked.

But as he watched you laugh with everyone else, refusing to look his way, something felt wrong.

Wrong like a cake that collapsed in the oven.

Wrong like he’d measured something incorrectly and couldn’t figure out what.

He saw it in your eyes.

In the way your shoulders stiffened when he denied anything between you.

In the way you brushed flour off your apron aggressively.

Bucky fucked up.

And now, all he could think about was how to fix it, because for the first time in years, he was craving a little sugar to balance his spice.

—-

The next morning, before filming started, Bucky found you in the prep kitchen, alone. You were at the counter, rolling out dough with a little too much force, your shoulders tight, your jaw clenched.

"That dough do something to offend you, Baby Cakes?" he asked, leaning against the counter, hoping the teasing tone would draw out the usual playful spark in your eyes.

But you didn’t look up.

"Just getting out some aggression," you muttered, your hands moving with sharp, angry precision.

Bucky exhaled, frustration building. He wanted to fix this. He wanted to be better at saying the right thing, but years of being tough and closed-off made it hard for the words to come.

So he said nothing.

Instead, he did what he knew best.

He baked.

When he came back to himself, baking became his real therapy. A time and space for him to really work out all that he had seen and done.

A chance to create instead of destroy.

Silently, he worked at the station next to yours, kneading dough, measuring ingredients, and whisking with deliberate care. You pretended not to notice, but as the warm scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and caramel began to fill the air, it became impossible to ignore.

Finally, he slid a small plate toward you, a delicate pastry, golden brown and still warm.

"What’s this?" you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Sticky bun," he said, shifting on his feet. "Made it the way you like. Soft in the middle. Extra pecans."

How did he know that? Monica.

Your lips pressed together, but the flicker of interest in your eyes gave you away. He'd done his research on you. Breaking off a piece, you popped it into your mouth, and immediately sighed.

It was perfect. Gooey and rich, sweet but balanced.

"Okay," you admitted, trying to keep your tone neutral.

"This is dangerously good."

Bucky’s lips curved into a small, tentative smile as he watched you eat.

"I was an ass yesterday," he said softly, his voice low and rough.

"I didn’t mean to… Look, I panicked. I wasn’t trying to hurt you."

You put the sticky bun down and turned to face him fully, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze.

"Then what were you trying to do?"

His tongue swept over his bottom lip, his brows furrowing like he was weighing each word carefully.

"I guess I thought if I said it out loud, it’d be easier to ignore how much I want you," he confessed, his voice raw and unguarded.

"Didn’t work."

Your stomach flipped. You swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close he was standing, of the heat radiating from his body. Of how he seemed to be holding himself back at the moment.

"You want me," you said slowly, almost testing the words.

Bucky nodded, his gaze unwavering.

"Yeah. And I know I’ve gotta prove it now. Because I fucked up.”

His blue, blue eyes shone with sincerity. And something else.

“I fumbled a beautiful, talented, sexy woman like you."

You let the silence stretch, let him sweat a little. Then, with deliberate slowness, you broke off another piece of the sticky bun and pressed it to his lips.

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, he opened his mouth, taking the bite, and sucking the tips of your fingers into his mouth and licking between them as he did, eyes on you the entire time. The gentle pull of his lips sent a thrill down your spine. And the vulgar promise of his tongue had heat pooling low in your belly. 

Your nipples hardened, and a fresh wave of arousal swept through you, dampening your panties.

"G-good start," you murmured, your voice husky. "But it’s just a start."

A slow, wicked smirk tugged at his lips at your stutter.

"Then I guess I’ll just have to keep sweetening you up," he drawled, the heat in his gaze making it clear he wasn’t just talking about baking.

But you weren’t letting him off the hook that easily. For the rest of the day, you kept your distance, not too far, but far enough to make him feel it. Enough to make him yearn for you.

Bucky turned into an absolute softie, sneaking you little treats between takes, making sure you had the good whisk before grabbing his own, brushing a hand against your lower back, warm finger splayed wide, when he passed behind you, murmuring a low "behind" that sent shivers racing across your skin.

Monica noticed, of course.

"You’re making him work for it," she said approvingly as she piled buttercream onto a tray of cupcakes.

"I’m not–"

She shot you a knowing look. "Girl, please."

Fine. Maybe you were. Maybe you liked watching Bucky struggle his way through this. Maybe you liked seeing the grumpiest man in the competition try to charm you with sugar, spice, and smoldering glances that left your pulse skipping.

They announced you as winner of the competition and Bucky inclined his head at you, a real smile on his face.

And that night, he took it a step further.

------

When you came back late to the brownstone after staying out with the others, you found something waiting for you on the kitchen counter.

A cake.

Not just any cake, your favorite. Fucking Monica.

It was carrot cake, three perfectly even layers of moist, spiced goodness, slathered with smooth cream cheese frosting. Tiny sugar pearls lined the edges, and an intricate sugar carrot sat on top.

You blinked, your heart skipping a beat.

Bucky stood off to the side, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, biceps popping. He was still in his apron, his face serious, but his blue eyes searched yours, a flicker of uncertainty behind them.

"Took me all damn night," he said gruffly.

You stepped closer, still processing.

"You made this?"

His jaw ticked, like he was bracing for impact.

