aquaticmercy - Tumblr blog

aquaticmercy · 17 hours ago

Text

Waste a Moment / Part 13

Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.

Requested by : @remoony

Word count : 2.7k

Note : uhhhh I might extend this to 18 parts instead of the 17 planned. Please let me know if I miss anyone on the tags! Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

“Beast to the Wild”

Sunday afternoon.

Yelena arrived as quickly as she could.

She found Sam standing outside the control room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall but was holding himself back, his usual calm composure cracking under the concern furrowed in his eyebrows.

“He’s in there,” Sam said, nodding toward the closed door. His voice was subdued in a way that sent a chill through her spine. “Hasn’t moved since it happened.”

Yelena frowned, glancing at the door. “How bad is it?” she asked, though the answer was already clawing at her stomach.

“Bad,” Sam sighed, his eyes drifting down to his shoes. “You know he gets when it’s her.”

Yelena did know. Too well. She nodded, swallowing hard and squaring her shoulders.

She paused at the door, steeling herself. She already knew what was coming—the anger, the accusations. She could already hear his voice in her mind: “Are you happy now? Are you happy that she knows? Are you happy now that she’s gone?”

But when she stepped inside, the words she braced for didn’t come.

Bucky was hunched over the console, his shoulders bowed as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. His hands were in his hair, fingers raking into his scalp like he could pull himself out of whatever hell he had occupied. The screens in front of him flickered with useless data: satellite feeds, news updates, and endless blank logs that told him nothing.

Yelena’s heart twisted at the sight of the grieving supersoldier. She almost hesitated.

But she couldn’t stop— not now. Not when it was you. Not when it was her best friend.

She stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

“Barnes,” she said, her voice fragile but steady.

He didn’t look at her. His teeth clenched, and for a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to respond. He had an emptiness in his eyes— no rage. No anger. Just all-consuming guilt.

Then he exhaled, ragged and uneven. It was like it hurt him just to breathe.

“I fucked up,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “She’s gone, and it’s my fault.”

Yelena froze. She had expected yelling, had braced for misplaced blame. But this—this quiet, devastating admission—was worse. She took a slow step closer, her fist clenched at her sides.

“What exactly happened?” she asked carefully, her stomach knotting.

He laughed, but it was a bitter, hollow sound. “What didn’t happen?” He finally looked up at her, and the disbelief in his eyes hit her like a punch to the gut. “She broke in. She ran. She disabled tracking, cloaked the jet. I can’t—” His voice broke, and he dropped his head into his hands again. “I can’t find her.”

Yelena’s chest tightened.

You were out there somewhere, unreachable, and Bucky was destroying himself for it, piece by piece.

“She’s strong,” Yelena said, her voice firm even as fear clawed at her insides. “Rhodey said she’s doing great on her flight training. She’ll be okay.”

“Will she?” Bucky snapped, looking up sharply. His voice faltered, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had flared. He slumped back in his chair, his hands trembling as they rested on the desk. He tapped a frantic rhythm on the wood. “I should have been honest with her from the start, I should’ve listened to you, I should—fuck, what if she’s in danger? What if she—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Yelena could see it in his eyes— the fear that was eating him alive, torturing him from the inside out.

She knew how capable you were, but she also knew the risks of going rogue like this, cutting yourself off from your lifeline.

“She’ll come back,” Yelena said firmly, though not entirely convinced.

Bucky shook his head. His blue eyes were distant, staring at the horizon as if he was imagining you coming back to him. “What if she doesn’t?”

The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with unspoken fears neither of them were eager to vocalise. Yelena bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm, to keep a level head. But inside, her thoughts were racing. If something had happened to you—if you didn't return—she didn’t know how Bucky would survive it.

In all honesty, She didn’t know how she would survive it.

"That's not an option," Yelena said again, her voice quieter. "And when she comes back, you're going to fix this. We’re going to fix this."

Bucky swallowed hard, his throat tightening around the air he needed so desperately to breathe. "That’s what we got wrong," he said, his voice trembling. "She didn’t need fixing. She never did." His muscles tensed as the realisation sank in. He’d been so consumed with trying to shield you, rearranging your life to protect you from the truth, that he couldn’t see the damage his silence was doing. And Yelena—she lacked the courage to tell you when he failed. She’d built a friendship with you, but always held herself at arm’s length, unwilling to face the thought of you shattered, bruised, or hollowed out. In their misguided attempts to fix you, Bucky had kept you blind to the truth, while Yelena had refused to acknowledge away from the parts of you that were still lost, too afraid to confront what lay beneath. "She just needed a push,” Bucky continued.

"Then we’ll give her that," Yelena said softly, her own voice crackling.

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the screens in front of him, scanning for something, anything, that might tell him where you were.

But there was nothing.

Just static and silence.

Yelena pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. They were both terrified for you, for what might have happened, for what still could. But she wasn’t going to leave him alone in this. And maybe, she needed someone who understood.

Monday.

The days that followed were nothing but an endless stretch of anxiety, a string of minutes that dragged into hours, into days. Bucky paced the compound like a caged animal that had been wounded, unable to rest, unable to let himself sleep, not while you were out there—wherever there was.

You could be anywhere.

The first night, he’d convinced himself that you’d return before sunrise. You had to. He had barely let himself leave the command room, his eyes glued to the screen as if he could will a blip to appear on the radar. But hour after hour passed, and there was only silence.

Tuesday.

The second day, Sam had finally pulled him aside, brow furrowed with a look of worry he had only seen on his friend’s face a few times before. “You need to sleep,” Sam had said, trying to talk some sense into him. But Bucky waved him off, his chest tight, his pulse thundering with a primal fear he didn’t know how to control.

Wednesday.

By the third day, his hands trembled.

He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even thought about it. His world was confined to the four walls of the control room, where every incoming call, every email, and every intel update had no real consequence, and every dead end became a reminder that you were still missing. Yelena kept coming in, putting her hand hesitantly on his shoulder from time to time.

Yelena was exhausted too, every ounce of her strength spent holding herself together. It took everything she had not to retreat to the solitude of an empty apartment and break down, the way she had the first time.

She didn’t offer empty reassurances anymore— she knew Bucky wouldn’t believe them. She gave him the updates as they were: no news, no sightings, no leads.

Every minute chipped away at his mind. You could be hurt, or worse—

He didn’t let himself finish that thought.

Outside the window, the sky cycled through night and day. The compound, usually bustling with heroes and friends alike, felt quiet. Everyone helped in any way they could— Rhodey going on daily flights to scan surrounding areas, Scott scouring the cyber security networks for any sign of you. They even got Bruce and Clint to search for leads.

Bucky would glance up from the monitors, hoping to catch a glimpse of you walking through the door, half-dazed, explaining how it was all a misunderstanding. But the doorway remained empty.

He remained alone.

