intrepidacious

[intrepidacious]

thank you for reading 💛

Build a blurb hehehe! 🩹 tending to each other's wounds, 🚪 showing up at the other's door, begging for comfort, 🍯 friends to lovers, 🔥 slow burn - Enjoy >:3

heal me, baby

summary: Your friendship starts with you cleaning up his wounds and Bucky paying to get the blood stains out of your couch. Something else starts, too.

pairing: bucky barnes x nurse!reader

word count: 2.6k

warnings: canon typical violence, some fluff, s.h.i.e.l.d. still exists AU, protective bucky strikes again

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: lisha heard me request prompts to write something short and decided to go with slow burn. thanks for that, love. happy easter and joyous pesach to those of you who celebrate, i hope you're all well <3

masterlist | read on ao3

The first time it happened, he’d been shot.

It’s how you’d first met him, actually, because he’d been so out of it with blood loss he tried to break down your door instead of his own—which was one floor up, but you didn’t find that out until later—and when you’d finally stopped screaming in his face, he just collapsed in your hallway.

When he woke up again, you’d just finished bandaging up his wounds, moving on to cleaning the scratches on his face.

“Your hands are very soft,” he said, still delirious. You were used to strange comments from your patients at the hospital, so you’d just rolled your eyes.

“You’re paying to get the blood stains out of my couch.”

He did. In fact, he tried to get you a whole new couch, but you liked the one you already had.

“Thank you,” he told you for the twentieth time as you helped him up to his apartment the next morning. His wounds had already started to close. “This really isn’t necessary.”

“Nurse’s orders,” you replied sternly and kept your grip on his arm until you reached his front door. No welcome mat, no seasonal decorations, not even his name next to the bell.

He coughed, as if there was anything to be embarrassed about now. “I’m Bucky, by the way.”

You nodded politely. “I know.” That arm did him no favors when it came to staying anonymous.

There was a quiet scratching coming from the other side of the door, but his eyes didn’t stray from yours. They looked pretty, you supposed, when they weren’t glazed over in pain. “And do I get your name?”

“With the receipt from my dry cleaning.”

His low chuckle followed you back downstairs.

The second time wasn’t nearly as bad. In fact, his knock on your door was so tentative you wouldn’t even have heard it had you not just walked by the door one last time to check the locks before bed.

“Sorry,” he said as soon as you cracked the door open. “I’m kinda out of thread?”

The gash in his palm was deep, but not bad by any standards; still, you could understand why he’d be cautious with wounds on his right side. He didn’t even flinch once as you stitched him up.

“You’re a good patient,” you told him, pulling the knot tight.

Bucky huffed quietly. “All your good patients show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night?”

“No,” you shrugged, setting your tools aside for sterilization. “But there’s gotta be something that makes you special, right?”

There was something akin to a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth right as you turned away.

“I owe you,” he called after you.

You raised your brows. “You wanna repay me for a bit of suture?”

“And your professional craftsmanship,” Bucky said. “D’you think I could do stitches that neat with my left hand?”

Honestly, yes. But if he insisted …

“I have Saturday night off,” you said. “How about a takeout?”

His grin widened a fraction. “We’re talkin’ food, right?”

“Yes,” you laughed. “For now.”

You weren’t sure whether to expect him to join you on Saturday, but he showed up on your doorstep at 6 p.m. sharp, completely unharmed this time. Instead, he was carrying several plastic bags full of food.

“I wasn’t sure what to get, so …” he muttered once you’d stopped laughing and showed him into the kitchen.

“So you got everything?” You eyed the containers of food, all steaming and smelling divine. “Are we expecting seven more?”

“We?” He sounded so genuinely surprised that you shook your head at him incredulously.

“You don’t expect me to eat all of this on my own!” You took plates and cutlery for two out of your cupboards. “I’m pretty sure I owe you now, Bucky.”

Another tentative smile formed on his face, again a bit wider than the last one you’d seen. You wondered how long it would take you to get a full laugh.

It became a habit, you bandaging up whatever wounds he got on his latest mission and the two of you sharing takeout on your nights off, some movie the background noise to your chatting. In the beginning, it was mostly you talking, telling him about work, about your friends, asking only few questions about his life. It took Bucky a couple of weeks to open up on his own. To relax his shoulders where he was sitting, until he slouched into your couch almost as casually as you did.

Bucky was easy to talk to, you realized quickly, because he was a great listener. It didn’t take you much longer to notice how your stomach would twist and your lungs would constrict whenever he looked at you, whenever his smile grew another fraction of an inch.

You didn’t need your degree to tell you what those symptoms meant.