"Had some help from Sam," he admitted.

A loud snort came from the doorway.

"Some help? Try a lot," Sam called as he trudged up the stairs. 

"Give him a break, Baby Cakes, so he can stop behaving like a lovesick idiot every time you walk into, or out of a room. Or basically all the time."

Bucky ignored him, his attention fixed on you.

"Lovesick?" you asked softly, your voice barely audible.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down the back of his neck.

“Yeah. I uhhh…”

Bucky looked so cute in that moment, the most vulnerable you’d seen him.

"I need you to know that I see you," he said, his voice low and steady.

"I see how much heart you put into your baking. How much you care about this, about everything." 

He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

"And I see that I hurt you, and I hate that."

You stared at him, at the raw emotion in his eyes. Slowly, you picked up a fork and took a bite of the cake.

It was perfect. Moist, spiced just right, and the frosting was tangy and smooth.

"Damn you," you muttered, your voice thick.

"That bad?" he asked, a flicker of amusement breaking through his tension.

"No," you huffed. "It’s amazing."

His lips twitched. "Good."

Setting the fork down, you stepped closer until there was barely an inch between you. His breath hitched as your hand pressed against his chest, the heat of him seeping into your palm.

"You really want this?" you murmured. "Us?"

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

"Yes," he said firmly, his voice steady. "I do."

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. He leaned in, and this time, when his lips found yours, it wasn’t gentle. It was fire, slow at first, then smoldering.

But then Bucky groaned against your mouth, a sound that sent shockwaves through you, and the heat increased. He kissed you like he’d been starving for it, like you were the only thing that could satisfy him.

You pulled him closer by his shirt and his hands slid past your waist, gripping your ass like he was grounding himself, like he was making sure this was real.

You broke the kiss just long enough to gasp, “Bucky,” but he swallowed whatever you were about to say, and lifted you onto the counter in one fluid motion.

You barely had time to register the cold marble beneath you before his hands were everywhere, skimming up your thighs, gripping your hips, and tracing fire along your skin. You hooked your legs around him, dragging him closer, until you could feel his hard cock in his jeans, letting you know just how much he wanted this, how much he wanted you.

“Your room or mine?” he rasped, his voice thick with need.

“Oh God…” 

You struggled to think through the haze of arousal clouding your mind. Your room at the back of the house was tucked away from everyone else. 

“Mine.”

Bucky kissed you again, his lips curling into a smirk. 

“Smart cookie.”

You giggled softly as he lifted you off the counter, and the two of you tried, and failed, to make it to your room quietly. By some miracle, you managed to shut the door before his hands were back on you.

"I've not been with anyone in over a year. Still get tested every six months."

Bucky's voice was sexy; what he was saying was even more so.

“But tell me to stop if you don’t want to do this,” he rasped against your neck. 

You tilted your head back, offering more. 

“Don’t you dare.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest as his mouth crashed back onto yours, his tongue sweeping past your lips with a hunger that left you breathless. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, fingertips skimming your tight nipples and drawing shivers in their wake.

He pulled back just enough to lift the hem of your shirt, his blue eyes searching yours. 

“Can I?”

You nodded, but he shook his head, his jaw tight. 

“Need you to say it.”

You stepped back, peeling your shirt off yourself, a teasing grin on your lips. 

“How’s that for consent? I want you tonight, Bucky Barnes. Got tested last month and I have an IUD. You can fuck me raw if you want.”

His breath hitched, his eyes darkening with raw, unfiltered desire. 

“Jesus,” he murmured, his hands spreading over you like he was memorizing the feel of you. “You’re perfect.”

His blue eyes glowed as he wrapped one hand around your neck, his thumb resting on your pulse point, making your heart flutter. 

You lifted his shirt and ran your fingers over his stomach and abs, exploring his warm skin as the kiss intensified even more. 

You reached for his shirt, sliding it up to reveal taut muscle and smooth skin. Your hands explored him, tracing the lines of his stomach as the kiss deepened.

You were aching for him. 

When his mouth moved lower, tracing hot kisses down your neck and between your collarbones, a soft moan escaped you. He didn’t stop there, his lips finding your nipples through the lace of your bra. The wet heat of his tongue teased you mercilessly until he unhooked the clasp.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your pussy clenching as his lips closed around your bare nipple. He suckled urgently, his hand massaging the other, and the pleasure shot straight to your core.

When he knelt in front of you, tugging your jeans and panties down, you gasped as you looked down into his shining blue eyes.

You stepped out of them and almost immediately, and he used his thumbs to spread your pussy lips open. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to you there.

“Been waiting to taste you, Baby Cakes,” he said, his voice a low rasp.

“Oh, fuck,” you mewled as his tongue parted your folds, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit.

Bucky lifted one leg onto his shoulder and you arched against his mouth, gasping when he laved your clit and licked up the wetness collected in your slit.

“Mmmmm. Delicious,” Bucky’s eyes glinted up at you.

He groaned in satisfaction.

“Sweet, with just a hint of spice… just like I thought.”

You pushed Bucky’s head back to where it was meant be.

“Stop talking and eat me, Barnes.”

