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flowstatefic · 9 days ago

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I Would Let the World Burn

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Non-superhero!Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You attend a public Avengers event as Bucky’s girlfriend for the first time, but things spiral from nerves to chaos in a matter of seconds. And when you’re caught in the crossfire, Bucky unleashes.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: violence; injury; PTSD elements; emotional distress; explosions; mass panic; allusions to death; protective!Bucky; nobody hurts his girl; seriously, he’s a little feral here

Author’s Note: I need protective Bucky all day and all night omg. Thank you so much, my love, for this absolutely amazing request!! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The lights are everywhere.

Glinting off skyscraper windows and camera lenses, bouncing off metallic armor and too-white smiles.

The voices are everywhere. They swarm like bees - the press, the fans, the murmuring of people watching people.

The flash of the cameras is a strobe light stinging the back of your eyes. Reporters shout questions like bullets, flinging them past your ears and into your chest.

You feel your lungs shrinking in your ribcage as if they’ve decided you’ve seen enough. Felt enough. Been too much.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not in this crowd, not in this dress, not in front of a hundred reporters and their glittering cameras. Not in the spotlight. Not on the arm of the Bucky Barnes.

You tug at the hem of your dress, fingers nervous, breath catching on a sigh you don’t release. Everyone here looks like they belong - as if they were born to walk red carpets and sip sparkling drinks under light that only blinds you. You feel like an ink smudge on a page of golden script.

It’s the first time you’re out in the public with him. The first time the press will capture who’s been speculated to be the former Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

Bucky spent the night whispering reassurances into your skin, but it seems you should have listened to his words rather than the feeling of his plump lips all over your body.

Your hand is in his, and his thumb traces slow circles against you, metal fingers warm from your skin. His other hand rests lightly on your back. He hasn’t let go of you once.

You look up at him.

And he’s already looking at you.

He looks perfect, tailored, controlled, dangerous in a way that makes people stare too long and then look away even faster.

His hair is swept back tonight, save for one defiant strand that keeps falling across his brow. You keep watching that strand as if it’s a lifeline. Like if you can count how many times it falls, maybe your nerves will shut the hell up.

You know he feels how tense you are.

He frowns, and it’s so soft it nearly breaks your heart. That Bucky Barnes can frown like that. As if you just told him you were fading into dust.

“Hey,” Bucky coos, voice soft, voice low, the world dissolving for a second into nothing but him and you. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You try to nod. But you can’t lie to him. Words jam in your throat, caught somewhere between the beat of your heart and the reality of who he is and who you are not.

“I just-” you manage, but it’s a little shaky, you look around. “I feel out of place.”

Bucky tilts his head, brow still furrowed tightly. “Why?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Try to explain how it feels to be ordinary in a sea of extraordinary. How it feels to be his, but not one of them. How terrifying it is to not have armor, or training, or anything more than love for a man who could kill with his pinky finger and kindness in his eyes just for you.

Bucky steps in close, crowding the noise out with the breadth of his body, his warmth, the familiarity of his scent - cedar and cold and something quietly him. His nose brushes yours, and it’s stupid how it grounds you.

“I’d rather be anywhere else,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I’d rather be nowhere. Just me and you. On a rooftop. Under the sheets. In the woods. I don’t care. Just not here. No noise. No cameras. No Stark in a tuxedo with a martini making bad decisions.”

You laugh, and it trembles out of you.

His smile is all softness and secret promises. His eyes are glinting. “But if I have to be here - then I'm glad it’s with you.”

The way he says it - quiet, low, as if it’s something he only ever told the wind - freezes everything inside you and sets it on fire all at once.

You blink, and the fear stutters. Collapses a little. Because it’s not you and the Avengers. It’s you and Bucky.

His lips graze your ear, then your temple, taking his time. He’s not bothered at all by the cameras flashing around you, capturing this moment, capturing the Winter Soldier going soft on his girlfriend.

You want to fall into him. You want to crawl into his chest and live there.

You let out a breath. It’s just beginning to feel okay. The world quiets just for a second.

Then it explodes.

There’s a metallic whine, a rumble like thunder swallowed by stone. The ground jerks beneath your feet as though it’s trying to shake you off. Screams tear through the air. A plume of smoke mushrooms in the sky as fire roars from the far end of the pavilion. People scatter. Glass shatters. Concrete buckles.

You don’t even have time to be shocked when Bucky already reacts.

He pushes you behind him so fast your teeth snap together. He doesn’t look back. His body shields yours, metal arm braced outward, flesh hand pressing you into his back, eyes scanning for threats.

Another explosion cracks through the sky, rips through the atmosphere like an angry god. And right after, the next explosion follows, punched through the sky like a fist made of fire.

You cough, eyes watering. There’s debris. Someone’s car door skitters across the ground like a dead insect. Tony’s suit whirs to life across the square. Natasha’s already sprinting. Sam is in the air.

Bucky is moving, dragging you behind a line of armored cars, his body is coiled with tension, his expression is deadly serious.

“Stay here!” he orders. It’s his soldier voice. Cold steel and no argument. He’s never used this voice on you before.