But he needed a friend more than he needed to be rushed into anything, and so you bit your tongue and you said nothing.

***

The problems really started when S.H.I.E.L.D. decided to hire you as, essentially, a freelance nurse to go in the field with a crew when they were short a doctor.

“Absolutely not,” Bucky argued until he was hoarse, with you, with Fury, with Rogers, with anyone who would listen.

You still went. Frankly, the pay was better than what you earned after three years at the hospital.

Then again, they didn’t really put you into actually dangerous situations at the hospital.

The first mission you were sent on together mostly consisted of awkward silence, Bucky still fuming about the fact that you were coming along, and that he’d been unable to put a stop to it, you still rolling your eyes about the fact that he was angry about all of that.

Of course, it turned out that they barely needed you, anyway. You stayed out of the building, and the rest of the team did all the dirtywork while you sat around in the quinjet and waited. There was a fight; you heard the shouts and the shots, and the barked commands the comms. When they made their way back, though, sticky with soot and sweat, the most painful thing you had to fix was a cut on agent Romanoff’s temple.

Still, that night when you sat down, you found your hands almost shaking with relief that it’d been that easy.

Bucky had a key at that point, from when he’d offered to water your plants while you went to see your parents during your vacation days a few months back, but you didn’t expect him to come that night. Didn’t expect to hear his knuckles softly rapping against the doorframe, because he always knocked, even though he had a key. Didn’t expect his slow, heavy steps in the hallway. Didn’t expect him sinking to his knees in front of the couch, in front of you, as if his strength had finally given out all at once. Didn’t expect his eyes drinking you in, tracing every inch of your skin as if to prove to himself that you were unharmed.

You shivered, even though he didn’t touch you.

He was never the one to reach out first, instead preferring to stare at you in silence, like a man drowning. So you did it for him.

He must have heard your heart thundering in your breast when you pulled him into your embrace, but he still didn’t speak. He just held onto you like you were his lifeline, and not for the first time you wondered what lies the demons in his head sprouted.

“I’m fine,” you whispered into his hair, carding your fingers through it. “I’m here.”

Every mission after went much the same, the only thing different each time the amount of time he needed until he could find his voice again. Until he could start believing your words.

“I’m sorry,” he said, again and again.

Every single time, you answered, “Don’t be.”

***

The first time it went badly, it was a mission Bucky hadn’t been on.

You didn’t get hurt then, either, not physically at least, but some of the agents they carried past you ... fuck. It felt worse than it did in the hospital, because there, you could depend on equipment being sterile and well-stocked. Out in the field, there was no such luck.

Your eyes must’ve looked empty, but maybe he just chalked it up to exhaustion. To your usual empathy with anyone in pain. Or maybe you’d gotten good at hiding things from him.

But sleep didn’t find you that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you were back out there, fighting to keep agents alive and whole while they still struggled to get the jet up in the air. You kept tossing and turning, trying to shut the memories out, but it was no use.

And then your feet started moving on their own accord, out of your bedroom, out of your apartment, quickly, before you could overthink this, up the stairs, stopping only in front of Bucky’s door, your hand raised to knock softly against his frame like you’d heard him do countless times.

It swung open.

Your vision went slightly unfocused when Bucky stood in front of you, chest on full display. Your gaze crept up slowly, too slowly, following the chain of his dog tags to his neck, his chin, his eyes. A slight blush had spread on his cheeks.

“Hey.” He sounded as ruffled as you felt.

“Hi,” you replied weakly. “I …”

Your mind was blank, devoid of all coherent thought.

“Can’t sleep?” Bucky offered and you nodded, even though you weren’t even sure anymore what force had brought you here in the middle of the night.

You looked down again, stopping yourself at the scars on his left shoulder. You’d never seen them up close. He’d never allowed you to, no matter how badly he was bleeding. Bucky tensed when he noticed your transfixion.

The scars trailed towards the center of his chest like they were pointing at his still beating heart, red and harsh and beautiful. Proof that despite everything, he was still alive. Despite everything, he still chose to be better, no, to be good every day.

It brought tears to your eyes.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, not daring to look at his face.

“Yeah,” he said, because he knew you’d call him out on a lie. His voice was rough around the edges. You wanted to wrap it in the softest linens. “At night, mostly.”

You’d usually tell him the reason for that, the medical explanation, but your brain was still empty. Bucky just stared at you, waiting. You drew a shuddering, deliberate breath.

“Today was bad.”

He took a step to the side and let you in.

Alpine immediately darted towards you, running between your legs until you picked her up and pressed her against your chest, inhaling deeply into her fur. Cautiously, you followed Bucky through the hallway to where he wordlessly held another door open for you.