His chuckle vibrated against you, and then his tongue found your clit, sending a sharp spike of pleasure through your body. He licked and sucked, working you like it was his life’s purpose, and every flick of his tongue pushed you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, Bucky, I’m gonna…”

But he pulled back before you could finish, leaving you trembling and desperate. You barely had time to protest before he stood, kissed you hard, and moved you to the foot of the bed.

Clothes hit the floor in a blur, and when you finally looked down, his cock stood proudly between you. You sat down on the bed, and you were face to face with the most beautiful penis you’d ever seen.

It was long and thick and heavily veined with a large perfectly shaped head. Your mouth watered, and you looked up at him.

“Need to taste you now, Tough Guy.”

You leaned forward and licked him from base to head stopping to suck on it, relishing the tight flesh in your mouth, then slurped the pre-cum dripping from his slit. Then you pulled off, jacking him with the lubrication of your saliva.

“Tangy, yet surprisingly sweet. A piquant–”

Bucky cut you off by shoving his cock as far down your throat as he could. You moaned around him, adding to his pleasure. 

You looked up at him and his eyes were incandescent. You didn’t break eye contact as your throat constricted around his hardness, your mouth dripping with spit. Your eyes stung with tears, but you kept pushing until you were choking around the base of his big dick.

Bucky watched you with fascination, his hips involuntarily pushing shallowly into your mouth. 

“Christ. You’re gonna fucking ruin me,” he rasped. “So good. So perfect. But I knew you would be.”

You moaned at the praise, pulling off of him, long strings of fluid connecting your mouth to his delicious cock.

“Who knew that Baby Cakes was such a Dirty Girl,” he purred, eyes ablaze.  “Need to fuck you now, sweetheart.” 

You whimpered and leaned back as Bucky leaned over you and slid into you in one slow, deliberate thrust. You swore the world stopped spinning.

“Fuck, Baby…” 

His forehead dropped to yours, his voice trembling as he filled you slowly, completely. Your body arched, your nails digging into his shoulders as you reacted to the stretch.

“Bucky…”

“Look at me,” he murmured, his gaze locking with yours.

“Wanna see you.”

And then he moved, each thrust hitting you perfectly, dragging moans from your lips. After finding the technique to make you crumble around him, his control slipped, his movements grew frantic, desperate, and it was heaven.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your body tightening around him. “Always.”

Your climax hit like a tidal wave, pulling you under. Bucky followed with a ragged groan, burying himself deep as he spilled into you.

When the world settled, he pressed a lazy kiss to your jaw, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

“Told you I’d win… you over.”

You huffed a breathless laugh, running your fingers through his damp curls.

“Asshole.”

His grin widened.

“Is that what you want me to taste next?”

His eyes flicked down your body.

“Seems to be lots of buttercream down there…”

“Bucky!” you yelped as he reached for you again.

—-

“Oh my god, Buck, look at this one,” you gush, for about the fifth time since stepping into the animal rescue shelter, voice pitched high with the delight you can’t contain.

Bucky, who’s been trailing beside you with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, watches with a smirk on his lips. “Y’know we’re only takin’ one, right?” His voice is that deep rumble, smooth but laced with enough teasing for you to shoot a look up at him over your shoulder from where you are crouched down to greet the next feline in the row.

The small tabby you’re pointing at lets out an exaggerated yawn before rolling onto its back, fluffy belly exposed like an invitation, making you forget all about Bucky’s remark by the cuteness of it all.

You press your fingers against the cage, wiggling them slightly, and the cat swipes playfully, its little paws batting at you.

“Don’t go gettin’ attached to every damn cat in here, doll. We ain’t got the space for a zoo,” Bucky speaks up again, an amused smirk still in his voice.

You huff, dramatically rolling your eyes as you reach into another cage, letting a fluffy gray cat sniff your fingers before it headbutts them affectionately. “I am not getting attached to all of them.”

Bucky snorts, but you ignore him, continuing to throw those sweet cats little heart eyes.

The shelter smells faintly of clean hay, warm fur, and just a hint of that industrial-strength cleaner they probably use to keep everything sanitized.

The air is filled with meows, distant yips, and you hear some dogs bark from the kennels further down.

But right now, all you care about is the row of metal enclosures filled with cats of every shape and size. Some are stretching their little paws through the bars, whiskers twitching as they observe you with differing levels of curiosity. Others lounge lazily on their beds, tails flicking idly.

Bucky steps closer, peering into a cage somewhere above you where a sleek black cat watches the two of you with eery intelligent green eyes. “This one’s got a whole attitude,” he mutters squinting as the cat swishes its tail, unimpressed.

You hum, looking up at it as well. “Seems to be a little broody. That means you’d definitely get along.”

Bucky throws you a look and you grin back at him before a tiny calico presses its body against the door of his cage, eager for attention.

You scratch behind the ears of the sweet fluffy baby who immediately starts purring like a motor. Bucky watches you for a moment, with something softened in his eyes as if he’s already resigned himself to the fact that whatever cat you fall in love with is the one you’re taking home.

And honestly, you think he’s just as excited as you are.

You have been living with him for nearly two years now and you talked about getting a cat for quite some time.

You work well together, found a great dynamic in sharing an apartment.

You go grocery shopping together a lot. You watch movies together, you cook together. It’s never a discussion, never an argument, except for when either of you is trying to get a rise out of the other.