“Bucky-”

“Y/n, stay down,” he barks sharply, and you nearly flinch. But his tone is not filled with anger. It’s filled with fear. “Do not move until I come back for you.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might break your ribs. Your head is shaking from side to side so fast, you can’t do anything. “No- Bucky-”

He cups your face, his hands stiff, his hold almost rough. He leans in. “Stay. Here,” he growls. “I can’t do this if I’m worried about you.”

His eyes tell you he already is. He will be. But he doesn’t tell you.

He waits for you to nod, although he doesn’t have the time. An almost aggressive kiss is pressed to your mouth, then to your forehead, and he is gone. Thrown into chaos, lost in the smoke and fury and shouts.

You barely register the space he leaves behind. The smoke moves like a creature through the crowd, making people disappear wholly. Somewhere nearby, there’s another explosion. The screams rise again, louder.

You crouch lower, press yourself against the cold steel of the car, try to breathe through the hammer in your chest. You want to do what he said. You try to do what he said.

But the panic moves toward you.

You don’t see where it starts. Just feel it. A shove. A push. Someone collides with your hiding place, someone is behind you and suddenly you’re on the ground. White-hot pain at your side. You fall hard enough to see stars. A sharp ache slices down your shoulder where debris must have caught you. Blood runs hot and slick beneath your dress.

Disoriented, you try to push up on trembling arms but they shake too much, and everything is spinning.

You don’t see the soldier until you turn your head and there’s a flash of metal in his hand. A knife.

“Y/n!”

It’s your name. It’s Bucky’s voice. It’s not a shout. It’s a roar. As if it was ripped out of his chest. As if he’s afraid of what he’ll find when he gets to you.

From fifty yards away, across smoke and bodies and fire, he sees the blood blooming on your sleeve. Sees your fingers twitch as you try to sit up. Sees the man with the knife coming too close.

And he is barreling through the smoke like something unholy, eyes wild, teeth clenched, hands balled to fists. The light behind his eyes just snaps.

He moves as though he’s been set free. No hesitation. No fear. No softness left in him. His face is stone, is fury, is death, is Winter Soldier. His arm gleams under the flames, a ghost of his past resurrected in defense of his present.

Bucky hits the guy with bone-crushing force, enough to send teeth skittering across pavement. A scream echoes once before it’s cut off. Another blow. Another. Fist to face. Elbow to jaw. A crunch that sounds like death and rage all rolled into one. His vibranium hand wraps around the man’s throat, and you swear you see something flash in his eyes - something ancient and broken - before Bucky picks him up and slams him against a crumbling wall. Again. And again.

It’s not strategy. It’s not mercy. It’s pure rage.

Somewhere, Steve yells his name like a warning.

Bucky doesn’t stop.

“Bucky-” you croak, blood warm down your arm. You try to sit up.

In an instant, he turns back to you, easing up on his brutal hold and the soldier crumples to the ground. Bucky’s whole body is tight with adrenaline, his breath sawing in and out as though he ran through a warzone - which he kind of did. For you. His eyes find yours and shatter.

He’s at your side in half a breath.

“Baby,” he whispers, hands on your face, on your shoulder, trembling now. “No, no, no. You weren’t supposed to be- I told you to stay-”

“I tried,” you defend weakly, dizzy. “I didn’t- I’m okay. I think. Just- grazed me, maybe-”

But he’s not hearing you. Not through the panic tearing holes in his composure. His hands flutter, unsure where to land without hurting you more. His voice drops, gravelly and hushed. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. Shit, I should’ve known-”

“Hey.” You grab his wrists. “Bucky.”

He stills, but he won’t meet your eyes. Your thumb brushes the inside of his wrist. “I’m okay.”

But he’s too far in his head.

He wraps you in his arms in seconds, cradles you as if you’re made of moonlight and scripture, as if you’re hallowed and half-broken and held together by threads only he can see.

His metal hand supports your back, curved protectively around your spine. His other hand is pressing your legs into his chest.

The darkening sky is still full of smoke and sirens.

Colors smear across the sky like blood in water. Reds and blues. Shouting and static. Flashing lights and fractured ground. Somewhere nearby, someone is screaming. Somewhere farther, something explodes.

But not for him anymore. He doesn’t seem to hear anything. Doesn’t seem to listen to anything other than your breathing, your pulse.

He walks fast, but carefully. Erratic feet cut through rubble, his jaw is locked so hard, his body so rigid, he surely is in pain from holding all that tension. His eyes are storm-dark and unblinking. No one stops him. Not Steve. Not Tony. Not even the medics who see the look on his face and take a cautious step back as though maybe the devil borrowed his bones tonight.

He never trusted any random medic to look you over. It has to be someone he knows.

You whisper his name.

Soft. Breathless. Almost an apology.

And he almost drops to his knees.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, hoarse and urgent. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You know you are. But he doesn’t.

Your fingers curl in the collar of his suit jacket. His real name - James - lives on your tongue but never quite makes it out because he’s holding you too close, and perhaps saying his name might crush him completely.

He smells like smoke and ash and steel and blood. Your temple is tucked against the curve of his neck, where his pulse thunders beneath the surface. He’s warm and shaking.

