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greyyson-but-wrong · 2 days ago

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a soft place to land

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader synopsis: bucky stays the night for the first time, and it reveals something hidden about his past. warnings: hurt/comfort, implied ptsd, soft!bucky, vulnerable!bucky, reader is a safe space, no use of y/n, established relationship w/c: 2.7K

bucky barnes masterlist

You’d lost track of time somewhere around the third act.

The movie was still playing, but your eyes were heavier now, blinking slower, the weight of sleep settling behind them like a quiet tide. Bucky’s metal arm was draped around your shoulders, his fingers resting in a lazy curl against your upper arm, stroking gently every so often like he needed to remind himself you were real.

The two of you had spent the whole evening wrapped in each other—discarded pizza on the coffee table, legs tangled under a shared blanket, his rare, warm laughter slipping out when you teased the movie's plot holes. He’d stayed late before. Later than this, even. But tonight was different.

Tonight, he didn’t check the time.

Your head was tucked against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath his blue Henley. You could tell he wasn’t watching anymore either. His breathing had slowed. But he wasn’t relaxed.

“You’re not sleeping on me, are you?” you murmured without lifting your head.

Bucky chuckled softly. “Not yet. You?”

“Close.” You yawned and finally peeled your face away from his warmth, stretching your arms over your head. “Alright, bedtime.”

You untangled from the blanket, standing with a wobble as your knees protested. Bucky didn’t move.

He blinked at you, his lips parting slightly. “Bedtime?”

You smiled at his confusion, misreading it. “Yeah. You’re staying the night, right?” You said it like it was nothing—because to you, it was. He’d been staying longer and longer, had a drawer of his things now, a toothbrush beside yours. Tonight just felt like the next natural step.

Bucky hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. I mean... if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” you said gently, offering him your hand.

He took it, rising to his feet, towering over you in that unfairly pretty way. His hand was warm in yours. “Let me just grab my stuff.”

You didn’t miss the shift in his voice. That careful tone he used when he was guarding something. But you didn’t push. Instead, you led him toward the bathroom, yawning again as you clicked the light on.

The overhead brightness made you both blink like moles emerging into sunlight. Bucky’s toothbrush sat in the holder beside yours, a subtle sign of how far you’d come. You reached for your toothpaste, and he followed suit, quiet, brushing side-by-side in the mirror like a couple years into marriage.

He had toothpaste on the corner of his mouth.

You giggled.

“What?” he said around a mouthful of foam.

You reached over and wiped it with your thumb. “Messy.”

He smiled with his eyes, gaze soft. But behind it—something else. You caught it in the moment his reflection dropped his eyes. In the way his jaw clenched when you touched his face.

Still, when you leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, he sighed, almost like he was trying to hold onto the moment.

“I’ll meet you in there,” you murmured, heading to the bedroom first.

You were halfway across the room when you realised he wasn’t following.

You stopped by the linen cupboard and turned. Bucky stood in the doorway of your bathroom, hunched slightly forward like the weight of standing there alone had started to press into his spine. He wasn’t looking at you, but rather past you, into the darkness of your bedroom, like there was something unknown ahead.

You stepped back toward him, your voice soft. “Bucky?”

His eyes lifted slowly. He didn’t flinch when you reached out this time, didn’t shy away from your fingers as they slid along his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He exhaled and followed you into your bedroom.

You climbed into bed first, sliding beneath the covers with a sleepy sigh. You patted the space beside you, smiling. “C’mon, soldier. You’ve earned a good night’s sleep.”

He didn’t move at first.

Just stood there, motionless, fingers curling at his sides.

You tilted your head. “Bucky?”

He took a hesitant step forward, then sat down on the very edge of the mattress, his back rigid, his shoulders stiff. He didn’t peel off his shirt. Didn’t take off his jeans. Didn’t pull back the blanket. Just... perched there like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to stay.

You sat up slowly, watching him.

“Hey... what’s going on?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just stared straight ahead, as if answering might make something crack open.

“I’m fine,” he said, but it wasn’t convincing. His jaw was tight. His hands were clasped between his knees, the metal one flexing slightly like it couldn’t get comfortable.

You reached over, resting your hand lightly on his back. “You’re acting weird.”

He let out a soft, humourless breath. “Yeah. I know.”