Somewhere between the updates, Sam tried to get him to rest again, even pulled a chair over, but Bucky barely listened to him. His mind was too noisy, a nonstop assault of what-ifs and maybes.

When Yelena reported back for the fifth time that day, her voice a desperate apology, Bucky had wanted to scream. He was so damn tired of nothing, of waiting, of feeling useless.

“Bucky,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re going to burn yourself out. You need—”

He shook his head, the words too hard to find, too tangled in the mess of vines growing like weeds in his chest. “She’s out there, and it’s my fault,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I can’t just… stop.”

Yelena didn’t argue.

She knew that until you were safe, Bucky would not rest. Could not rest.

Another hour. Another dead end.

And then another.

Thursday.

The fourth day was cold and grey, as if the sky itself was scolding him of his failures as a partner— as a friend. The weather disturbances had rendered the radar useless, and there was nothing he could do but wait it out.

Bucky hadn’t left the command centre in over seventy-two hours, his bloodshot eyes glued to the monitors that had long stopped giving any useful information. He was exhausted to the bone, but the thought of you out there kept him wired, kept his muscles tense, his fists clenched. But even his supersoldier physiology was working overtime, and he knew that at some point, it would catch up with him.

Yelena was beside him, uncharacteristically still. Even Sam, who usually had a quip ready for any situation, had fallen silent, his hands folded tightly as they all waited for something they didn’t know would even come.

Then, without warning, the heavy security doors of the compound opened with a metallic creak that shattered the silence.

Bucky’s eyes shot up, and his heart stopped for a beat. He’d imagined this moment so many times in the past few days that he couldn’t believe it at first.

But there you were, standing in the doorway.

Except you were barely standing.

Blood smeared your arms, your knuckles so bruised and raw that he could see the whites of your bones underneath, your clothes torn in places he didn’t want to look too closely at. Your face was marked with cuts, some shallow, others deep enough to have left trails of dried blood down your cheek.

And in your hand, glinting dully, was a golden blade encrusted in cryptic symbols, the artefact he’d decided you weren’t ready for. The one he’d postponed for your own safety, to keep you from facing too much, too soon.

Bucky felt his chest seize as he looked at you, relief and horror washing over him in equal measure.

Relief that you were here, you were alive— but gut wrenching horror at the state you were in.

No one dared to speak as you strode forward. There was no remaining a softness in your gaze, no relief in your expression. Just in unwavering, simmering anger as you approached the table in the middle of the room. Without a word, you threw the artefact down, the metal hitting the surface with a loud, echoing clink. The dagger gleamed in the dim light, almost mocking them all with its careless beauty.

Bucky’s chest tightened as he fought to breathe, to form the words that could somehow repair the chasm between you, but nothing came. Nothing except the sharpness of your stare, carving into him with the precision of a blade.

Bucky moved toward you instinctively, his hand reaching out. Before he could speak, you took a shaky step backward. He could see it then, the way your body was barely holding itself together, the exhaustion painted in every line of your face, the pain you were trying to hide.

Sam was the first to break the silence. "Y-you alright?" he asked softly, his voice filled with worry, his brow creased as he took in your injuries.

You didn’t answer; it was a stupid question. Sam Wilson had eyes, did he not? You pressed your lips into a thin line, and your gaze shifted from Sam to Bucky.

“You didn’t think I could do it,” you said finally, your voice rough and broken from what had to have been hours of screaming or fighting. “So I went alone. I got it alone.”

Bucky’s heart pounded. Every part of him wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—that would make you understand.

You swayed slightly, a tremor running through your legs, but you stubbornly held yourself up, refusing to let the pain break you. “You think I’m not ready for this,” you continued, your voice trembling with anger. “You think I can’t handle it. But I got the job done, didn’t I?”

Bucky flinched at the accusation. He’d spent days trapped in the fear that he’d lost, that his choices, his need to protect you, had driven you away for good.

“Didn’t I?!” you repeated. And now, here you were, throwing it all back in his face, reminding him of every time he had second-guessed you, every time he’d tried to make decisions for you.

He couldn’t bring himself to respond. All he could do was stare at you as he took in the damage you’d suffered. It was my fault, he thought.

“I don’t need you,” you snapped at him.

He wanted to argue, to beg, to crumble before you and tell you how wrong he’d been. But all he could do was stand there, drowning in the horror of his own failure and the unbearable truth that you might mean it.

Yelena’s breath caught in her lungs, her composure cracking for just a moment as her eyes swept over the bruises, the cuts, the blood staining your skin. She winced, the sight hitting her harder than she’d expected, but she forced herself to keep looking. You deserved that—deserved to be seen, not turned away from like some broken thing. You deserved respect, even in your battered state, even when her gut twisted at the thought of what you’d endured, your mere presence demanded that she hold your gaze and acknowledge your strength. She was no longer going to threaten people behind your back to try and save you. If she had something to say, she would have to say it to your face. “I—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to silence the room. You didn’t need her apologies, didn’t want her pity.

But your strength had limits. And as you stood there— the adrenaline finally crashing, your body sagging in the aftermath of the exhaustion— the toll of what you’d gone through catching up with you.

Your knees buckled, and before anyone could react, you collapsed, your body crumpling to the floor.

Bucky was at your side in an instant, his arms slipping around you, supporting you as gently as he could despite his own shaking hands. He pressed his hand against the back of your head, his fingers in your hair as he whispered your name, his voice breaking.

You were unconscious, breathing shallow, your face finally softening in the grip of sleep.

For a moment, no one spoke. Bucky’s gaze remained on you, his thumb gently tracing the line of a bruise on your cheek, his heart breaking as he truly saw the cost of what you’d done to prove yourself.

Sam stepped forward, his hand settling on Bucky’s shoulder. He didn't say anything, didn’t need to. Yelena hovered nearby, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes swimming in sadness that matched the guilt in her eyes.

As he held you, he vowed he would make it right. He didn’t know how, he knew that when you woke up—when you opened those furious eyes— he would be there.

He wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t try to hide anything from you.

Because he’d learned, far too late, that you didn’t need protecting. You needed trust.

And he would have to earn it back one step at a time.