He bursts into the quinjet that brought you here like a man on fire, like a man trying to outpace grief, and he yells something sharp. He lays you down - reluctantly, tenderly, surrendering - onto a stretcher, but his hands don’t stop touching you.

He’s a storm with a purpose, and that purpose is you.

You, safe.

You, whole.

You, alive.

“Bucky,” you try to ease, blinking up at him, face pale under flickering emergency lights. “I told you, baby. It’s not that bad.” Your voice is soft. Slow.

“You were on the ground.” His voice cracks.

“I was on the ground for like two seconds-”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It stopped, baby. Okay? There’s no fresh blood.” You are close to whispering.

Bucky doesn’t seem eased, though. He sits beside you. Big body bent in half, elbows on knees, one trembling hand reaching to gently - so, so gently - brush your hair from your forehead.

And then he says it.

“I would’ve burned the whole goddamn city to get to you.” Quiet. Like a vow. Like a confession. Like faith. Like a truth, he doesn’t know how to carry anymore. “I would’ve torn down buildings with my bare hands if I didn’t see your breathing. I don’t care who saw. I don’t care what they think-” his voice breaks, his breaths spill all over his words. “I can’t be okay without you.”

You stare up at him. Your throat is tight, eyes are stinging. Because he doesn’t say things like that. Not often. Not out loud. You see it in his eyes every day, in the way he looks at you, in the way he treats you. But it’s something else entirely to hear him form those words and let his tongue roll them out.

He presses his forehead to yours. His breath ghosts over your lips. His eyes are closed. His hand cups the back of your head.

He’s holding you so close to him, as if he’s never intending to let go ever again.

#oh my god shut up #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #avengers bucky #bucky x reader angst #bucky x y/n #im actively crashing out #protective Bucky is like a drug to me

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flowstatefic · 9 days ago

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Spaces (B.B.) - Part 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 4.9k

Themes: assumed unrequited love, emotional distance and physical distance, fear of rejection, neither bucky nor reader are capable of face-to-face vulnerability, emotional baggage, past hurt, regrets, what ifs, complicated futures, emotional angst

Warnings: Emotional angst, separation, isolation, loneliness, subtle trauma if you squint, abandonment issues, bucky is his own warning, THIS MAN CAN YEARN LIKE A MF and he's constantly just...he's bucky. you get it. random lowercase writing, I was too lazy to go back and fix it, i don't think I missed anything, please let me know if I did and I will correct!

Summary: Once partners on the run, you and Bucky shared a silent bond that deepened into unspoken love—until you left without a word to escape the pain. Years later, he calls you back, and you’re pulled into a tense reunion neither of you expected. Lonely and guarded, you've already find solace in anonymous messages with a stranger, only to find yourself conflicted when you're reunited with Bucky in New York. Some feelings can’t be outrun, and some pasts never truly fade.

YOU KNOW THE DEAL BABIES: More below the cut.

You almost felt bad, now that you were in your room, door closed; music playing as you feigned getting ready for your “lunch date”. There was a knock at your door, and you sighed, sitting up on your bed as you debated whether to open it.

“It’s open,” you called finally, turning your music down.

The door cracked, and Bucky poked his head in, earning a disgruntled sigh from you as you flopped back down on the bed. His hair looked perfect. He wore the red henley that you had told him years ago that you loved to see him in. No jacket, since it was midsummer and humid. His jeans a deep blue.

“Came to see if you wanted me to walk you to your date,” he said softly, never crossing the threshold into the room.

You shook your head, before giving him a soft, “no thank you.”

He sighed, shaking his head. His perfectly styled hair flopped down as he looked to the ground.

“You get ditched?” He asked, pushing the door slightly further, toes crossing over onto your carpet. You shook your head, eyes fixed on the screen of your phone.

“Pushed it back, later this evening.” Another lie.

You didn’t have it in you to explain the situation to him. You weren’t even sure that you could have, if you wanted to. How do you explain a dating app to someone that was going on dates before every house even had a landline in it, let alone an anonymous dating app?

He nodded, quietly.

“Well, just remember that I’ll come rescue you, if you need me,” he offered, hair still flopped over, stubble still barely there, still enough to break the hearts of every woman within the tri-state area.

You forced yourself to look back to your phone, away from him.

“Thanks, Buck,” you mumbled, “but I’m good.”

He sighed, looking up at you and shaking his head.

“Can I-” he started, pausing, eyes flicking to the floor before looking back up, “can I come in?”

You sighed, lifting your head, and propping yourself up on your elbow.

“Sure,” you said finally, your tone non-committal, trying not to sound irritated, but also not succeeding.

He came in slowly, just barely past the door, gently pushing it closed before leaning against it, as if he wasn’t allowed any further than that. You almost scoffed at the visual.

Everything was different, now. Different than it had been, years ago. And you knew that you shouldn’t be comparing situations, even if they involved the same people, but you couldn’t help herself.

Years ago, in an apartment in Bucharest, he didn’t even knock before coming into your room. Didn’t ask if he could come in, just marched in, sitting next to you and spouting off whatever was on his mind, immediately.

There was no tension, there was laughter, there was a sense of ease that just… died, one day. The day that you disappeared.