It started as a practical decision. You were already friends before that and it was easier for you both to just go looking for an apartment to split rent, save money, without having someone who would leave passive-aggressive notes about unwashed dishes.

It was meant to be temporary, but things just clicked and worked out and you never talked about moving out. No awkward transition period, no frustrating quirks that made you want to strangle each other. It was easy. It still is.

You cook, he cleans. Or the other way around, depending on the day.

If you make a mess in the kitchen trying some new recipe, he’s there ten minutes later, exaggerating frustration by rolling his eyes but then gobbling down your food in a matter of minutes.

You do laundry together sometimes and you had to rescue a few of his shirts already since he doesn’t always bother with separating colors properly. Or perhaps that’s just his excuse to do it with you.

And when you catch him watching reruns of Friends - even though he swore he hated that show - you plop down next to him on the couch, steal a bite of whatever snack he’s got, and make fun of him.

Bucky used to be all grumbles in the morning before you moved in together, but now he grins at you with a sleepy smile when you come into the kitchen, two cups of coffee already done - one black for him, one with just a bit of cream for you. You even got him to start drinking tea.

So when you both decided to get a cat, it seemed to be another thing that just made sense. An agreement that you would take care of it together.

The apartment is already cat-proofed, the corner near the window cleared for a cat tree, food bowls sat up neatly in the kitchen. A small box of toys sits by the couch, next to a ridiculously soft bed that you both know the cat will ignore in favor of napping wherever it pleases.

You both know you should probably talk about the logistics. Who takes the cat if one of you moves out? But you don’t. Because neither of you plans to go anywhere.

When the cat starts to lose interest in you and moves further back into its cage, you turn back to Bucky.

He has his arms crossed, stance solid, with an expression of determination on his face. And directly in front of him is that black cat, staring back with an equal amount of intensity. Its emerald-green eyes are locked onto Bucky’s baby blues with an impressively unfaltering focus. A long tail flicks behind it as if it has all the time in the world to assert its dominance.

It takes you a second to process what exactly is happening here. But then Bucky is narrowing his eyes, leaning closer in.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, amusement bubbling up so quickly it nearly makes you laugh outright. “Are you having a staring contest with a cat?”

Bucky doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink. His jaw tenses just slightly, but otherwise, he stays frozen in place, eyes locked onto his opponent.

“This little guy thinks he’s got the upper hand,” Bucky mutters, tone flat, but the muscles in his cheek and jawline tick.

You step closer, tilting your head, hands on your hips. “Are you serious?”

“I ain’t about to let a cat punk me, alright?”

The cat narrows its eyes as well. Just slightly. Like it understands exactly what Bucky is saying and is challenging him even harder.

You bite your lip, trying and failing to contain your laughter. “You do realize this is literally what they do, right?” You gesture at the cat, who remains unmoved, tail swishing from one side to the other. Even that looks dangerously deliberate. “This is, like, their thing. Hate to break it to you, Buck, but you don’t stand a chance here.”

Bucky huffs. “Watch me.”

A full, delighted laugh spills out of you as you lean against the enclosure, shaking your head at your best friend.

And the second your laughter bursts out, Bucky’s head snaps toward you. As though he couldn’t help himself. As though it is just pure instinct.

His stare-off with the cat, which has been going strong for nearly a minute, is instantly abandoned. And his eyes are softer again when they fall on you, something fond hidden beneath the humor.

“Well, now you lost, Buck,” you exclaim, still giggling.

Bucky’s brows immediately knit together, looking back over to the black cat, who looks thoroughly unbothered. It’s already stretching itself into a position of absolute superiority, head resting on its paws like it never once doubted its victory.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters under his breath, only now realizing his mistake. Then, he straightens back, rolling his shoulders, as if shaking off the loss. He gestures vaguely at the enclosure and shakes his head almost petulantly. “Yeah, nah. We sure as hell are not gonna take this one. Too much attitude. He’s gonna hold this over me forever.”

You snort, crossing your arms over your chest, peering into the cage at the cat who just effortlessly bested your six-foot-something, broad-shouldered, best friend in a silent battle of wills. “Oh, now you don’t want him?”

Bucky huffs, jabbing a thumb at the feline. “Look at him! He’s judging me. I can feel it.”

The cat blinks at him slowly, almost intentionally, before closing his eyes entirely like it has officially decided Bucky’s not worth any more of its energy.

You laugh again and Bucky groans.

You’re having the time of your life.

“Aww, Buck, don’t be like that,” you coo, nudging him playfully as you both start to walk away from the cage. “You guys had a moment. I think deep down he liked you.”

Bucky scoffs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah? That why he looked at me like he was calculating how long he’d need to take me out in my sleep?”

You grin smugly. “Or maybe he just saw himself in you.”

Bucky gives you the flattest look and stops in his tracks. “You serious?”

You shrug. “I’m just saying, two grumpy boys with trust issues? Sounds like fate to me.”

Sighing profoundly, Bucky runs a hand down his face, tilting it backward a little. But you catch the slight tug at the corner of his mouth. You know he is actually enjoying your little banter. He always does.

And just as you are about to push a little further, Bucky glances back at the enclosure and exhales a sharp breath, shaking his head with a kind of amused disbelief.