-to be continued…

Taglist: @hzdhrtss @irisk12 @tayyyystan @seventeen-x

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @avatarofthetimelords @bckynatt @winchestert101 @zemosprincesa

@nngkay @hiireadstuff @sapphirebarnes @thatesqcrush @bethexo07

@florie1 @nyutasgirl @coraliix @harrysgothicbitch @jules-and-gemss

@infqnitysblog @isnow-0r-never @roofwitty779 @baw1066 @wasalreadyhere

@cjand10 @greatmistakes @winterslove1917 @calwitch @sebastians-love

@gyllord @brckenmemories @ethereal-witch24 @diffidentphantom

@avatarofthetimelords @lumidotexe @oscarissac2099 @currentfacination @pono-pura-vida

@blackbirdwitch22 @royalwriteroftheuniverse @ayayaeyato @btssaysstudy @unaxv

@otterlycanadian @lifeisbutadream444 @mostlymarvelgirl @ozwriterchick @m1cky-y-y

@ordelixx @jadeofspadesxp @generousmiraclebread @jeremyrennermakesmesmile@titasweetandsour

@one-lengthiness36 @chimchoom @waitingformysandman @eanthedeadqueen13 @hi172826

@starsmoonn @notsostrangerthing @wintercrows

@lomlbuckybarnes gets a special shout out for figuring it out🫡

#bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #marvel fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan

169 notes · View notes

aquaticmercy · 2 days ago

Text

Match

Summary : You finally found your intellectual match in Bucky Barnes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x rare book dealer!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : You and Bucky are nerds (affectionate), mentions of his past. Sexual tension-filled philosophical debate. DC comics exist in the MCU as literature as per the guardians Christmas special lol. Cursing? Steamy not smut. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 5.7k

Note : This fic was inspired by that one scene in FATWS where Bucky said he read the hobbit. I just really like the idea that Bucky really really likes to read. Enjoy!

Rare books were not just a job to you, but a vocation. You spent your days seeking out treasures, preserving them, and connecting them with people who could truly appreciate their worth. Your little shop was a haven of creaking wooden floors and shelves brimming with the worn spines of countless literary works, sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

It was your home.

On a quiet Tuesday, the bell over the door jingled.

At first, you assumed the man who walked in was lost or killing time— maybe a tourist who thought your shop was an antique or souvenir shop (you’ve gotten a lot of those over the years).

He didn’t fit your usual profile of a customer—no tweed jackets or scholarly glasses. No suit and tie, no clean white blouse. This one was confident, albeit rough on the edges. His leather jacket and heavy boots belonged in a biker gang, his long hair brushing beautifully against his shoulders. But it was his left arm that drew your gaze—a sleek, black metal hand peeking out of his sleeve, rippling slightly when he moved.

You recognized him instantly: James Buchanan Barnes.

The former Winter Soldier.

A man who belonged to history books and legends. Seeing him in person was... surreal. No article had prepared you for the magnetism he carried, no photo did him justice.

Still, you weren’t one to swoon. And you definitely weren’t about to let him see you staring a little too long into his steely blue eyes.

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and professional.

For a second, he seemed to weigh whether or not to answer. “I’m looking for a first edition of The Hobbit.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t what you’d expected.

“It’s in the case over here,” you replied, recovering quickly. You led him to the glass display where one of your most cherished possessions lay nestled, secure and pristine.

He muttered something like ‘just like I remember’ as he gazed at the book, his voice close to reverence.

“Big fan?” you ventured, curious.

His lips curved up, into a faint smile. He nodded. “Always admired how he built entire worlds. The languages, the histories.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “He lived through hell in the trenches, too. And from that, he wrote something… hopeful.”

You hadn’t expected that depth of understanding, and your surprise must have been obvious. “What?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d be the type?”

This was going to be fun, you thought.

You shrugged, trying to suppress a grin, “you’re not exactly my usual Tolkien collector.”

That earned you a sweet, gentle chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be either, but I’ve always loved books,” he admitted, “They were one of the only constants after...” His voice faltered, remnants of his past briefly flashing behind his eyes.

You didn’t press. Instead, you followed his lead, steering the conversation back to Tolkien. “You're right about the worldbuilding. He wrote a full mythology— linguistic and cultural foundations and all. It’s like he created an alternate history.”

“Exactly.” Bucky’s smile returned, brighter this time. It had been ages since Bucky had an engaging, meaningful conversation that wasn’t about mission planning, let alone about a book. The heated, faceless debates with internet strangers—each convinced they were ultimately correct—definitely didn’t count. “It’s that attention to detail— You don’t see that much anymore.”

After that, the two of you fell into a rhythm, talking easily for nearly an hour. About Tolkien’s works, his love for language, and the way war had shaped his narratives. You even mentioned how Tolkien’s own experiences in World War I echoed the camaraderie and loss found in his stories. Bucky nodded along, sharing personal observations that surprised you—not just because of their insight, but because of how much he genuinely cared.

Back in the day, everyone saw Bucky as the classic jock, and to be fair, he was. But beneath the effortless charm, he was a nerd at heart—fascinated by books, obsessed with science, and captivated by innovation. It was Bucky who had dragged Steve along to the World Exposition of Tomorrow, it was Bucky who was eager to see Howard Stark’s presentation on flying cars. Back then, the future had been his fixation. It had been out of reach— a world of endless possibilities.

Now, he was drawn to the past.

He’d fallen in love with reading again. After all, he had a century of literature to catch up on. And with the internet at his fingertips, he had access to more knowledge and stories than he could have dreamed of.

40s Bucky would’ve had a heart attack from the sheer volume of information he could consume. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just chasing a vision of what might be—he was immersing himself in what already was.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to The Lord of the Rings.

“Did you read the trilogy?” you asked.

He nodded. “Only a couple of years ago. I didn’t even realize it was published after… everything.” He paused, frowning slightly, as if reaching into the murky depths of his memory.

Right. You did a quick mental tally based on the books you’ve read about him. The Hobbit was published in 1937, and The Fellowship of the Ring in 1954. Bucky was presumed killed in action in 1945 and captured by a terrorist organization. So, yeah—he’d missed it.

“Hydra,” you said the thought allowed before you could stop yourself.

You winced, bracing for impact. Oh no, you thought, have I crossed a line?

“You read about me?” he asked to your surprise, likely catching you deep in thought.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though your heart still beat out your chest. “Superheroes are a popular topic for peer-reviewed journals and doctoral theses. There’s a whole academic subfield about the Winter Soldier— a lot about your role in the war, too.”

His expression was unreadable, but you thought you saw a flicker of something— amusement? Whatever it was, it eased the tension you had accidentally created, and the conversation resumed.

You’ve read plenty about Bucky Barnes—the sharpshooter of the Howling Commandos, Captain America’s trusted sniper. You’ve probably read more about him in the modern age: scholars debating the pardon of the Winter Soldier, professors discussing the Sokovia Accords— a conflict in which he’d been a major player in. You’d disagreed with the Accords, of course, but that’s a story for another time.

Right now, your focus was on the man in front of you, talking about Tolkien and his wonderful languages. See, the peer-reviewed articles about him had painted a stark picture: a kind soul turned into a cold, unfeeling weapon. But they neglected to mention that even after everything, he was still a kind soul. In person, it was hard to reconcile the man before you with the image of a killer.

The paper also failed to mention a pleasant surprise: his mind. You realised now that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a soldier; he was sharp, curious, a man who loved literature and sought out conversations that challenged him. It was something the world overlooked.

Yet it was there, just beneath the surface.

“Have you read the Silmarillion?” you ventured.

“I tried,” He grimaced. “Felt like reading a textbook. Not sure I even made it halfway.”