You blinked, hard, breaking yourself from your thoughts when he cleared his throat across the room.

“So,” he started, arms crossed over his chest, brows raised high and tight, “you and Bob have gotten close.”

You nodded slowly, raising your brows to match his.

“And?” you asked, dropping your phone onto your stomach, leaning your head back slightly. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We,” he started again, shaking his head as if deciding whether he should say anything or not, “we used to be close,” he said finally, voice soft, “close like that.”

You sighed through your nose, closing your eyes instead of rolling them.

“Yeah, well,” you said, unable to hide the irritated tone to your voice, “that was then. This is now. We’re not close anymore.”

He let out a harsh chuckle that sounded more like a bark, and shook his head, straightening his back off of the door.

“Don’t act like you don’t know why,” he said curtly, eyes down, “don’t act like it wasn’t you that put that distance there. You’re the one that left.”

You sat up now, staring daggers at him. You almost didn’t say anything, almost let the tension die out enough for him to walk out the door.

There wouldn’t be any coming back from this fight, and you knew it. But you couldn’t sit through the apprehensive feeling every time he came in the room anymore. So you decided to push back.

“Don’t act like there wasn’t a reason for me to leave, Barnes. You don’t get to act like you’re blameless in that.”

You paused, only to steady your voice, before continuing.

“You know why I left. You practically forced me out of there.”

Bucky’s shoulders were squared, as if he’d expected the blow, and his hands were balled into fists at his sides.

“You think I wanted you to leave? To disappear on me, when my life was falling apart all over again?” His voice was strained, clipped, sharp.

“No, what I wanted was a friend. Someone that could see me. Instead I got to relive the Winter Soldier, go to prison, spend time on the run from I don’t even know how many countries, and then go back in the ice while they tried to figure out how to fix me.”

You scoffed, trying to blow off how much his words had stung, and shook your head.

“If you think I wanted to go, you’re dead wrong. And look at you now, mister important. You’re a goddamn superhero. Revered by millions, swooned after by every woman you come across.”

His jaw was set, like he was gritting his teeth. His eyes flashed before he looked away again, breathing deeply through his nose and holding it, like he could force down the tempest in his chest.

“I didn’t ask you to leave me there,” he whispered.

“Yeah, well, I still came when you called. Like a well trained dog. Always following you around.”

His eyes flashed up at you, gaze almost softening, before he hardened it again. Just like he always did.

“So that’s what this is about,” he said, disbelief lacing every syllable.

Rage boiled in your chest, and you sat up fully.

“Excuse me, Sergeant, for trying to help you.”

He shook his head.

“I can’t do this, right now,” he muttered, eyes still on the floor. You barked out a laugh.

“Yeah, you have a date, remember? Can’t go sleep around with real emotions bubbling up.”

He looked up at you like he’d been slapped, then shook his head a single time, eyes downtrodden.

“Okay,” he said, defeat pulling his shoulders down, not enough for anyone to notice unless they knew him.

“Alright. Sorry for bothering you.” He turned to the door, gripping the handle.

“For what it’s worth, I hope you have a great time tonight.” The door swung open.

Penny in the air. You could take it all back. You could say what you’d wanted to say before you’d left. You could tell him everything. You shook your head.

“You too, Barnes.” He walked out of the room, pulling the door closed. Penny dropped.

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He stood outside of your bedroom door for far longer than he should have, after that. Hand still on the knob he’d used to pull the door closed, eyes still on his shoes.

He could still go back in there.

He could turn around, open the door, walk in like he used to do in Romania, have the knock down, drag out brawl they would have had back then.

But he didn’t. You weren’t his to fight. You hadn’t ever really been. If he’d been smarter in Romania, you wouldn’t have left before he’d had the chance to say all the things he wanted to say.

He rolled his shoulders, letting go of the doorknob. A deep breath to steel himself. A harsh shake of his head. A pinch to his nose.

He took the first step away, then the second. A hesitation, a heavy weight in his stomach.

No.

It wasn’t his place, it never was.

It never would be.

He walked the rest of the way down the hall, each step heavier than the rest. By the time he made it to the staircase to leave the tower, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

But he had places to be, and a lady to see, so he shook it off, pulling his phone from his pocket, typing out a message.

noattachments: Hi, sweetheart. Hopefully your day is going better than mine. Been a rough morning. See you soon. Can’t wait for that world class hug.

He didn’t hear the chime from your room. Or the soft chuckle that you let out before responding.

herghosts: Rough day here too. World class hugs are my specialty. You bring an appetite, I’ll bring my listening ears. See you soon.

He smiled at his phone before pocketing it and headed for the elevator. He had flowers to buy.

----------------------------------------------

You’d decided on jeans and an old faded t-shirt that you’d gotten in Bucharest.

Lubitule, it said, and you chuckled.

Bucky had found it for you at a little store in one of the many neighborhoods you’d lived in, bringing it inside with a shit-eating grin, throwing it at you before moving into the kitchen to unload the groceries.

‘It means my darling,’ he’d teased, ‘maybe then you’ll remember the right words to use when you’re flirting with people.’ you had laughed, chucking a shoe at him as he ducked behind the doorway.