You’d been to his bedroom before, to watch movies or to just spend time with each other when you both had nothing else to do, but this … this felt different, somehow.

You rolled into a tight ball on his bed, careful not to take up too much space as he crawled in next to you and pulled the blanket over both of you. It smelled like a gentle hug.

“Do you want to talk about it?” was the only thing he asked, and you shook your head. “Try to close your eyes.”

You fell asleep swiftly, contently, and when you woke up hours later, you found yourself tucked closely to Bucky’s chest, his metal arm wrapped tightly around you, warm from sleep. Alpine had curled up on your pillow, her fluffy tail resting on your head.

You smiled and snuggled closer.

***

His problem with the missions, he told you, wasn’t that you were going per se, it was that he wasn’t able to keep an eye on you at all times. Naturally, it was worse when you were assigned to leave and he wasn’t.

“I have a bad feeling about this one,” he murmured when he came to see you off.

“I’ll be fine, Buck,” you said lightly. He only hugged you more tightly, only letting go when Steve shouted his name for the third time. They had their own plane to catch. So you smiled at him. “Promise.”

He reached out to pull a piece of hair out of your face, his fingertips gently grazing your temple before he pressed a featherlight kiss to your hairline. You froze, staring at him with big eyes. Bucky took a step back.

“Just be careful, alright?”

You couldn’t do anything but nod, turning your head over your shoulder over and over again until you took the final step up the gangway. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time.

The second it went badly, when you heard your leg snap, you felt the regret of your own broken promise through the searing pain.

And then the world went black.

You came to when they pulled you out from under the rubble, your leg still twisted at an awful angle, your forehead warm and sticky. The way back had you going in and out of consciousness over and over again, only vague impressions sticking in your mind. The way your seatbelt was tugged just too tightly around your waist. The way the jet shook when it landed, and how you cried out because it meant your leg moved. The shouting outside.

When you woke up in the med ward, they’d already put you in plaster and disinfected your head. You blinked against the horrible white lights until you could make out Bucky in the chair next to your bed, still dirty and roughed up from his own mission, holding your hand tightly in his own.

“Your hands are very soft,” you said with a tired smile.

He shot you a weary glance, but didn’t let go. Instead, he just moved closer, helping you to sit upright. “How are you feeling?”

“Could be worse,” you said, wincing slightly when you tried to move your leg.

He was so careful when he sat down on the bed next to you, as if he were terrified of breaking you further. When he wrapped his arms around you, you noticed he was shaking slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours. “I just—when they told me, for a second I thought I lost you, and I couldn’t … I can’t …”

And something in you broke, the dam of butterflies seemingly exploding. You sucked in a sharp breath, your eyes fluttering shut. “I need …”

You could feel Bucky’s unsteady breath against your lips. “Anything.”

So you kissed him.

His arms tightened around you when he answered your kiss with just as much fervor, as if he, too, needed to reassure himself that this was real, this was happening. He tasted faintly like dust and blood. You didn’t care.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging him closer, closer, until your need for air left you gasping. You had no intentions of moving away already, though. Neither did he.

“I’m fine,” you murmured between kisses. “I’m here.”

When you finally retreated far enough to see his face, your heart almost burst out of your chest.

Bucky smiled at you, as brightly as the sun, eyes incredulous and sparkling with happiness. You thought you’d never seen anyone look this beautiful before in your life.

And then he laughed, and you knew.

thank you for reading!! i'm currently self-isolating, so if you could be awesome and leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this, that'd be absolutely grand. it'd be my social interaction of the day 💛 if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

[intrepidacious]

time after time [5]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 10.9k

chapter warnings: nothing except the usual ones; another panic attack near the end; the riveting resolution of the coffee side quest? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: after my week of technical difficulties (got shadowbanned, had a breakdown, bon appétit), this chapter finally made it to tumblr as well. thank you so much to everyone who reached out, it's meant more than you know!! <3 this one starts out fairly harmless and then i threw some punches again and for that i apologise

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

five: carousel

The first mission they took you on was nothing short of a disaster.

It should have been simple, was simple, a quick extraction to get a microchip from this decimated group of criminals operating out of an abandoned toy store that Nat had discovered through one of her contacts. You were only supposed to tag along to get a feeling for being out in the field, an additional pair of eyes just in case things went south.

Did they ever.

Not only was the chip accidentally destroyed, your ensuing panic got you stuck for a good twenty minutes until the world started spinning again. Steve fell down a full flight of stairs when you reappeared out of thin air next to him the moment it did.

Needless to say, you went into hiding as soon as you got back to the Compound.