“Oh, well, would you look at that,” he drones out, walking back a few steps to tap a sign with two fingers. A sign that says this very cat is already been adopted and is to be picked up shortly. “Guess someone else already called dibs.”

You lean in to read it yourself, eyebrows raising slightly. “Huh. Guess so.” Then, with a slow and knowing grin, you turn back to him. “Aw, Buck. You disappointed?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “What? No. Not even a little.”

You purse your lips, nodding like you definitely believe him. “Mhm.”

“I’m not disappointed, doll,” he emphasizes, but despite his words, his gaze moves back to the black cat for a brief second. “Little guy was too full of himself, anyway.”

You don’t argue. Just bite back another laugh and link your arm through his as you keep walking.

The two of you move further into the shelter, eventually arriving at what might be the most magical place on earth.

A kitten playroom.

The volunteer leading you here smiles knowingly as she opens the door. “You guys are welcome to go in and sit with them,” she says. “See if any of them take a liking to you.”

Bucky leans in slightly toward you, murmuring in your ear, his breath on your skin. “See if they like us?”

“Shh,” you whisper, barely containing your excitement. “This is how it works.”

He huffs but doesn’t say more, only watches as the woman steps aside to gesture for you both to go in.

The second you do, it’s like stepping into another world - a tiny, chaotic world made up of soft meows, little squeaky chirps, and the soft thump-thump of tiny paws hitting the floor as kittens dart around like hyper little gremlins.

The space itself is cozy, set up like a playroom with various cat trees, beds, and soft blankets scattered across the floor. Toys are everywhere - feathery wands, crinkly balls, and those little springy things that cats lose under furniture within minutes. There’s even a small bridge leading to a cubby system mounted on the walls, where a few sleepy kittens are already curled up, watching the room like tiny overlords.

You are in heaven.

Practically squealing and bouncing on the balls of your feet you drop to your knees without hesitation as a little orange kitten stumbles toward you. “Look at them.”

Bucky lingers near the entrance, eying the herd of kittens with cautious skepticism. “Jesus. It’s like a damn army of ‘em.”

You reach out and gently scoop up the orange one, who immediately starts purring, so little paws kneading at your sweater. Your heart melts on the spot.

You don’t see the way Bucky is staring. Not at the kittens. Not at any of them. At you. At the way you light up, completely glowing, giggling softly as a brown-white little ball of fluff bats at your fingers. At the way you coo at them all, speaking in that soft voice people only use when they are utterly smitten.

He is in heaven too. Just for a slightly different reason.

“Oh, we are absolutely taking one home,” you declare, beaming as another one - a fluffy gray sweetheart - climbs onto your lap and starts attacking the drawstrings of your hoodie. “Maybe two.”

Bucky clears his throat, exhales, and steps closer, careful of the small balls hopping around between his feet. “We’re not gettin’ two,” he states, but then crouches down beside you, just as a small, round tabby kitten ambles over to investigate his boots.

You watch, biting back a grin as the little thing lifts one paw and bonks it against the toe of Bucky’s boot. Just a soft little tap, like it’s testing to see if he’ll react.

Bucky tilts his head. “What’s this guy doin’?”

You rest your chin lightly on top of the orange kitten’s head, amused. “I think he’s trying to fight you.”

Bucky continues watching the not-even-remotely intimidating little cat lift its paws and bonk him again.

“Yeah?” Bucky muses, raising a brow. “That so?”

Bonk.

Bucky shifts slightly, considering this challenge, then reaches down with his index finger extended. The small tabby immediately latches onto it with both paws, kicking at him with its little back feet.

You see the grin slowly forming on Bucky’s face.

The kitten lets out the tiniest, most ridiculous little mrrp, still clinging to Bucky’s finger like it’s the most important battle of his short life.

Bucky sighs. “Jesus Christ.”

You nudge him fondly. “Come on, you love him.”

Bucky chuckles softly and pries his finger gently from the round tabby’s grasp.

“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You makin’ any decisions here, or we just movin’ in?”

You beam up at him, cradling the sleepy grey kitten in your hands. “This isn’t just my decision, you know.”

“I know, doll,” Bucky replies easily. “But I’m sure whoever chooses you is the right one for us.”

Heat wanders up and down your back and you avert your attention back to the little fluff balls in your arms.

You are giggling at a white kitten pawing at your sleeves when you feel something tugging at your hair.

But before the sharp claws of the cat that ambushed you from behind can loosen any strands of your hair, Bucky’s hands are there to save them.

“Alright, alright, relax there, tough guy,” Bucky says, voice low and amused.

You go still when Bucky’s fingers brush the nape of your neck, untangling a mischievous ball of orange-white fluff from your hair. He makes quick work of it, grumbling under his breath as he carefully pries the kitten’s tiny claws from where they’ve latched on.

His touch is light, but enough to send a sharp little shiver down your spine.

You can smell the familiar scent of clean laundry and cedar and something that is just undeniably Bucky and you are not sure why your senses are so adamant about picking it up instead of the smell of the room and the little cats.

Your breath stays lingering in your throat a second too long before finally coming up. Long enough that when he finally leans back, you are suddenly well aware of just how intently you’d been focusing on the sensation of his fingers brushing through your hair, his voice close to your ear.

You swallow, blinking as he gently sets the kitten down in front of you, its tiny tail waggling like it’s still considering another attack.