“That’s fair,” you admitted with a laugh. “It’s not the easiest read. But it’s worth it, I promise.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t shut the idea down, either.

You made a snap decision. Reaching behind the counter, you pulled out your personal copy of The Silmarillion. It wasn’t a rare edition, but it was filled with your notes in the margins, a map you’d sketched for reference, and little Post-its marking key passages. “Take this,” you offered, holding it out to him.

He hesitated, not used to kindness from beautiful strangers. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. Hopefully the notes will make it easier. And don’t even worry about returning it,” you nodded, “It’s probably for the best. I obsess over it too much.”

He took the book, his metal fingers brushing against yours as he did, making your stomach flutter. “Thanks.”

“And if you’re curious about all those papers written about you...” You looked through bookmarks on your laptop, typing ‘James Barnes’ into the search bar. You jotted down a list of academic articles you’d read— some about his time in WWII, others about his unique role as a postwar icon. “Here. If you want to see what people are saying.”

He smiled that kind smile again, folding the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket. “I appreciate it.”

When he left with the first edition of The Hobbit, your annotated Silmarillion, and your list of articles about him, you found yourself staring at the door long after it had closed, hoping it wasn’t the last time he’d visit your shop.

—

Bucky started coming in more frequently, always buying another rare book— Hemingway, Orwell, Lovecraft. The pretense was paper-thin, though, and you both knew it.

Sure, he enjoyed books, but by that point he knew he could’ve gotten cheaper copies on a bid online (rent in a big city was expensive)— and the books he bought weren't even that rare.

Each visit turned into a lengthy discussion that carried you through the night, far past the shop’s usual closing time.

One afternoon, he returned something unexpected: your well-worn copy of The Silmarillion. Admittedly, you’d missed it— its once-pristine pages now brimming with additional notations—his handwriting mixing with yours.

“I had to,” he said, an almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Your notes made me see it differently. It felt like a conversation.”

You opened it, thumbing through the pages, your eyes catching his commentary. He had sharp, incisive thoughts: challenging some of your interpretations, expanding on others, and sometimes adding playful jabs in the margins when he disagreed with your analysis.

“This is dangerous,” you said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Do you really want a debate about Tolkienian theology?”

“I’ve got time, doll,” he said with a grin, settling onto the stool by the counter. Your cheeks flushed at the nickname, hearts doing backflips in your ribcage.

And so, that evening, you indulged in the mind of James Buchanan Barnes, exploring his thoughts and musings about Middle-earth. For the next two hours, the two of you argued about the nature of Ilúvatar’s creation, the Fëanor tragic story, and whether or not Morgoth represented a failure of divine providence.

“I’ll admit,” he said at one point, leaning back and crossing his arms, “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so... biblical.”

“It’s a way to think about creation through the lens of fantasy,” you replied, your voice softening as you traced your fingers over the book’s cover. “There’s a reason people get lost in it.”

He watched you for a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile fading into something softer.

It wasn’t the only time your conversations would take a turn like this. A week later, gothic monsters were your battlefield.

Bucky leaned against the counter, an old edition of Dracula he had just purchased in his hands, the worn leather squeaking as he shifted. His brow furrowed in that way that always made you wonder what he was thinking— though you had a feeling he was about to pick a fight, again.

“You’re out of your mind if you think Frankenstein beats Dracula,” he said, glancing up, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not saying they’re even comparable,” you countered, crossing your arms as you leaned against the opposite side of the counter. “They’re completely different genres. It’s not a fair fight. But if it were... Frankenstein wins. Hands down.”

Bucky chuckled, a low, warm sound that made it impossible not to smile. “You think that because you’re obsessed with sci-fi. If it’s got a fake scientist and a lot of regret, you’re sold.”

“And you think Dracula is better because it’s all dark and broody,” you shot back, arching an eyebrow, “sound familiar?” You smirked, mirroring his stance against the opposite side of the counter. “Besides, Frankenstein is a masterpiece—philosophy, morality, hubris—it’s got layers. What’s Dracula got? Melodrama?”

“Hey! Dracula has layers!” Bucky chuckled low in his throat, setting the book down. “It’s about primal fear, wrapped in ancient powers, wrapped again in the clash between tradition and modernity.”

“It is enjoyable, I must admit, but it’s just a glorified soap opera.” You groaned, though your lips twitched in spite of yourself. “Shelley’s work makes you think, you know? It’s art.”

“Art?!” he repeated, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “It’s a guy making bad decisions and spending the rest of the book dodging the consequences.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing. “It’s about responsibility! The monster is a reflection of Victor’s failure. He’s abandoned and searching for connection—”

“And whining about it,” Bucky interrupted with a smirk, folding his arms. “Dracula doesn’t whine.”

The playful sparring faded when it hit you.

Frankenstein’s monster was created without consent, shaped into something he never chose to be. He was cast out, left to navigate a world that saw him as a mistake. The monster was isolated— burdened by guilt—the question of whether he was defined by the harm he’d done.

“Does he…” you started, gulping, unsure of how he’d react to an outright observation. “Does Frankenstein’s monster make you uncomfortable?”

As you stepped closer, his expression faltered, his eyes dropping to the book in his hands. Slowly, he set it aside, the movement deliberate. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold surface of his metal arm before resting there gently. “Does it hit too close to home?” you asked.

He didn’t deny it. A quiet laugh escaped him instead. He shook his head. “You’re too damn perceptive for your own good,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a longing for something you couldn’t quite place.

Your fingers moved in slow circles against his metal hand, and when it twitched beneath your touch, you knew he felt it—knew he felt you.

“The monster was never the villain,” you said, a fragile offering meant to soothe him. “He just needed someone to see him. He can be kind, too.”

His gaze lifted, locking onto yours, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. For a heartbeat, the world stilled.

Then Bucky’s smirk returned, smaller this time, as he leaned into your touch as if he craved it. “Nice try,” he said, voice lighter but still soft. “You’re not winning this one. Dracula’s better.”

You laughed, the tension breaking just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re impossible, Barnes.”

—

You were afraid you had scared him off after that, but to your surprise, he returned a week later, albeit a bit bruised from a mission.

You’d been reshelving old graphic novels that day (First Edition Hergé that you were quite excited by), the quiet hum of the shop wrapping you in comfortable silence, when you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. His dark leather jacket hung slightly open, revealing a plain gray shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to draw your eyes. There was a faint cut near his jaw, still healing.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary. “You look beautiful today. Is that a new dress?”

Your breath caught, and a warmth crept up your neck as you glanced down at the simple, flowy dress you’d chosen that morning. “It is,” you admitted, looking back up at him with a shy smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Hard not to,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, almost teasing smile before he turned toward the shelves.

You busied yourself with reshelving more books behind the counter, but you couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of your eye. His human hand traced idly along the spines, careful not to inflict damage. When he stopped, he plucked a rare-ish pocket 6th edition of Thus Spake Zarathustra from the shelf, his metal fingers glinting faintly in the light of the shop.