She gave you about an hour before the hatch in the floor boards opened, even though for you, it was much longer. She didn’t know that, though. You sat very still, your breath finally silent again. Maybe she didn’t know you were in here.

"I know you’re up here, Y/N."

You pulled the cape off your head with a sigh. Natasha grimaced.

"Don’t do that, I’m not talking to a floating head," she said with a shudder. "You know how weird that is?"

You huffed and let her pull the fabric into her lap, watching your own limbs reappear, your arms hugged around your knees. She sat down next to you, leaning against the wall with her eyes closed. You watched a spider scatter away from you.

"How did you even find me?" you asked quietly after she made no further attempts to speak to you.

"My sister had a similar hiding spot when we were little." You could hear the smile in her voice as she said it. "And you kicked up quite a bit of dust."

She didn’t elaborate on either of those things and you didn’t ask, even though you wanted to. Anything that could get your mind off what happened.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yeah," you said dryly. "That’s why I’m sitting in the supply closet."

"That’s exactly what I told Steve." Your face fell again, but hers didn’t. "He’s alright. Or he will be, once he forgives me for laughing at him for five minutes."

That didn’t make you feel any better. "I fucked up today," you said softly, your voice still rough.

"You didn’t do anything wrong."

"I did, though. I literally froze as soon as things went wrong, and the chip—"

"Is expendable," Natasha interrupted calmly.

You shook your head. "I only mess everything up for you guys. I’m not a real agent, and my powers just make things worse, and I should just—"

"Do you realize that this thing you were given can be a gift?" You cringed and started turning away, but Natasha reached out for you, a gentle hand on your arm. "I mean it. You think every time you’re unable to use your powers is your personal failure, but you don’t see how every time you are able to use them is precious."

There was a delicate hue to her green eyes, a weariness that was visible even in the dim light of the closet. For the first time, you had the feeling she let you see something she usually wouldn’t.

"Our lives … they’re hard," she went on. "Unpredictable. We live on borrowed time. And you get to have more of it. That’s …" You waited for the words you’d heard before. Invaluable. Instrumental. Priceless. "Beautiful."

You swallowed hard. "Is that why you took me on? For the team?"

Nat looked at you for so long you were almost sure she wasn’t going to answer your question. Then, she said, "I took you on because you needed a reason to get up in the morning."

You stared at her, your nails digging into the palm of your hand until it hurt more than the ache in your chest. Natasha kept looking at you as she continued.

"I lost a lot of people over the years, you know. But never like this. Never this many at once. Something like that …" She trailed off, her eyes wet. "The entire planet was grieving and struggling and blaming us, because at that point hardly anyone understood any of it apart from the fact that the Avengers were involved. And then one day, out of nowhere, a letter materialized on our doorstep, and the security cameras didn’t show a thing." Her grip on your arm tightened, as if she needed to steady herself. "Do you remember what you wrote?"

I’m sorry for your loss.

You’d struggled to put it down for days, because how else could you apologize for something you might have been able to prevent had you only been there instead of hiding? In the end, you’d only added your name and the address of that diner in Brooklyn where you picked up a few shifts after their waitress had been blipped.

You’d gotten a call less than twenty-four hours later.

"You were the first person to say that," Nat continued, because she could see the memories flit across your face as easily as others watched a movie. "And yet, when you got here, you looked as guilty as if you’d personally murdered every single one of the Vanished."

"Well, if I’d been with you—"

"Stop it." For the first time, her voice was sharp. Your mouth fell closed. "We’re all trying to do better, right?"

You could only nod.

"That’s all anybody here is ever going to ask of you. And sometimes 'better' is just getting one hell of a kick in during a mission. Don’t think I didn’t see that."

You smiled ever so slightly. "I have a pretty good teacher."

"Yeah, you do." She shoved your shoulder lightly. "You can’t do more than show up and do your best, honey."

"My best looks like a dead possum next to yours."

"Then stop looking at me." Natasha got up to her feet slowly, patting you on the knee when she did. "Unless it’s for a post mission wind down because I have a movie queued up and I know where Steve hid the cookies."

"Can I have my cape back?"

"Nope." She folded it up with the green side out, letting it hang loosely over her arm. "You’re supposed to use it to hide from your enemies, not your friends."

You didn’t attempt to argue further, warmth rising to your cheeks.

"Nat?" She turned again, halfway down the hatch, caught by the emotion in your voice. "Thank you."

Her smile told you that, as always, she understood.

* * * * *

There simply isn’t a world in which you can do this even one more time. It’s too much.

"You need to sort out your priorities," Sam says, zero sympathy in his voice. Bucky has the audacity to look amused.