Bucky just scoffs, shaking his head. “Gotta watch your back in here, doll. They got no mercy.”

You exhale a breathy little laugh, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding like you just ran a mile.

The feline blinks up at you and you narrow your eyes.

“You did that on purpose,” you chastise it lightly.

It chirps in response, tail flicking.

Bucky chuckles warmly and you fight the urge to look at him, to turn and watch him like you always do.

Until you acknowledge a tiny, fluffy white kitten with bright blue eyes hop down from a nearby cat tree, landing in a little pounce before trotting straight over to you.

Your eyes go wide at the confident stride of the little one, lips parting just slightly in surprise as the kitten reaches you, then immediately climbs you and settles right in your lap as if finding a new home.

Bright blue eyes stare up at you for a second, then she lets out a little meow, head tilting slightly.

You freeze, feeling Bucky’s eyes on you.

And then, without hesitation, the kitten curls itself into the perfect little ball right in the center of your lap.

Your breath catches.

Bucky watches the shift in your expression, the way your body goes soft, the way your hands hover, hesitant, before finally pressing gently into the little thing’s fur. The way your entire face seems to melt, something delicate and awed settling into your features.

“Well. Guess that’s that, huh?” Bucky says softly, a fond smile on his face.

The kitten lets out a tiny meow and rubs her cheek against your palm, then promptly starts purring loudly.

Your heart is a puddle.

Looking up at Bucky, your eyes are bright, but careful. “Like I said, Buck. This isn’t just my decision.”

You don’t want to rush this.

This moment, this decision - it matters.

Because despite all the playful teasing and the cooing over the tiny kittens crawling over your legs, this isn’t just some random choice. It’s not like picking out cereal at the grocery store or deciding which movie to watch on a Friday night.

Bucky looks at you, seeing the way you already seem to have made up your mind, but needing him to want it too.

This isn’t just your home. It’s his too. It’s both of yours.

This choice - this little life curled up in your lap, soft and warm and trusting - has to be made together.

Bucky exhales, long and slow, seeming even a little nervous, before reaching out.

It’s careful at first, cautious, like he doesn’t want to startle her. But as soon as his fingers brush over the soft fur at the top of her tiny head, she leans into him, unafraid.

His fingers graze yours as you continue to scratch her belly.

And you feel it everywhere.

It’s a sharp heat that sizzles up your arm, fizzles through your chest, and crackles along your spine.

You will yourself not to react.

But the warmth of his hand is right there, just the shiest touch against yours, and it takes everything in you to stay perfectly still, to pretend like you don’t feel your pulse quicken, and don’t suddenly forget how to breathe normally.

Bucky’s hand stays, fingers brushing yours in a way so soft, so casual, that it feels anything but.

You almost pull back, but you don’t. Because he doesn’t either.

You force yourself to focus on the kitten instead.

She tilts her little head, her hot, pink tongue darting out and then she licks at the tip of Bucky’s finger, the tiniest little sandpaper kiss.

You laugh softly, and Bucky does too. So low and bright and genuine. It shines in his eyes when he looks at you.

“She likes you.” You don’t know why you are whispering, but this feels almost intimate.

Bucky scoffs, shaking his head, but his mouth is pulling into a wide grin. The softness of his smile lingers in the lines around his eyes.

“Yeah, well, she likes you too. So she’s gotta have taste.”

It’s so simple, the way he says it. And you are glad that his eyes are on the kitten in your lap because he surely would have seen what it did to you.

You two keep stroking her white fur while she relishes in the feeling, hands continuing to graze since her body is still so small. Something electric hovers in the air between you, something neither of you has ever really acknowledged but you - for your part - have always felt.

“Seems like we’ve been chosen,” Bucky states, voice quiet, thoughtful.

You giggle softly, feeling his eyes move up to your face, hand stilling momentarily against the fur. The purring continues and you feel the weight of the little baby press further into your lap, into your warmth as if she already feels at home.

You grin at him before moving your attention back to her. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Seems like we have.”

For a moment, there really seems to be nothing else. You don’t acknowledge another kitten bumping against your shoe or one attacking the sleeve at your elbow. It’s just you, and Bucky, and this little white sweetness cradled between you both.

“Well, isn’t that just the sweetest thing.”

The voice comes from the doorway, warm and delighted, and you glance up to see the same volunteer who led you in earlier - a woman seeming to be in her late forties, smiling so fondly you can feel it in your chest.

Bucky leans back slightly, shifting to rest his arms on his knees, but he doesn’t move his hand away from the kitten. He keeps his fingers right where they are, lightly against yours, grazing her fur, as if he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

“She’s a lucky little thing,” the woman says, stepping further into the room. “She’s going to be so loved with you two.”

Something about the way she says it makes something pull at your gut - pleasant but dangerous.

And then she beams, hands coming together in a light clap.

“Oh, you make such a lovely couple.”

Your insides feel like they’ve flipped. It’s so sudden. A weightless drop that leaves you momentarily breathless. Your lashes flutter and your brain scrambles for literally anything.

But before you can get words out, Bucky lets out a short, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. You didn’t notice the way his hand froze between white fur. Because yours did, too.

“Nah, we’re not-” he starts, seeming a little awkward. A little nervous. He lifts his free hand, and gestures between you. “-Y’know. Together.”