“You actually like this guy?” he asked quietly, lifting the book like he was sharing a secret.

“Like is a strong word,” you said, stepping out from behind the ladder. His gaze caught yours, and there was a flicker of something playful in those blue eyes. Your pulse quickened, beckoning him to the counter. “He was no saint, but hardly anyone is. I… appreciate his contribution. It’s not his fault people misuse his work.”

Bucky had witnessed it firsthand: fascists distorting Nietzsche's philosophy, disregarding its complexities, and twisting his ideas into a justification for genocide.

His lips turned upward, a lopsided grin that softened the sharpness of his jaw. His stance shifted, leaning against the counter with a practiced ease. His eyes flickered, taking you in, and when you crossed your arms, his gaze lingered briefly, enough to spark a bubbling heat beneath your skin.

“You don’t think Nietzsche was a proto-fascist, do you?” you asked, tilting your head.

“God, no,” he said quickly, amusement softening his voice. His grin spread, revealing the faintest cute dimple in his cheek. “I’ve read enough to know better. But I don’t exactly buy the Übermensch thing either. It’s too... self-centered for my taste. The whole idea of being ‘beyond good and evil’ feels dangerous.”

“That’s fair,” you said, closing the distance between you as you reached for the book in his hand. Your fingers brushed his as you slipped it from his grasp, his touch warm, steady, almost deliberate. His eyes flickered down to where your hands had met. “There are many flaws in his thinking, but I don’t think the concept is inherently bad,” you continued, the air between you charged with tension. You tilted the book toward him, as though showing him something, though you both knew you weren’t really focused on the pages. “It’s about striving for a better version of yourself. I think he wanted people to create their own meaning, not follow blindly.”

“Maybe,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He shifted closer, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet room. His metal hand rested at his side, the vibranium gleaming faintly as his other hand inched forward, almost brushing yours.

His breath fanned your cheek as he leaned in, close enough now that you could see the stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes framed those blue eyes. “But there’s something so… wrong about thinking you’re the one who gets to decide what’s right,” he whispered, his voice like a secret meant only for you.

He was close, dangerously so— that you could feel his breath on your nose.

The bell above the door chimed suddenly, breaking the moment like shattered glass. Dr. Hart, a lecturer from the local university, stepped inside, a bundle of papers tucked under her arm, and smiled in greeting.

She was a returning customer, here to pick up a special edition of Conversation on Botany that you had tracked down for her.

“That’s $40, Mr. Barnes,” You took a small, steadying breath and waved at Hart with a thumbs up that said I’ve got your book.

His lips twitched into a knowing smile. Hr reached for his wallet, pulling out a few bills. As he handed them to you, his fingers brushed yours again.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, his voice soft, almost teasing.

—

The tipping point came late one evening.

You’d spent the last few hours catalouging a shipment of rare books, the shop’s air thick with the comforting scent of old leather, yellowing paper, and the faint hint of dust that always seemed to cling to ancient texts. The shop was silent save for the scratch of your pen against paper as you logged the latest arrival.

The peace shattered with the familiar jingle of the bell above the door.

“Shop’s closed,” you said without looking up, your voice automatic, your focus still on the fragile spine of a sixteenth-century text.

“Good thing I’m not here to shop,” came the deep, unmistakable voice of Bucky Barnes.

Your hand froze, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe with that trademark blend of casual confidence and smoldering intensity. His black Henley stretched across his chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms—a sight you tried not to dwell on for too long.

“What are you here for, then?” you asked, arching an eyebrow as you tried to sound indifferent.

“Conversation,” he said simply, stepping further inside.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you returned to your work. “You came all the way here just to talk?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, his lips turning into a sly smile as he perched on the edge of your desk. “I was in the neighborhood.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother responding. Bucky always had a way of pulling your attention, and tonight was no different. You tried to focus on the delicate bindings in front of you, but his overwhelming presence was impossible to ignore.

When he reached for a book from the nearby stack—a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius—you finally gave in.

“Stoicism?” you asked, your tone light with playful mockery.

He flipped the book open, his fingers grazing the thin pages. “You’re really surprised? I thought you’d figure that about me,” he said, glancing up at you with a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Marcus Aurelius had a lot to say about self-control.”

“And yet here you are…” you replied, gesturing to where he was leaning across your workspace, a soft furrow of amusement on your eyebrows. You decided you could be flirty— eyeing the undone button of his Henley, showing a hint of his skin underneath. “...testing mine.”

The corners of his mouth curved. “Guess I’m doing my part to help you practice.”

You shook your head, half-smiling. “It’s not just about self-control, now is it? It’s about accepting what you can’t change.”

He tilted his head, agreeing with you. “Or a way to stop drowning in things you can’t fix.”

From there, the conversation unfurled like a thread you couldn’t stop pulling. Philosophy, morality, the nature of good and evil—it didn’t take long before you were fully engrossed, debating with a ferocity that surprised even you. Bucky was sharp, quick-witted, and maddeningly good at challenging your points. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d counter with something so precise, so well-argued, that you couldn’t help but admire his mind.

As the debate shifted, you sat on your desk, its surface cluttered with books that were hard to find, but not rare enough to be put in a glass case. Your focus was solely on Bucky, who was pacing the room with measured steps, his hands brushing against the edges of shelves every so often as though grounding himself.

“Alright,” you said, leaning forward, crossing your legs. “Here’s a question for you: Should Batman kill the Joker?”

Slowly, he turned and walked closer to you, his shoes thudding softly against the floor. He stopped just short of your legs, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, making your pulse quicken.

Oh, that piqued his interest.

“I should’ve known you’d bring up Batman.” Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, eyeing up the first print of 90s DC comics in the corner of the room that hadn’t been there two days ago— a fresh delivery, perhaps? You were always very topical, and the recent restocks somehow always made their way into conversation.

“It’s a valid moral dilemma,” you said, straightening, your chin lifting slightly.

He tilted his head, his expression a blend of amusement and challenge. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Of course he should,” You didn’t hesitate, the answer rolling off your tongue with absolute conviction. “The Joker is a mass murderer. Every time Batman spares him, more people die. His refusal to act is just as bad as pulling the trigger himself.”

Bucky’s smile lingered, but his gaze grew darker, ever so slightly. “So you’re saying Batman’s refusal to kill makes him complicit?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, leaning in slightly, the heat of the argument pulling you closer. “Batman’s morality is Kantian—rigid rules and all. But if he were more… utilitarian, he’d save more lives. The greatest good for the greatest number. One life to save countless others.”

“That kind of math doesn’t scare you?” Bucky asked, leaning back as though to put some distance between you, though his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Once you start deciding whose lives matter more, where do you stop?”

“It’s not about worth,” you argued, the intensity rippling from him unnerving but impossible to look away from. “It’s about outcomes. If you can prevent suffering, don’t you have a responsibility to do it?”