"I’m serious," you say, looking between the two of them. "My day is bad enough already. I don’t care where we order, but it’s not going to be Italian unless you want me to puke on your cat."

Over the past couple of weeks, you’ve eaten your way through the entirety of your pizza place’s menu. If you have to smell the rank cheese Sam likes to order one more time, you can’t be held responsible for your actions.

"How about sushi?" Bucky says, and you almost start protesting out of habit before you realize that for once, he’s not arguing your side. You turn to Sam with an expectant grin.

"Fine," he grunts, shaking Alpine off his trouser leg as gently as he can while his nose twitches. "I guess Russian Doll has the right to choose his last meal."

Bucky frowns at him, but you gasp in delight. "Are you finally joining us in dark humor land, Sammy?"

He flips you off wordlessly as he leaves the room and you chuckle to yourself, pulling up the sushi menu on your phone. Alpine starts nibbling on the bandage around your foot that’s stretched out on the couch and you wiggle your toes a bit. It seems to entertain her.

"What," you ask when the staring becomes unbearable.

"Nothing."

When you lift your gaze to meet Bucky’s, his jaw is clenched again, his eyes fixed on you with a distant expression in them. You tilt your head, and he lowers his.

"So what’s the plan?"

You send your part of the order to FRIDAY and put your phone to the side. "I have to get back to Strange to figure out how to stop this loop from happening again."

You’ve almost felt sorry to see your series of library heists break, even though you have no reason to feel his way. This is progress. Strange’s offer to help has been genuine enough so far, even though you hate paying him in answers.

Now that he’s not deliberately keeping you out anymore, getting to the astral plane has been a lot easier, at least, even though emptying your mind enough to cross over without a prior emotional breakdown has still proven somewhat difficult. Weirdly, it’s easiest on the couch.

Bucky nods shortly. "And what do I do?"

"Whatever you want."

He scoffs. "Right."

It makes your insides twist. "Bucky, as much as I hope that today is the last time we’re doing this, I can’t guarantee it. So you should just, I don’t know, enjoy yourself." You cringe even as you say it.

"I wanna come see Strange."

You blink, watching him clench and unclench his fists slowly, deliberating. The golden parts of his arm gleam in the sunlight. "Why?"

His voice, when he speaks, sounds haunted. "I can’t just sit around and do nothing."

Something in his voice sticks with you as you lie down on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. You’re not even sure if what he’s asking is possible.

"No, it’s not," Strange says bluntly. "Not as long as you’re in the loop."

"Why not?"

"Stop asking questions and focus."

With a roll of your eyes, you raise up your arms again. So far, you’ve spent most of your so-called lessons trying to make sense of the cryptic texts Strange makes you read and then summarize like you’re in fifth grade. If you’re not doing that, you’re talking him through the events of your July 4th, or explaining your powers to the best of your abilities, going through the motions and habits you’ve taught yourself over the years. It all feels like you’re revealing something very personal for someone else to judge.

You don’t care much for any of it.

"Again."

"Is this supposed to teach me something new?" you ask, turning your thumb and first two fingers upwards again while your other hand balls into a fist by your side.Threads of sunlight glittering like spun gold. You take a breath and shake your head.

"Do you feel anything?"

Annoyance. You bite your tongue and reach out, carefully, like you would to a scared animal, searching for that old familiar feeling.

It takes a while.

Dim, at first, but clearly there, vibrating deep in your veins, hesitantly stumbling towards your hands like it was suprised, too, to be called upon again. Softly glowing embers slowly filling the void you’ve grown so hopelessly accustomed to.

You open your eyes to find the tiniest green spark dancing across your fingertips and almost laugh in relief.

"Interesting," Strange says.

You flick your fingers softly, once, twice, letting the spec of power grow until it’s the size of a pinhead, cradling it softly with your other hand as if to protect it from a gust of wind. Slowly, bit by bit, it settles back into your skin, and you feel it tingling all the way up to your ears.

Strange contemplates you for a long moment. "When did you get that cut?" he finally asks.

At this point, you should be used to his unfazedness. "Yesterday," you say, the 'obviously' clinging to every syllable. Riff was putting up a better fight than usual; or maybe you’re getting sloppy again.

Strange moves his right hand in that circular motion you’ve seen him do before, and the air in front of you cracks. It’s weird to see your own slightly translucent reflection suspended in the middle of your room. The gash on your cheek has barely had the chance to scab. You subconsciously reach for your necklace again.

"Look at the wound, and hold your hands like this."

You try and mimic Strange’s gesture. "I feel ridiculous." Like a mime. Or a really bad stage magician.

"Good," he says. "Now focus your powers, and follow my lead."