The woman’s brows lift. “Oh?”

You clear your throat, shifting slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of everything - the heat of Bucky beside you, the way his knee nearly brushes yours, the bashful way he looks down at the kitten.

“Yeah,” you manage, forcing a smile. “We’re just- We’re roommates.”

“Friends,” Bucky tacks on, nodding as if that settles it.

The woman hums, clearly amused. “Huh.”

She doesn’t say anything else for a second, just looks between the two of you, smiling like she knows something you don’t. Maybe you should try harder to suck in the rosy color on your cheeks.

Then she crouches down in front of you both and reaches out to run a gentle hand along the kitten’s tiny back.

“Well, couple of not, I can tell she is going to be really happy with you two,” she says, her voice softer now, sincere.

You smile at this small life in your lap who somehow fits perfectly into the world you and Bucky have built together. She definitely is going to be loved. She already is.

Bucky exhales and when you glance up at him he is wearing a fond smile as well.

He watches how the kitten seems completely at ease in your lap, her tiny body rising and falling with deep breaths.

“We’ll take good care of her,” he assures, voice quiet but certain. He swallows.

You lift your head and your eyes lock.

Something tender passes between you before you avert your eyes again and you nod at his words. They do something to you, you can’t even explain. Because there is no doubt, no hesitation. It’s not even a simple promise, it’s a commitment.

A vow that whatever happens, this little baby girl will never know loneliness, will never go without warmth, without love.

“We’ll try our best,” he adds, voice a little rougher now.

You know that as sure as you know the feeling of his presence in your life, the way he’s always there, something solid and good, something grounding and doting.

You find yourself smiling so wide, you have to bite your lip.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” the woman in front of you says, watching the two of you with sparkling eyes.

She seems so confident.

Bucky huffs out a laugh, and there is something sheepish in the sound.

You glance down at the kitten, who lets out a yawn, stretching her small claws before rolling herself further into you.

This is really happening.

And for some reason, it feels right in a way you weren’t fully prepared for.

“Sometimes, the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”

- A.A. Milne

“Nah, Alp, c’mon now.”

Bucky sets his mug of tea down on the kitchen counter with a quiet clink - he never used to drink tea before moving in with you, but living with you changed that.

The little white kitten Bucky and you adopted from the shelter a few months ago paws insistently at your bedroom door, tiny claws scratching against the wood. She lets out a sharp, impatient mewl.

Bucky sighs, before striding over to her hurriedly and scooping the little ball of fluff into his arms before she can make more of a racket.

“Alpine,” he warns, almost too firmly considering he is talking to a cat. “Cut it out, yeah? You’re gonna wake her up.”

The kitten wiggles in his hold, clearly unimpressed. She meows again. Loud. Indignant. Bucky huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head and scratching her behind her ear.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, glancing at the closed door to your room. “Ya miss her. But she’s had a rough couple weeks, alright? Stress n' exams, you know, the whole damn deal. She needs the rest. Can’t have you climbin’ all over her like the little menace you are.”

Alpine stares at him with those big blue eyes, as if she understands every word but refuses to accept the reasoning. Another sharp meow, this time more of a protest.

Bucky sighs dramatically, shifting her into one arm and rubbing her chin. “Yeah, yeah, don’t gimme that look. I ain’t the bad guy here, buddy. Just tryna let her sleep.”

Alpine doesn’t seem to hear a word.

Before Bucky can react, the little furball twists her tiny body and slips right out of his grasp, landing softly on the floor.

In an instant, she is back at your bedroom door, paws crawling, tail flicking, and meowing like she is under torture.

Bucky groans quietly, dragging his hand down his face. “Jesus.” He crouches down, resting his forearms on his knees as he watches her.

He reaches out, rubbing slow and soothing circles on her soft white fur. “You just wanna be near her, huh, girl?” His voice is softer now. He sighs, deep and heavy, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I get that.”

Because Alpine loves you. She doesn’t hide it - follows you everywhere, curls up in your lap, meows until you give her attention. She’s got no hesitation when it comes to showing how much she adores you.

And that is what Bucky envies.

Because Bucky loves you too. He just can’t show his affection that outright. He’s your best friend. Your roommate. And that’s the part that stings.

He would do anything for being able to show you how much he adores you without crossing the line he is afraid to.

His chest tightens long enough for him to really feel the ache and he stands up, exhaling through his nose with a resigned breath.

“Alright, you little punk,” he mutters, shaking his head as Alpine turns those blue eyes back up to him. Expectant.

Slowly, he reaches for the door handle, giving the kitten another warning glare. “Just for a quick visit, yeah? No bouncin’ on her. No wakin’ her up, got it?”

Alpine meows.

Bucky huffs, pushing the door open carefully.

The small cat whooshes past Bucky the second the door cracks open, a blur of white fur darting straight for your bed. He barely stops himself from calling out, biting back a curse as he runs a frustrated hand down his face.

Damn cat’s got a one-track mind.

But he can’t really blame her. You’re on his mind probably even more often.

He steps inside, deliberately avoiding the creaky floorboards. He’s been in your room often enough to have memorized them by now.

Alpine reaches your face and bumps her small head against yours with a high chirp before rubbing along your cheek.