You waited. Gave him the space.

Then—finally—his voice came, low and quiet.

“I just... haven’t slept in a bed in a long time.”

You didn’t rush him. Just let the silence stretch while your hand stayed warm on his skin.

“In the war,” he said eventually, voice low, “we had trenches. Mud. Rain. Sometimes wood slats, if we were lucky. You didn’t... lie down. You curled in on yourself. Tried not to freeze.”

You nodded slowly, watching his face, his faraway gaze. You shifted to sit beside him on the mattress, facing him now.

“And after,” he went on, “Hydra didn’t exactly care about comfort. Metal slabs, cold floors, cells. Sleep wasn’t something I was allowed to... do. Not properly.”

Your heart twisted at the edge in his voice. He wasn’t trying to make you feel sorry for him—he was just explaining, like it was a fact, history, not trauma.

“Even when I was on my own in Romania. I had this mattress I found—left behind by the last tenant. No bedframe. No sheets. Just... whatever it was.” He gave a humourless chuckle. “There was a spring that used to poke my ribs if I rolled too far left.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers curling around his hand. “That sounds awful.”

“It wasn’t,” he said quickly. “It was fine. It was what I was used to.”

“In Wakanda, it was different,” he said, softer now. “They gave me a hut. Quiet. No noise. No people. I liked it. But even then... I didn’t use the bed they made. I just… laid out a mat. Slept on the floor.”

You watched his fingers flex in his lap. “It felt familiar?”

He nodded. “It felt like mine.”

You let the quiet settle again. Your voice was careful when you asked, “Did it ever change? After Wakanda?”

He shrugged. “I guess I figured I didn’t need a bed. Didn’t deserve one.” He glanced at you, but his eyes were guarded again.

You watched him for a moment and then gently pressed your forehead to his.

“I know you’re used to it,” you whispered. “But you don’t have to be anymore.”

Bucky closed his eyes. You felt his breath catch. Just once.

“This isn’t about making you sleep in the bed,” you said, still holding his hands. “It’s not about changing you. It’s about loving you. And part of that is making sure you know you deserve comfort. That you deserve good things. A soft place to land.”

His jaw clenched again, but his grip on your hand tightened.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he murmured. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

“You’re not,” you said gently. “This isn’t weird, Bucky. It’s human. It’s you. And I want all of you, even the parts that sleep on floors.”

That pulled a quiet, surprised breath out of him.

“You’re not broken,” you added, kissing his knuckles. “And you don’t have to force yourself into softness just because you think it’s what I want.”

He opened his eyes, looked at you—really looked. Something shifted in his expression then. Less shame. More warmth. Still guarded, still uncertain, but touched.

“I’m not ready,” he said finally. “Not for a bed. Not yet.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“Really?”

“Really.” You leaned forward and kissed him—just a press of lips, slow and sure. He kissed you back, this time with a hand sliding up to rest gently on the back of your neck. You stayed like that for a long moment, just breathing together.

Then you smiled against his lips. “But I am making us a nest.”

He pulled back just enough to blink at you. “A nest?”

“Floor sleeping, deluxe edition,” you said, standing and offering your hand again. “Help me build it?”

He hesitated, but something in your voice—your smile, your warmth—made the corners of his mouth twitch. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“This gonna involve furniture rearranging?”

“This is going to involve blanket fort levels of commitment.”

He groaned softly but stood, letting you tug him down the hallway. “God help me.”

You grinned. “Don’t worry. You’ll love it.”

You weren’t sure if it was the way he rolled up his sleeves or the quiet amusement in his eyes—but watching Bucky Barnes methodically drag your coffee table aside like it weighed nothing did something to you.

“Okay, show-off,” you teased as he shifted your couch a full six inches with one hand. “This is not an Avengers-level op.”

He gave a modest shrug, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You said we were committing.”

“I did say that.”

“And I take commitment seriously,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder.

You nearly dropped the armful of cushions you were carrying.

By the time you returned from raiding your linen closet again, he’d already arranged the dining chairs in a loose circle and secured your tallest lamp in the corner, angling it like a makeshift support beam. He looked like he was planning a mission—scanning height differences, assessing tension points, folding and re-folding the edges of blankets until they draped just right.

He caught your stare and raised a brow. “What?”