You watch Strange move his shaky hands out of the corner of your eye while trying to concentrate on that little spec of power you’ve felt earlier. Slowly, itchingly, the wound starts knitting itself together, as if it’s been healing for days. The skin smoothes over as if nothing had ever happened.

A rush of excitement goes through you at the sight, and there’s a stutter. With a flash of pain, the cut tears up again and you flinch, your hands falling.

"Fuck."

"I told you to focus."

"Well, if only saying it made it happen," you snap, then try again. This time, you let go of your power more carefully, almost coaxing it down. The gash doesn’t heal completely, but at least it looks better than what you started with. Strange watches you closely, brow furrowed deeply in thought.

"Let’s try something different," he says, and with another flick of his wrist, the mirror vanishes again. "Sit down."

You bristle at the command, but obey. A sidelong glance confirms that your sleeping body’s cut on the cheek has somewhat improved as well. There seems to be something connecting the two of you after all.

"When is this here, anyway?" you ask.

Once again, he doesn’t give you an answer. With another quick movement he grabs something through a small portal and throws it at you without any regard to your reflexes. You grab it off the bed incredulously.

"That’s … a meditation CD."

"Congratulations," Strange says. "You can read."

"You’re not serious."

"Deadly." He unfastens his cloak, which flies over to drape itself over the reading chair like a blanket, and then joins you on the floor, crossing his legs as well. It’s bizarrely casual. "If you don’t learn to focus," he continues, "there’s no moving forward from this point."

You huff, holding the CD out for him to take back. He doesn’t. "I’ve tried meditation," you say impatiently. "It doesn’t work for me. My mind—it doesn’t work for me."

"Your mind what?"

"It’s too loud."

You put the CD on the ground with a little too much force, moving to twist your rings around again, but they’re still absent. Your nails dig into your skin, instead.

"Did you know I don’t really forget stuff? Did I tell you that?" You laugh humorlessly, because what else can you do. "Fun side effect of the traveling back and forth through time. I always know where I’ve been and what I’ve done, and what everyone else has done while I was there. All that information is in my head, all the time, and I can’t get rid of it."

"All the more reason to have it quiet down every once in a while," Strange says calmly.

You want to strangle him.

"Believe me, I’d love nothing more, but I can’t. It’s not like I’m a computer and you can do the whole 'Hello, this is IT, have you tried turning it off and on again?' It doesn’t work like that."

"You do know a lot about how things don’t work."

"Welcome to my world," you mutter, flexing your fingers and crossing your arms before you draw blood.

Strange sighs. "Your mind isn’t a hard drive. No matter what your powers entail, your brain is still human. And it needs to rest every once in a while."

For some reason, in the middle of this whole crazy situation, that thought settles. Maybe it’s because it’s possibly the first genuinely kind sentiment he’s shown you so far. Maybe you’re just tired of pushing.

"How?" It’s more a croak than a question.

"Just stay like that and breathe." You look at him incredulously and he raises an eyebrow. "What? No one said you have to think nothing. It’s fine if you just sit there with your thoughts."

There’s a short pause. "That sounds terrifying," you admit quietly.

Strange considers you for a long moment, as if he’s contemplating what to say, until he finally admits, "I know."

* * *

You blink awake slowly this time, as if gradually awakening from a deep sleep. The TV is on again, quietly chattering in the background, and a weight on your legs tells you that Alpine has found a new spot again.

A glance at your phone shows that surprisingly little time has passed. When you sit up, the white cat on top of you complaining loudly, you can see Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, laptop closed, talking to Sarah on the phone.

The fact that you’re not alone quite yet is weirdly comforting.

In a moment of sleepy contentment, you reach out to scratch Alpine under the chin like you’ve seen Bucky do countless times. Curiously, she lets you without immediately extending her claws. At least for a moment.

"You’re awake."

Immediately, Alpine loses interest in you and jumps onto the backrest of the couch to nestle her head into Bucky’s palm. You roll your eyes.

"Keen observation, sarge."

He slowly peels his gloves off, not quite looking at you. "What did he say?"

Right. There was that.

"Nothing, to be honest," you say, folding up the throw blanket Sam must have put over you while you were sleeping. "Apart from the fact that he really can’t actually do as much as one would think."

"Can’t, or doesn’t want to?"

You shrug. "Same difference."

Despite everything, somehow you feel inclined to believe that there really isn’t a way to get Bucky to the astral plane, though. After all, things haven’t been normal ever since this loop began; and since you’re the only one who can lift it, maybe that also means you’re the only one who can do things like that.

You can only hope that at some point, something—anything—you do is going to stick.