You sighed, debating whether you should change before you left, but you were running out of time as it was, and you still had to pack a picnic basket. It would have to do. You straightened it one last time, checking your makeup in the mirror.

“That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” you whispered to yourself, grabbing your wallet and phone and shoving them into the cargo-style Dickies pants that you’d put on, before darting out of your room. You made your way down the stairs, no shoes on your feet; since you always left them by the door, and walked into the kitchen.

“Woah there,” John remarked, noting your outfit, hair, and makeup; giving you a thumbs up. “Very nice, you almost look harmless.”

You rolled your eyes, crouching down to grab the picnic basket that was in the cabinet below the counter, pulling it out and setting it by the stove.

“Very funny, Walker,” you teased, throwing a wink over your shoulder “I’m trying to make a good impression.”

He nodded again, raising his brows.

“It’s very cute-casual,” he said, glancing back to his book, “you’re gonna do great, kid.”

You opened the fridge with a laugh, shaking your head.

“If you say so.”

You pulled out a pack of strawberries, some cut up cucumbers and bell peppers, a container of hummus, two sodas, and two waters, placing them in the basket carefully.

“Hey, Walker,” you said, earning a quick look from John, “where should I go to get a good sandwich?”

He laughed at you, shaking his head.

“The bodega down on the corner. Tell him John sent you, and you need 2.”

You grinned, closing the basket.

“Thank you, dear,” you said softly, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his cheek.

“Wish me luck,” you whispered, making your way towards your shoes and slipping them on, picnic basket swinging on your arm.

“You don’t need it, Blitz,” he called back to you, earning another laugh. The elevator dinged, doors opening. You opened her phone, and sent your location to Bob, and to John.

Just in case (:

You typed out, before locking your phone and poking it back into your pocket.

You made it to the bodega just in time to see a crowd of people walking in, and froze. You took a breath before walking in just like the rest of them.

“Hi,” a man said from behind the counter, “can I help you?”

You smiled sweetly at him, balancing the picnic basket on your hip as you leaned closer to him.

“John Walker sent me, he said to tell you I need 2 sandwiches.”

The man grinned, nodding his head.

“Coming right up, sweet cheeks.”

You smiled in thanks, laughing when he threw you a wink.

A few moments and $35 later, two sandwiches were nestled into the basket, along with a bag of chips and a pack of cookies. You thanked the man again, making your way out of the bodega and towards the park.

Your chest felt heavy, as if someone was sitting on it, and your stomach was in knots, but youput one foot in front of the other, marching towards the park. Your phone chimed, and you opened it to see a message.

noattachments: Hey sweetheart. I’m at the park. No sign of you yet. I’m the grumpy looking guy in the red shirt. Also the only guy here carrying flowers and a blanket, as it turns out.

You smiled, pausing at the crosswalk to respond.

herghosts: On the way, darling. Stopped to get us sandwiches that come highly regarded by my roommate. About a block and a half away. I’ll be there in a flash! I’m in a maroon tee, and lugging around a picnic basket. See you soon.

You turned after the crosswalk, making your way to the park. You saw an older man at a bench, watching his granddaughter play on the swingset; several people going for runs, a group of people doing yoga in the grass.

Then you saw a man, standing next to a bench, flowers in hand, blanket tucked under his arm. Your blood ran cold.

“Bucky?” you whispered, thankful that you were far enough away that he hadn’t seen you yet, and stopped where you stood; eyes burning, panic rising in your throat. You couldn’t do this.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. It had to be a hallucination, a figment of your imagination. You fought the hope that was rising in your chest, hoping that he wouldn’t shut you out once he realized why you were here.

He probably would. He’d probably be embarrassed.

You shook your head, eyes on your shoes, and swallowed before picking your chin up to hold your head high. You weren’t going to back down, even though you wanted to.

His back was turned to you anyway, so you could pretend that you had no idea that it was him until you saw his face. Even though you could pick him out of crowd, in the middle of the night, with no light. You could find him in a hurricane, in the middle of a blizzard, on a mission in the middle of nowhere with no gps or comms.

You knew him more than you wanted to admit.

You’d play it off as if you were clueless, until he turned around.

“Excuse me,” you said as you walked up to him, voice soft and perky, “I’m supposed to meet someone here, and you match what he told me he’d be wearing.”

He was turning around now, and your breath caught in your throat. His head turned, eyes still scanning the people within the park as if assessing for threats, and he spoke without looking, at first.

“I know that this is out of the ordinar…y…” His eyes met yours, and his voice cracked. Panic flew across his face, and he took a step back, shaking his head. He turned around, looking at the ground.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he muttered, letting out a huff. You stood, stone-still, watching him process what exactly was happening. He was silent again, brooding, staring off into the skyline. You tried not to let yourself panic.

“She makes you laugh, huh?” you finally let out, forcing a light tease to your tone. He shook his head again, sighing and letting his head loll down. “Stole a piece of your heart and…what was it, again? Walked off with it?”

He sighed, turning back towards you.

“Don’t, please don’t,” he said, voice quiet. You felt your shoulders droop.