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. His jaw clicked a bit, tightening as he considered your words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, shyer.

“If that’s your stance, then maybe someone should’ve killed the Winter Soldier years ago.”

His words hit you like a punch in the gut, your breath catching. The implication of his statement filled the room, coiling tight around your chest.

“Bucky,” you said quickly, panic creeping into your voice, your fingers twitching toward him but freezing halfway. “That’s not—”

The corner of his mouth curved into a small, fragile smile. “Relax,” he said, holding up a hand, his voice dipping into something gentler. “I’m not offended. This is just a debate, right?”

“It’s not the same,” you insisted, your voice gentler, almost pleading. You stood from your desk, hesitation in your chest as you reached out— you were scared he might pull away, “you were brainwashed.” Slowly, you pressed your hand to his cheek, his stubble rough beneath your palm. It was a wordless apology—a pathetic attempt to comfort, to reach him where words had failed.

To your surprise, he didn’t stop you. Instead, he leaned into your touch.

Bucky, slid his arm around your waist, testing the waters. His eyes flicked to yours, searching for any sign of rejection, any hint that he’d crossed a line. But there were none. Instead, the subtle hitch in your breath and the way you leaned into him told him everything he needed to know.

He shook his head, rubbing soft circles on your hip as if to say you’re okay. This conversation is more than okay. “But in the grand scheme of utilitarianism, it shouldn’t matter, right? My life was a liability. More people would’ve been saved if I hadn’t been around to hurt them.”

His words settled over you like a storm cloud. The silence stretched, your carefully crafted argument unraveling in the face of his lived experience.

He leaned forward then, bridging the space between you, his arm pinning you in place. “Maybe I understand Batman better than most,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “Killing someone doesn’t always fix what’s broken. It just leaves you with blood on your hands.”

Your throat tightened, the words sticking. He was too close now, the tension between you buzzing like a static current.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it.

“Don’t be.” His words were soft as he pulled you closer. There was always a hint of warmth in his eyes, an unspoken kindness you admired.

The room felt smaller now, more heated. You opened your mouth to respond, but his words had stolen all the air from your lungs.

He leaned in, his voice dropping. “It’s easy to talk about morality in the abstract. But when you’re staring someone in the face—when it’s a real person, and not just an idea—it gets a lot harder to play God.”

Shit.

He was right.

Maybe utilitarianism wasn’t a steadfast rule. Maybe it couldn’t be, not when you factored in the messy, unpredictable depths of human existence. Lives weren’t just numbers to balance on a scale—they were stories, choices, pain, hope. And Bucky… Bucky was proof of that.

Your thoughts churned as you looked at him.

You felt your conviction unravel. It wasn’t just that his argument was sound—though it was (infuriatingly so)—it was the way he’d delivered it, the personal truth lending it undeniable power. And that’s when it hit you. That’s why you found him so damn attractive.

Sure, he was gorgeous. The sharp lines of his jawline, the piercing blue of his eyes, the way his Henley stretched over his shoulders like it had been designed with him in mind. But that wasn’t it. Not entirely.

It was him. His humanity. His thoughtfulness. The kindness that softened the edges, the depth that came from wrestling with his own darkness and coming out better on the other side.

And he was brilliant. For the first time, you felt like you’d met your match. Someone who met you on your turf and stood his ground, someone who didn’t just nod along or agree to avoid conflict. Someone who could challenge you, who could look you in the eye and make you see the world differently.

You thought you’d built your worldview on unshakable foundations, but he’d cracked it wide open, and now all you could do was stare at him with the dawning realisation that this wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper, something that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.

He wasn’t just a match for you physically; he was your intellectual equal—a rare kind of connection that made your pulse race and left your thoughts spinning.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think it through, you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was impulsive—a collision of lips born from the fiery tension that had simmered between you for weeks. It was everything unsaid, every glance, every near touch that had lingered just a fraction too long, all boiling over in one moment. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, but then something in him snapped. His hands found you, pulling you closer, his grip possessive, almost desperate. Your hands made their way through the soft strands of his hair, landing comfortably around his neck.

The kiss, slow at first, quickly became frantic. Neither of you could get enough. The only thing that mattered was him—his lips on yours, his touch, the way his body pressed against you like a promise.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against yours, his lips curled into a breathless smile. For a second, he could forget about everything that has happened to him. For a second, he was truly, utterly safe in your arms.

“I didn’t think you were the type to kiss someone in the middle of a moral argument about Batman,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his lips grazing yours with every word, sending shivers down your spine.

“And I didn’t think you’d let me,” you replied, your voice laced with a mischievous edge.

His eyes darkened, his smile widening just enough to make your heart race before he closed the distance again, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. This time, it wasn’t careful or calculated—it was raw, fervent, consuming. Your back hit the desk behind you, his hands sliding around your waist and around the curve of your bum, firm and deliberate, setting every nerve in your body on fire.

“The books,” he mumbled against your lips, glancing at the teetering stack beside you, the volumes threatening to topple.

“I don’t care,” you said breathlessly, and to prove your point, you swiped the entire stack to the floor with a crash. The sound echoed, but you barely heard it over the roaring thump of your heartbeat in your ears.

They weren’t too rare. You’ll just put them on the discount aisle tomorrow.

His response was a low, guttural groan, his lips finding yours again, His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tilt back, exposing the sensitive curve of your neck. He didn’t waste the opportunity, his lips and teeth trailing along your skin, finding the spot just below your ear that made you gasp.

“Did I manage to change your mind this time?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and unsteady as his lips brushed against your jaw, then lower, tracing a heated path along your collarbone.

You managed a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the veins under his skin, his muscles tensing under your touch. “Okay, so maybe ‘the greatest good for the greatest number’ isn’t always the best approach when you’re the one holding the short end of the categorical imperative,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire.

His laugh was husky, his hands lower to grip your thighs, pushing himself flush against you. “God, you’re something else,” he said, his lips finding yours again, this time slower, deeper, as though savoring you. When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “Do you want to go on a date?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” you asked, breathless. With your hands trailing over the planes of his chest, his breath mingling with yours, it seemed a bit out of order, but you weren’t about to complain.

“Yes,” he said, his words dead serious despite the way his hands clutched at your shirt, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He kissed the spot slowly, firmly, making your legs feel numb. “I mean it,” he added, his voice softer, yet no less insistent.

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him into another kiss, the kind that left no room for doubt about your answer. “Then yes,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “We’re going to have a lot to talk about.”

And boy, were you excited to talk to this man— a man who could turn the simplest circumstances into a philosophical debate, someone who wasn’t afraid to dispute your ideals.

Someone who was your match.

“Later,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with need, his hands trailing up to tug his henley over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs, but you didn’t have time to appreciate it before he was kissing you again, his bare skin pressed against you as he lifted your shirt off. “We can talk later.”

-end.