You blinked, shaking yourself out of it. “Nothing. Just... didn’t expect you to be so good at blanket fort engineering.”

He smirked slightly. “Well. When you’ve had to camp out in supply closets and train cars for decades, you pick up a few tricks.”

You watched as he lifted your heaviest duvet with one arm and draped it effortlessly over the chairs, creating a tent-like roof. He took your curtain twine from the junk drawer and tied a tight, elegant knot around the chair leg to hold it in place.

“Is this what you do on mission downtime?” you asked, grinning. “Build forts and hang fairy lights?”

“Only the elite ops.”

You laughed, throwing a pillow at his chest. He caught it one-handed and tossed it behind him, into the growing nest of blankets and cushions on the floor.

You dropped to your knees beside the fort and began fluffing up your softest pillows, arranging them against the couch base and layering folded quilts like flooring. You even brought in your faux-fur throw from the bedroom and laid it down at the center—extra softness, extra warmth.

Bucky ducked under the edge of the fort and knelt beside you, helping smooth out the layers. Your shoulders brushed, your thighs pressed side by side, and you let your head rest against his arm for a moment.

He stilled.

Then: he leaned into it.

“This is cozy,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, it is.”

When the base was ready, you sat back to admire it. Blankets hung down on all sides like soft walls. The fairy lights you’d strung across the tops twinkled like stars, giving everything a golden, dreamlike glow. Inside, it was warm and still—cushioned from the world.

You crawled inside and turned, holding your hands out toward him like a kid inviting someone into their secret hideout.

Bucky hesitated. Just a second.

Then he smiled.

He ducked in beside you, and the space instantly felt smaller, closer. His knees bumped yours as he settled in, crossing his legs, his metal hand resting lightly on his ankle. You were both sitting in the middle of a fortress made of softness and home.

You scooted closer and leaned into his side. “Is this better?”

He exhaled. You felt it more than heard it—a slow, deep breath as his body finally began to relax.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

You pulled the throw blanket up over both your laps and tucked your feet under it. “See? Floor sleeping and luxury.”

Bucky chuckled. “Didn’t think I could have both.”

“Well,” you said, turning toward him and taking his hand in yours, “you can. You do.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You really did all this... for me?”

You smiled. “Of course I did.”

He stared down at your joined hands, like the simplicity of that answer was almost hard to believe. Then he brought your fingers to his lips and kissed them.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You leaned in, brushing your nose against his cheek. “Always.”

He let his head fall to your shoulder then, heavy and warm. You wrapped your arms around him without a word, holding him like a shelter. His body curled slightly into yours, and you could feel him breathing deeper now—like this was the first time he’d let his lungs fill all the way in years.

There was something sacred about it. The way his forehead rested against your collarbone. The way your hand found the nape of his neck and just stayed there, fingertips tracing the soft ends of his hair. No rush. No urgency. Just stillness. Just closeness.

“This is the safest I’ve felt in a long time,” he murmured against your skin.

Your chest tightened, but your voice stayed steady. “Good. You’re safe here.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you think... it’ll ever feel normal? A bed. A home.”

You tilted his face toward you, guiding him to look at you. “Maybe not all at once. But little by little? Yeah. I think so. I think healing sneaks up on you when you least expect it.”

He nodded, eyes glassy now—not crying, just full. With everything.

You kissed him gently, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just start here.”

He pulled you closer, arms wrapped around your waist, and laid back into the nest of cushions, guiding you down with him. Your head found his chest, your hand resting over his heart.

“You’re really sleeping here?” he asked softly, like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“I go where you go,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. He tightened his grip around you, burying his face in your hair.

And finally—finally—you felt it.

His body gave in to the warmth. His chest rising and falling, slow and steady. The kind of breathing that meant his guard was down. That meant his nightmares were kept at bay tonight. That meant rest.

When you glanced up a few minutes later, his eyes were closed. His mouth slightly parted.

Bucky Barnes was asleep.

In your arms.

Wrapped in softness, surrounded by warmth, on the floor—but not cold, not alone. And not because he didn’t think he deserved better.

Because this time, he did deserve it.

Because this time, someone built it just for him.

And for the first time in longer than you could know, Bucky didn’t have to wake up fighting.

──── ୨୧ ────

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