“If it’s any consolation, I almost bolted, when I saw you standing there,” you admitted, eyes on the grass next to you.

He chuckled, holding up the flowers.

“Well, these are for…you, I guess,” he said, voice almost clipped, as if he was forcing it out. You gave him a tight lipped smile, opening the picnic basket and grabbing a sandwich.

“And this is for you, I guess,” you said, a laugh bubbling up and out. He smiled then, shaking his head again, and moving towards the grass, rolling out the blanket.

“Might as well eat, I guess, huh?” he asked, looking back to you. You nodded, setting the basket down next to the blanket and helping him smooth it out. You were both silent, neither one of you looking up, looking anywhere but each other; the tension building before Bucky finally broke the silence.

“So you’re the girl I’ve been talking to for months, huh?” he asked, looking over to you. You shrugged.

“And you’re the guy I’ve been flirting with,” you added, reaching for the basket, “and, coincidentally, the one I’ve been complaining about.”

He laughed, reaching for the sandwich that you now held out to him.

“Complaining about me, to me, anonymously,” he chuckled, unwrapping the sandwich, “that’s one way to win a guy over, I guess.”

You laughed now, pulling out the rest of the food.

“I didn’t know that it was you, Buck,” you argued, handing him the soda that you’d just pulled from the basket. He took it, grinning at you.

“Never thought we’d be on a date,” he said softly. You snorted, unwrapping your sandwich.

You both sat on opposite ends of the blanket, close enough for an intimate conversation, close enough to hand things back and forth, but a safe enough distance away that you could pretend that it was just a friendly lunch, instead of a date.

“I say we tell everyone that we both got ditched, saw one another, decided to share the food, and that’s why we’re coming home at the same time, basically together.”

You almost didn’t catch the way he deflated - only barely, before nodding. But you did, and started to backtrack.

“I mean, unless you want to tell the entire tower that we’ve been flirting anonymously for almost a year, and then found out it was each other after planning an entire date.” You watched him while he weighed the pros and cons of both options.

“Fuck it,” he said finally, “I’ll tell them if you will.”

You snapped your gaze to his face, squinting at him. “Now is not the time to no balls me, Barnes.”

He winked at you, grinning as he took a bite of the sandwich.

“All I’m sayin, sweetheart,” he said, chewing as he spoke, “is that they would not see it coming. It would be hilarious to watch them scramble.” You leaned your head onto your shoulder, biting a strawberry.

“Alright,” you said after a pause, “let’s blow some minds.”

You locked eyes with him, almost daring him to back down. He just grinned at you, moving the flowers from behind him to be in between the two of you. Both of you knew that neither of you would say anything to anyone about it.

“Do you like them?” He asked, eyes darting down to the flowers before reaching your face again. You looked down at them. Yellow roses. A smile gently moved across your face, and you nodded gently.

“You remembered,” you whispered, fingers gently running across the ribbon that held them tightly closed. He smiled up at you.

“It’s the only flowers I ever get for anyone, anymore,” he admitted, “since you mentioned them in Romania.” You looked up at him, smiling despite your own shock that he had remembered. The mention of Romania made you tense up, after the argument that you’d had that morning. You sighed.

“Right,” you said, “Romania.”

He bit his sandwich, watching your face.

“What about it?” he asked, cocking his head to the right. You shrugged.

“Romania is just,” you trailed off, “difficult, for me,” you finally admitted. He nodded, swallowing the bite of his sandwich that he’d been chewing.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “Romania is hard for me too, dollface.”

His gaze was on the trees, instead of on you. He looked like there was more that he wanted to say, but couldn’t decide if it was the right thing to say, or if he should even bother. You watched him, silently, chewing on her sandwich.

A lot had changed since Romania. You were softer now, but more direct. You’d stopped seeing everyone as an enemy or a potential threat, opting now for a silent assessment of them from afar, instead of intimidating them into confessing their darkest secrets in the checkout line at the grocery store.

Your hair had changed colors half a dozen times, at least, and you’d admit to no one that you preferred to stay in, cozy on the couch with a hot tea and a book instead of tearing through cities blowing up buildings, anymore. But as you watched him, you realized that he had changed, too.

The Winter Soldier stiffness, as you’d coined it years ago, was softened, his posture less point-blank-scary and more generally-intimidating, but only when it needed to be. He had softened around the edges. His hair, while long again now, was at least clean, and well kept. His stubble had traces of grey.

The lines on his face were less harsh and angry, and more subtle, as if he’d spent time in the sun, squinting and laughing. He had real laugh lines, now. His arm was new, and lighter weight. It didn’t hang off of his body, making him uncomfortable and giving him sore muscles and backaches. It didn’t lock up or get stuck, and was more of an extension of him.

The only thing that never changed was the fierceness in his eyes, his own sense of justice, the way that he could see right through you. He was beautiful in Romania, there was no doubt in your mind. But now, in New York, no longer a hunted man; lounging on a blanket and eating a sandwich without a care in the world? He was more than beautiful. He was breathtaking.

“You’re staring,” he mumbled, wiping mustard from the corner of his mouth. You blinked, swallowing as you looked away.

“Sorry,” you muttered, focusing on the bug that was on the tip of your shoe, “I was just…” you trailed off.