336 notes · View notes

aquaticmercy · 3 days ago

Text

Waste a Moment / Part 12

Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.

Requested by : @remoony

Word count : 2.8k

Note : Hi all!!! Got a lot of messages and comments in the last couple of days but have been busy so bear with me while I catch up! Please let me know if I miss anyone on the tags!!! Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

"Out in the Dark"

Saturday evening.

Hours bled into an endless stream of time after he left, the lock on the door clicking like the final nail in the coffin. You’d felt your world shatter like brittle glass, splintering into a thousand jagged shards, each one a reflection of a future you’d foolishly imagined with him.

You hadn’t just kicked him out of your home; you’d ripped him out of your life, your heart, leaving behind a cold void of absolutely fucking nothing.

You were starting back at square one. Again.

His voice still lingered, a ghost haunting the room, quiet and pleading, cracking with a fragility you’d never heard before. He’d tried to explain, hoping you might understand.

But you weren’t going to give him the luxury of hope. Not anymore.

You could still remember how he looked at you then, eyes bottomless blue pit of despairs as he begged you to listen, to hear the truth he was too afraid to voice until it was too late.

But all you could see was betrayal.

You sank onto the couch, knees folding beneath you, arms crossing over your chest in a feeble attempt to hold yourself together. Your fingers dug into your sides as if you could press the splintered pieces of yourself back into place.

Then, a sharp knock disrupted the veneer of calm you’d built around yourself. Startled, a jolt of white-hot fury flared up in you.

Of course, he’d come back.

You’d told him to leave, and he hadn’t listened. He never did. Did he think that if he could just say the right thing, everything would be okay?

“I told you to leave!” you yelled, your voice cracking under the strain of false strength.

After a moment’s hesitation, a familiar voice seeped through the door. “It’s me,” You heard through the door, “I… I heard what happened. I thought you might need a friend.”

You froze, the breath catching in your throat.

It wasn’t Bucky.

It was Yelena.

How dare she show up here, now, pretending to be a friend when she’d known all along? She’d been part of the lie, part of the deception that destroyed the illusion of your waking nightmare. Sure, it explained why she was mad, why she looked like she would’ve killed Bucky if she could— but that was no excuse to be complicit for as long as she had.

“No,” you spat. “You don’t get to show up like everything’s fine. You knew, Yelena. You knew, and you didn’t say a word.”

If she had been hiding this from you, what else was a lie?

The silence was broken only by a weary sigh. “I was going to,” she admitted quietly. “I told him to, but he… he was scared. And I gave him time… I thought it should come from him.”

Her gaze fell to her feet, almost as if she couldn’t bear to look at the door.

She knew she should have told you. But now, hearing all that joyous life drained from your voice… she wasn’t so sure if she could’ve.

Maybe she didn't tell you because she didn’t want to be the one to see your heart break. Now confronted with this, she realised that maybe all that anger, all that big talk to Bucky was… all a facade.

She started wondering, maybe, deep down, when the time came,— when her ultimatum needed to be fulfilled— if she would have faced you at all. Maybe she had given Bucky a week, more time than he deserved, because she needed time to brace herself for the fallout. And now that the moment was here... she realised she wasn’t ready after all.

She wasn’t ready to see you empty. Hollow. Broken.

Just as she couldn’t see you after your injuries.

In its own twisted way, it was a mercy to her that you didn't let her in, that she couldn't see the state you were in.

You laughed then, a bitter sound that tasted like ash on your tongue. “And look where that got us.”

Yelena leaned on your door, dropping down to the floor. She didn’t care if your neighbours walked on her like this— she just wanted to try to save a sliver of connection, any crumb she would give you.

She only ever wanted you to be happy.

“But it is real,” she insisted, her voice dropping to a whisper. It was a kind of sorrow you hadn’t heard from her before. She’s reverting back to the thick Russian accent, thicker than she’s had for years, in this moment of vulnerability. “The way he feels about you, even when I hated him for not telling you. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he said your name.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. She sounded like she was pleading, begging you to see something you couldn’t, wouldn’t allow yourself to see.

“I knew he wasn’t kind to you before,” she continued, the words tumbling out. “But I think… I think he loved you then, too. Back then he… he always made sure there was always one of your favourite donuts left in the fridge. He made sure to always buy your favourite tea to stock up the training kitchen. He once asked me what… um… what your favourite flowers were so he could put it in a vase in the common room.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the memory of his distant, haunted eyes flashing through your mind.

After your memories were wiped, you spent so many nights staring into his piercing eyes as if it was a never-ending abyss, trying to find a way in, trying to reach the part of him that seemed determined to stay locked away. You’d thought you had. You’d thought you’d finally reached him.

But you hadn’t. Not even close.

“I don’t know if I can believe that,” you choked out. “I don’t even know what to believe anymore.”

“I’m not lying.” Yelena’s voice cut through your spiralling thoughts, but you had no reason to believe her. “The Bucky you told me made you feel safe— he’s real. Maybe I... I couldn’t bring myself to shatter the peace you found.”

She remembered all those years spent hoping Natasha was happy, that she was okay, that she was safe. And then, in an instant, all of that hope was stripped away.

Maybe it was the same with you. After your injuries and memory loss, you weren’t just a new beginning for Bucky, but for Yelena, too—an opportunity to feed her saviour complex. Maybe she needed an excuse to protect you from Bucky, who only ever wanted your happiness, too.

Maybe they had both been approaching this all wrong. Maybe she shouldn’t have sparred with him that night, leaving him bruised. Maybe she shouldn’t have antagonised him. Maybe she should have encouraged him, worked with him, instead of standing in his way.

You could feel the anger slipping away from your fingertips. You didn’t want to believe her, didn’t want to let that tiny flicker of hope take root.

Because if you did, it meant facing the possibility that maybe, just maybe, there was something left to salvage.

And that took work.

You were exhausted— all you did for months was work and work to get a tiny piece of yourself back. What if you just wanted to let go altogether?

“I should have told you sooner,” Yelena murmured, voice barely a whisper now, “We both should have told you sooner.”

She never meant for you to find out this way—she had hoped that either she or Bucky could explain the context behind his actions. But now you've seen everything—the raw truth, stripped of memories or emotions to soften the blow. You couldn’t remember what you’d once felt for Bucky, couldn’t fill in the gaps on your own— and wouldn’t listen anymore.

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, hot and stinging as it traced the curve of your cheeks.

After what felt like an eternity, you heard her exhale, a soft, defeated sigh. “I’ll go,” she said quietly. “But… don’t let this destroy you both.”

Sunday.

The next day, Bucky stood outside Happy’s office at the compound, teeth clenched so tightly he could feel the strain in his temples. His body was hot with frustration, bitterness curling through him like smoke from a slow-burning fire that had been left for far too long.

He hadn’t slept, hadn’t even bothered trying to—every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was you.