You don’t stir in your sleep.

Curled up on your side toward the direction of the door, hands tucked near your face, you’re completely dead to the world, your breaths slow and even.

Bucky guesses the stress from the last weeks must have finally caught up to you because you don’t even twitch when Alpine starts licking at your fingers.

“Alpine,” he whisper-yells, stepping closer, ready to scoop the little cat up and drag her outside before she wakes you.

But Alpine starts to circle, once, then again, before settling right against your hip, tucking herself into a comfortable little ball. She lets out a soft, contented sigh.

Bucky stops in his tracks, hands on his hips, shaking his head with an amused smirk on his lips.

“You’ve got no idea how jealous you’re makin’ me right now, Alp.”

Something tugs and turns in his chest, watching the way you sleep so peacefully, completely unaware of anything. Of how easy it is for Alpine to curl up against you and claim you like it’s the most natural thing to do.

He lets out a breath, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “Alright,” he utters in a whisper. “Guess I’ll just stand here like an idiot while you get all the cuddles.”

Alpine flicks her tail.

Bucky stands there for a moment, arms crossed loosely over his chest, just watching you.

The way your brows are at ease, your face soft and relaxed - peaceful and serene in a way he hasn’t seen in too damn long.

And oh how it calms something deep inside him.

The past few weeks had been brutal on you. It was a mess of late nights, long assignments, and that damn stubborn streak of yours keeping you from slowing down, no matter how many times he told you to.

You pushed yourself too hard - always do - and every time it drives him up the wall.

He hates seeing you stressed and he did what he could. Brought you tea, draped blankets over your shoulders when you were too caught up in your work to notice the chill. Left food by your side when he knew you’d forgotten to eat.

And you accepted it all - gave him those sweet little smiles accompanied by a thanks, Buck in that soft voice of yours that always knocks the wind out of him - but you never really listened.

Never listened when he told you that pushing past exhaustion isn’t the solution. That not having a clear head is worse than not being prepared at all.

But now you are finally resting.

For the first time in what feels like months, you are letting yourself breathe.

And Bucky feels like a weight is falling off his shoulders, a tension he was gripping finally loosening.

He exhales a deep, relieved sigh, raking a hand through his hair.

Alpine stirs slightly at your hip but stays balled up, her soft purring filling the room beside your deep breaths.

It’s then that Bucky notices the book half-tucked against your arm. You must have been reading before finally crashing, trying to quiet your mind enough to let yourself sleep.

He steps closer, cautiously, eyes flickering to your face to make sure you don’t wake up.

For a second, he worries it’s one of your damn textbooks - because if you fell asleep studying for god knows what now, he is going to have to give you some words.

But as he leans over you slightly, fingers brushing the covers and gently pulling it away from your arm, he lets out a pleased breath. Just a novel. Good.

He carefully marks the page, folds the book shut, and sets it on your nightstand.

Bucky straightens, and he knows he should walk back out - really, he should - but his eyes stay on you a little longer. He almost feels like some kinda creep just standing here, watching. But hell, he can’t help it.

You look so damn adorable with your little pout. So damn beautiful with your hair falling just so, features so soft, color in your cheeks.

His breath hitches unintentionally and his pulse skips, his heart only a trembling thing in his chest.

Taking in a deep breath, he takes a hold of your blanket and gradually tugs it up over your shoulders, up to your chin.

The fact that Alpine gets dragged along with it and the grumpy chirp she lets out gets ignored by him. She glares at him in annoyance but does not move from her spot.

“Mhm… Buck…?”

Your voice is thick with sleep, soft and drowsy, and it nearly knocks Bucky off balance. Literally. His foot catches on the floor and he stumbles slightly, heart lurching in his chest like the idiot he is.

His gaze snaps to your face. You blink up at him, slow and unfocused, brows scrunching in confusion. Eyes half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion, your voice slurring slightly.

Jesus. You’re so damn cute like this.

Bucky clears his throat, forcing himself to school his expression. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he coos in a whisper, gentle and soothing. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” He shoots Alpine a pointed look, but the cat, as usual, doesn’t seem to give a damn.

You shift slightly, nestling deeper into the sheets, eyes fluttering shut again. Without thinking, Bucky brushes his hand through your hair, over your cheek in slow and soothing motions to coax you back into sleep.

You hum in contentment. That little sound does something to him, settling deep within him.

And hell - if his heart doesn’t clench at the sight of you like this. So soft, so sweet, so damn beautiful it hurts.

A lightness swells beneath his ribs. An airy flutter dances.

He focuses on the way your breathing evens out, the way your body melts back into the bed.

And when he’s sure you’ve slipped under again, Bucky lets himself lean down, lips ghosting over your temple in the lightest of touches, giving you a soft kiss. He lingers just a second, long enough to whisper against your skin, voice barely more than a breath.

“Sleep tight, doll. You better dream of me.”

And with one last glance, so full of longing, he forces himself to pull away. He lets Alpine stay with you, despite the fact that he wants to be the one who gets to do that.

But he slips out of the room as quietly as he can, shutting the door behind him with a faint click. Leaving with you the racing of his heart you caused and the ache of something he isn’t sure he’ll ever have the guts to say out loud.

“Her, because she makes life poetry, she turns every bit of it into art.”

- butterflies rising