He nodded, as if he was reading your mind,

“Miles away?” he asked, “Romania, perhaps?” There was a slight tease to his tone, and you looked back up at him, brows furrowed.

“How did you know?” you asked, leaning back onto your elbows. He shrugged.

“You’re wearing the shirt I got you in Romania, we almost had a knock-down, drag-out fight about it earlier, and you have that look on your face,” he listed off, “the same look that you always have when you’re thinking about it.”

You felt your ears flush, and you shook your head.

“Too observant, Barnes,” you groaned, looking away. “I just…” you trailed off, looking towards the birds that were flying in a flock above you, starting their trip south for the winter, formation tight. “I just wish we hadn’t drifted apart, sometimes,” you admitted, voice soft, still not looking at him. He snorted.

“Yeah,” he agreed again, “I wish we hadn’t, too. But we halfway had this argument this morning. We both know that the hurt’s too deep on both sides.” You sighed at his words, looking to him.

“We don’t have to fight. It doesn’t have to hurt,” you offered, handing him the strawberries. He hummed in response.

“Doesn’t have to,” he repeated, “but it still does.” There was a pause. A beat.

Penny in the air.

You could talk it out. Have it out right here, right now, in the park. Decide what to do with the pieces in the aftermath, after you got back to the tower.

He looked at you like he wanted to say everything he had held back in your room, but stayed quiet. It was your move. You shifted, moving to lay down on the blanket, and rested her head on her folded arm. A long, slow exhale.

“Why did you leave?” you asked, finally.

Penny dropped.

He sighed, matching your position on the other side of the blanket.

“I could ask you the same thing, sweetheart.”

You nodded. “You could. You’d hate the answer, though.”

He chuckled. “You’d hate mine too.”

You both laid there in silence for a few minutes; you, chewing your lip. Him, reliving the moment he decided to leave.

“I left because I didn’t know what else to do,” you said, finally breaking the silence, choosing your words carefully, “I’d been sitting on these complicated feelings for months, and I didn’t know what to do with them.”

He was stone-still next to you, holding his breath, waiting for you to say what he’d always been afraid that you would have said, if you hadn’t left.

“It was just so hard,” you continued, “because I knew you had things to accomplish. You needed to get him out of you, you had friends looking for you, there was a list of things that I knew that you needed to do.”

“Still is,” he admitted softly, “the bucket list never gets shorter.”

A joke, to ease the tension building in his chest. The build in his stomach that was threatening to bottom out once you said it. You shook your head.

“You know what I mean,” you said softly, “I didn’t want to–” he sat up, interrupting you.

“To see me get bad again,” he guessed, looking at the trees.

“What?” you asked incredulously, sitting up next to him, “No, James,” your tone soft, timid. “I was never afraid of you. I just didn’t want to hold you back.” You leaned back as he looked back at you, fixing your eyes on the clouds that rolled overhead.

“I’d been wrestling with it for months, Buck, these stupid, complicated feelings, and I didn’t even know if it was real.”

He was still looking at you, refusing to feel hopeful; refusing to let himself think that maybe you’d thought of him as anything other than a damaged weapon. You could feel his eyes on you.

“I left so that I could process it, you know? Figure it out.” You paused, eyes flitting to him before moving back skyward. “By the time I figured it out, you were gone. So I just picked up the pieces. Went back to work.”

He ran his hand down his face, wondering how it was possible for you to say so much, without really saying anything at all. A vague admission of sorts, without any real substance. Relying on him to read between the lines, fill in the blanks that you couldn’t say to his face; not now. You looked to him, waiting for him to respond. He nodded, not knowing what to say.

“I thought you’d left permanently,” He said finally, voice hoarse, trying to decide what he could say that would be enough without being too much for you to process. Trying to decipher what was a safe admission, and what would send you running again.

“So when Steve came back for me, and half of the law enforcement of Bucharest blew up the decoy apartment, I left a note for you, in case you came back. And I went back to the fight.”

You stared at him. You were both offering half truths, waiting on the other to put the heavy thing between you into words.

“I wish I hadn’t left,” you whispered, shrugging, “not in the way that I did. It wasn’t fair to you.”

He just nodded, lacing his flesh hand with his metal hand, letting out a sigh.

“I looked for you,” he admitted, after a pause, shaking his head and pushing his hair away from his face. “I spent two weeks scouring the city. Looking for some sign of life, some hint that you were okay, something tangible.”

You sat quietly, listening to his words, watching his back tense as he quietly gave you more half-truths.

“And then I thought, oh, the plums are in season again, she loves those. I should get some, in case she comes back.” A rueful laugh escaped his lips, sharp and tense. You fought the urge to sit up and reach across to him, the urge to lay a hand on his shoulder.

“And that’s what got me caught,” he whispered, rolling his eyes, leaning back and looking over to you, “the stupid fucking plums.”

You nodded, unsure if he would say anything else. After a few seconds of silence, you decided that it must be your turn to speak.

“I shouldn’t have left,” you say softly, trying to bandage the wound that's been festering for years, “but it felt like I was bleeding out. It felt like I was constantly holding my breath, holding onto these tiny moments where I felt like you were right on the cusp of…” you trailed off, shaking your head.