The look on your face, the look of hurt and betrayal. The shock, the disbelief as you told him to leave. For the first time since he’d known you, you felt… small.

That image had made a home in his mind, festering until he could feel it like a sickness spreading under his skin.

Now, out here in the hallway, he felt he was being torn apart from the inside out. His chest was heavy, his hands shaking with a rage that had no target. Every barrier he’d put up over the years to keep himself calm had crumbled. Now, his mere existence was just a raw, open wound, bleeding fury and self-loathing.

He hated Happy for showing you the footage. He hated himself for letting it come to this. He hated fucking everything. But more than anything, he hated the truth he was beginning to confront, a splinter that he’d ignored until it was too deep to pull out.

With a deep breath, he pushed open the door, his metal hand slamming against the wood. The loud, brutal sound echoed through the room, and Happy looked up from his tablet. Sam, sitting across from him, raised an eyebrow..

“What the hell were you thinking?” Bucky’s voice was rough, nearly a growl, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “She wasn’t ready for that!”

Happy’s expression tightened as he set down the tablet. Sam turned back, arms folded across his chest, leaned back.

As Bucky's anger burned, he caught the look in Happy’s eyes—a flash of real fear, his line of sight fixed on Bucky’s metal arm with paranoia, shoulders closing in as if bracing for a blow.

No.

His reaction pulled Bucky back from rage that had consumed him, a cold dread quickly replacing it instead.

He’d seen that look— that fear— a thousand times as the Winter Soldier.

On his victims.

He forced himself to breathe, to loosen his fists and soften his stance. He didn’t want anyone to fear him like that ever again. Not now. Not ever.

Especially not Happy, who only meant well. Not Happy, who cared about you.

“Good morning to you, too, Buck,” Sam replied, tone sharp but calm, cutting through Bucky’s anger like a blade. “Maybe take a second before you start throwing blame around for your mess.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched tighter, a tendon twitching in his knuckles. He forced his gaze back to Happy. “I’m not blaming you,” he said, his voice calmly grating against the words. “But she didn’t need to see that.”

Happy looked down, a small look of misplaced guilt in his eyes. “I… I assumed she knew everything.”

“You can’t just assume these things,” Bucky was trying everything— everything in his power to stop the anger from bubbling.“You can’t just keep this from me.”

Beside them, Sam let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. He looked pointedly at Bucky, an edge of irony in his otherwise cool voice. “You’re one to talk.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, to defend himself, but Sam raised a hand, silencing him with no room to protest.

“Look, man, I get that you didn’t want to hurt her,” Sam’s tone softened slightly, trying to cut through Bucky’s defences. “But you’ve been handling this wrong from the start.”

“I only wanted to protect her.” Bucky said, his tone tinged with sadness, by a guilt he didn’t want to acknowledge. “She’s been through enough.”

Sam’s expression hardened, the warmth fading from his eyes. “Protect her from what? The truth? From you?”

The words struck Bucky like a punch, leaving him exposed, vulnerable in a way he fucking hated. He knew Sam was right, but admitting that was like swallowing broken glass.

“I was going to tell her,” Bucky muttered, the words weak even to his own ears, flimsy excuses for his failure.

Sam’s gaze sharpened, eyebrows raised in doubt. “Were you?” he asked, voice laced with scepticism. “Or were you just hoping she’d never find out?”

Bucky stared at the floor, words caught in his throat as shame rose like a frostbite nipping on his cheeks. He knew the answer, even if he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

He had hoped for that once, but that hope had been selfish, born out of a desperation he was too terrified to confront.

“If you love her,” Sam continued, “you’ve got to own up to it.”

“How do I even begin?” Bucky shook his head, hands fisting at his sides as he tried to hold onto the last shreds of his resolve. “I wasn’t in a good place back then. I didn’t know how to… handle things. I didn’t even want to let her in. But now? Now, I—”

Happy interrupted him, a gentle understanding in his voice. “Then tell her that.”

Bucky’s head lowered, eyes fixed on the ground. Sam shook his head, frustration etched deep in his features.

“Come on,” Sam said, voice softer but tainted with disappointment. “You can’t expect her to fill in the blanks. You can’t keep pretending like the past doesn’t matter just because it’s easier for you.”

Bucky’s fists tightened, his frustration slowly bleeding away, leaving behind a hollow space in his chest.

Finally, Bucky looked up, deep lines of exhaustion etched on his forehead. “What if she doesn’t want me anymore?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Sam furrowed his eyebrows, pity in his voice. “That’s not for you to decide.”

It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was an overwhelming regret, a bitter knowledge that he had robbed you of something he himself had fought for— choice. He had taken away your ability to choose for yourself, just as Hydra had taken it from him. They had stripped him of his free will, turned him into a weapon, a shell of a man. And now, unknowingly, in your most vulnerable state he’d done the same to you.

It almost didn’t matter that he meant well.

He had spent so long trying to protect you from his past, trying to keep you safe from the darkness that lived inside him. But all he’d done was push you closer to his guilt.

He’d let his love for you warp into something possessive— he’d let it twist into the worst kind of love.

Suddenly, a piercing alarm blared throughout the compound. Red emergency lights started flaring as FRIDAY’s voice echoed coldly through the speakers.

“Intruder detected at Hangar One.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, a sick, sudden dread forming in his gut. He and Sam exchanged a single glance before they broke into a sprint down the hallway. Behind them, Happy picked the tablet back up, “Show me cameras, FRIDAY.”

“Cameras in Hangar One are damaged,” FRIDAY’s voice cut in.

Bucky’s stomach twisted. He knew who it was before he even reached the hangar— knew it with a certainty that terrified him to his core.

They skidded to a stop at the open doors of the hangar just as the quinjet’s engines roared to life, its sleek outline gleaming under the overhead lights. There you were, your hands gripping the controls, eyes fixed on the holographic map.

For one heartbreaking second, you looked up just as Bucky reached the hangar entrance.

Your eyes met his through the glass, and in that instant, Bucky felt his world collapse.

The look on your face was one he knew he would never forget: a storm of emotions—hurt, betrayal, sorrow, and the faintest hint of something like goodbye.

He raised a hand as if he could reach you, almost pleading, but you were already looking away, turning back to the controls as if you couldn’t bear to see him one second longer.

“No,” he whispered, voice raw and breaking, the word swallowed by the whine of the engines.

The quinjet began to rise, and for a second, he thought you might stop. That maybe there was still time to make things right, to find the words— that you’d let him explain. But then the jet shimmered, the cloaking system engaged, vanishing into the air.

A haunting silence filled the hangar as the engines faded to the distance.

Bucky’s arm dropped, his chest feeling like it had been ripped open. He felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder, but it did little to stop the despair clawing through him.

He had lost you before.

But this time, he was afraid he might have lost you forever.

-to be continued...

Taglist: @hzdhrtss @irisk12 @tayyyystan @seventeen-x @lomlbuckybarnes