Bucky studies your face, but doesn’t tell you whatever is still clearly gnawing at him. You don’t know why for a moment, you thought he would.

It reminds you of something you haven’t asked in a while.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak immediately. "Like what?"

"It’s just …" You struggle with the words, as if your mind is still half-asleep. "In some of the loops, it was kind of …" You trail off when you notice he’s holding something in his other hand. "Did you go get coffee again?"

Bucky clears his throat. "Yeah. I thought since you didn’t get one earlier, ya know …"

You’ve stopped getting caffeinated drinks for yourself in the mornings to make it easier to get to that voidlike state you need to be in to enter the astral plane. It’s been making you rather irritable; though, truth be told, that might also be due to Strange’s charming personality.

"That’s nice," you say, reaching for the paper cup with your name on it, taking a sniff before tasting it carefully. It’s perfect. "I should change my habits," you say lightly, "if Lucy knows my order even if I don’t pick it up myself."

"Who’s Lucy?" Bucky says, sitting down on the couch next to you.

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes. "The pretty one on register? Stars and stripes on her cheeks?" He hums noncommittantly and you decide it’s not worth the effort. "What did you get?" you ask with a nod to the second cup.

"Just … coffee."

You squint to read the sticker, but he puts his fingers over it in a motion so smooth it almost hides its defensiveness. There’s the slightest hint of a grin on his face as you scowl, trying to catch his sleeve to get him to twist the writing back in your direction. Your thumb grazes cool metal and you still. Bucky does, too.

"Did she actually give you her number?"

Your laugh comes out through your nose, somehow, as if it’s not much more than a breath. The expression on Bucky’s face doesn’t quite fit his widening grin, or the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, but you couldn’t say why.

"So?" he says. Alpine stares at you accusingly, settling in his lap once more.

"Nothing!" It comes out quickly. "I’m not surprised. I mean, she thinks you’re hot."

His eyebrow quirks. "Does she, now?"

You take a gulp of coffee so large it makes your eyes water. "Her shift’s probably over by now. You should call her."

"Why," Bucky says wryly.

"To take her out." Should you be weirded out by the fact that this is happening as soon as Bucky entered the store without you? You tug at the ring on your pinkie.

"Why do you want me to take her out if I’m gonna die later?" Bucky asks.

"Well, it might take your edge off for one."

"And why does my edge concern you?"

"Have you met yourself?" You shrug, your ears drumming. "Besides, it might be fun."

He doesn’t look at you as he takes a sip from his own coffee, as if still determined not to let you see his reaction. "You have a strange definition of fun."

Alpine yawns as if to agree. You stand up abruptly, suddenly nauseated from drinking too fast.

"I’m just gonna …"

Again, you don’t finish your sentence, and Bucky doesn’t stop you from grabbing your takeout containers and taking them with you to your room, where you stare at the toilet for a good minute, waiting for the queasiness to pass. Your meet your own gaze in the mirror.

The cut on your face looks better than it did a few hours ago.

You walk back into your bedroom and take a critical look at your bookcase.The Wind in the Willows is back in its place where it belongs. What isn’t there is the CD Strange finally managed to force upon you.

The rules of this multiverse crap are going to give you another migraine on top of your current one.

You sit down on the floor next to your window to eat, but your cheek keeps itching until you notice yourself tapping your chopsticks against the plastic container so hard soy sauce is splashing everywhere. With a displeased twitch of your mouth, you reach for your phone.

It rings for a very long time and you realize it’s already past midnight in Seoul when finally, there’s a voice on the other end.

"This better be good, agent Y/L/N."

Her voice is quiet, tired, and you press the phone to your ear even harder. "Can I ask you a hypothetical question?"

Doctor Helen Cho sighs deeply on the other end of the line, and you can almost picture her leaning back in her ergonomic office chair. "Alright."

You toy with the edges of the building scab on your cheek. "Is it possible for someone to go through physical changes and … not go through them at the same time?"

There’s a pause on the other end, followed by a sigh. "Are you asking me if Schrödinger’s cat is real or not?"

A living being that simultaneously is and isn’t dead? That’s a paradox you have an answer for.

The problem, as always, is you.

"Sort of. I don’t know." You bite your lip.

"You realize quantum mechanics is not exactly my specialty, right?" Even while she says that, you can hear the clicking of her keyboard. "You are talking about a body, I presume. A human one?"

"Mhm."

"And the changes?"

You think of the cut and the writing and Bucky’s blood on your sheets. And your changed clothes. "They’re only to the body itself. Everything around stays the same. Pretty much like Schrödinger’s cat, I guess. Nothing about the box changes." Ever.