“Anyway,” you said, laying your hands in your lap, changing the subject and averting your gaze, “there’s nothing that we can do about it now.” You reach for the wrappers from your sandwiches, starting to tidy the mess.

His chest aches at your resignation, but he nods, handing you the basket to put the trash in. A tenseness settled back into your bones.

“Time to head back?” you asked, forcing a thin smile across your face. You tried not to notice the way that his shoulders fell, or the way that he schooled his features into something unreadable, your heart sinking as he nodded, looking away.

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

----------------------------------------------

Back at the tower, the tension doesn’t dissipate. You answer questions about your date, vague enough that you don’t give anything away, while still giving enough details that no further questions were asked.

“The date was fine,” you’d told Yelena, face blank.

“He was very respectful,” you’d told Bob, offering him a reassuring smile when he’d asked.

“No, he wasn’t ugly,” you’d told John, when he’d teased, lightly slapping him on the shoulder.

“He brought me flowers,” you’d told Alexei, showing him the flowers with a soft smile and wide eyes, before placing them into a vase and filling it with water from the tap.

Bucky had tried not to smile as you’d shown off the flowers.

“Are you going to see him again?” Yelena had asked, brows raised, trying to act as if she wasn’t curious and was only asking to seem polite.

You’d frozen, shoulders tensing before you’d turned back to her, brows drawn, mouth a thin line.

“I don’t know,” you’d murmured, “probably not.”

Bucky’s breath had caught in his throat, and he’d had to act quickly to recover to prevent eyes from looking to him. He’d turned quickly, moving towards the stairs, realizing he would have to pass you in the kitchen to get up to his room.

“Sorry he wasn’t what you thought he’d be,” he murmured, voice gruff as he passed by, making his way to the staircase and taking them two at a time, quickly slipping behind his bedroom door before his mask of indifference could fall.

He’d moved to the end of his bed, sitting down with practiced calm, running a hand down his face, shaking his head. Stupid to think that she’d say anything else, he’d thought, a sigh escaping his lips.

----------------------------------------------

It was dark. He’d left his air conditioner on high, causing a chill to fall over the room. He was underneath a sheet, laying on his side. His mind hadn’t stopped racing, and he hadn’t left his room since he’d come upstairs.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

Probably not.

He closed his eyes, sucking in a breath and holding it.

Finally, he turned to his other side, reaching for his phone that was laying face down on his bedside table. He stared at the lockscreen, noting the time. 2:47am. He stared at the screen until it went to sleep, the black screen reflecting his face. He looked wrecked.

He sighed, tapping the screen again to wake it up, unlocking it quickly and opening his messaging app. He clicked on the chat with your name, staring at the cursor as it blinked slowly, waiting for him to type a message. His stomach twisted, and he closed out of it; thumb swiping back and forth while he chewed the inside of his cheek.

He continued swiping, moving back and forth between screens until his thumb finally hovered over the app. He stared at it for a moment, sucking in a breath, holding it until his lungs started to burn; tapping it to open it. The one chat that lived there stared back at him.

herghosts - last online: 8 hours ago.

He tapped on it, stomach twisting as he watched the cursor blink back at him. What would he even say? He stared at the screen until it started to dim; then tapped it again to wake it up, and started typing.

noattachments: Hey. I know it’s late. But I can’t sleep. I don’t expect a response. I don’t know why it feels easier to type here. I guess I Pavlov’ed myself. I really don’t know what to do. It just feels like I got my legs knocked out from underneath me. I can’t even think straight.

He stared at the message, debating on deleting it all, still chewing the inside of his cheek. He tapped send before he could think any further into it, locking it and dropping it to his chest. His throat felt tight with nerves, and not the kind that he’d had going into the date.

This was less like butterflies nerves and more like imminent-death-incoming nerves.

The phone buzzed on his chest, causing him to jump out of his skin, his breath catching in his throat. He froze, trying to catch his breath, calm his breathing, steady his heartrate. He took a deep breath and picked it up.

3 New Messages from: herghosts - 2m ago

He tapped the notification, opening the messages.

herghosts: Hey. I’m not sleeping either. Usually when I can’t sleep, I send you a message. Wasn’t sure if I still could. I didn’t expect it to be… you… It just feels more comfortable here. Almost like it’s still anonymous. Almost like I can convince myself that you’re still the anonymous guy that I was attached to. The guy that I had convinced myself had helped me to move on. I thought that I had actually found someone that I could build something with.

He stared at the screen, re-reading the messages. Trying to ignore the hollow pressure that was building in his chest. He blinked a few times.

I thought that I had actually found someone that I could build something with.

I didn’t expect it to be you.

He locked his phone, tossing it down by his legs. He rubbed his hand across his chest, as if applying pressure would make it hurt less, before rolling over to his side. Should have expected that one, he thought.

As hard as he tried, he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t turn his brain off. He felt like he was drowning. He gripped his phone again; unlocking it. 3:58am.

noattachments: I usually sent you a message when I couldn’t sleep too. It feels like a loss. I’m sorry that it was me.

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