There’s another pause before Helen speaks again.

"Look, as far as I know—and with all these new and upcoming aliens and superheroes and so on that have been appearing over the past couple of years that’s less and less, mind you—but as far as I know, humans can only be in one state at one particular time. There’s ways to accelerate healing processes or even meddle with the body in other ways, but it’s still an either–or scenario."

"So, it’s impossible?" you ask, biting your cheek.

"It’s improbable, based on what I understand." Time has definitely started to bleed into itself, then. Great. "But like I said, that’s not really my area of expertise," she continues. "Speaking of, though, I got an e-mail from your new captain earlier."

"You did?" you ask, surprised. Sam hasn’t said anything to you, not today or any other iteration of it.

"You can tell him I’m hearing the same things he has," Helen says. "My lab wasn’t approached, but I have a colleague at a partner institution who left for Madripoor a couple of weeks ago."

You’ve barely thought about ULTIMATUM and their experiments since you laid everything out for Sam and Bucky earlier this morning. Another wave of guilt flashes through you.

"I’ll tell him," you say tonelessly. "Thanks, Helen."

"In this hypothetical of yours," Helen says before you can hang up. "Who’s the observing party?"

You watch the green symbols circle around your wrist, once, twice, three times. "I’m not sure yet."

You stare at them for a while longer after the call disconnects.

"There’s nothing to observe when the flow of time is reduced to a single day," Strange says when you relay the question to him the next day, his voice dripping with annoyance.

"So there would be, usually?" you ask, eyes narrowing as you try to channel the flow of your powers into the palm of your hand, like he’s told you.

"It’s not a perfect comparison," he answers. "The cat is only dead or not because time passes. Time is only our way of perceiving space dimensionally."

"Time and relative dimension in space," you hum with a light smile. Your palm starts tingling. "But if it’s not that, either, then … I still feel like there has to be something I’m missing here."

Every single review of the mission fills in another piece of the puzzle, the map of the lab you draw on the whiteboard growing more and more detailed each day, but still, it’s never enough. You miss the way Steve would draw out detailed building plans and escape routes before any mission, such ease to the stroke of his pen; your own talent for drawing is borderline abysmal by comparison.

The green shimmer around your hand dissipates again. Strange groans, fingers massaging his temple like he, too, is getting a headache from this stupid realm. His cloak wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.

"What you’re missing," he says through gritted teeth, "is the point of this exercise."

"Enlighten me," you snap back.

You watch him take a deep breath before he answers. "Do you, or do you not realize that this isn’t all about you?"

You huff. "If you say something like this is the universe imparting a message upon me, I got that point. The message is that I suck at what I’m doing."

"If that’s the message, then how come you’re not the one who’s really getting knocked around every single day?"

The anger and remorse that wash over you make your power flare up like a bolt of electricity, your fingertips and the dark of your eyes flashing an eery shade of green. You can feel the little hairs in the back of your neck stand up. Strange only looks at you, his expression unexpectedly somber.

"At least he doesn’t remember," you say tonelessly.

Strange smiles, but there’s no joy in it. "Indeed," he says.

The rush ebbs off, bit by bit, and you blink to get rid of the last of the strange double vision you sometimes get when time stutters again.

"You keep telling a man he will die today because you think that’s best for him," Strange goes on. "Better than him getting to choose his own path. Have you ever paid attention to how he spends his last precious hours once he knows?"

Of course you have. Sitting around in the Tower, going over mission plans again and again. Getting coffee. Lurking in doorways, leaning against walls, thinking, talking, looking.

It’s all time spent with you, and Sam, and Alpine.

It’s weird that you shouldn’t have realized this fact when in the beginning, you kept wondering about the time he came back to the Tower. Because before you’ve started telling him, Bucky always left.

Maybe that’s what you’re missing.

"Careful," Strange says, noticing your change in expression.

"You know me, doc," you answer, letting the power crackle again ever so slightly. It’s a thrill, getting to feel it again. "Careful’s basically my middle name."

* * *

"Doesn’t matter," Bucky says when you ask him what he’d be up to if you hadn’t told him about the loop.

"Oh no, leave me out of this. That’s his thing," Sam says when you ask him about the whole thing, and he so clearly knows what it is and yet refuses to tell you.

"None of your business," Bucky says when you press the matter, his jaw clenched tightly, and you hate to do this, but you don’t exactly have limitless options here. Besides, it’s the first new idea you’ve had in a while, which means there’s an almost moral obligation for you to go through with it. And still.

This feels wrong, you think when Sam comes to knock at your door and you throw on your gym clothes, pulling the sweatband over your wrist tightly.

This feels wrong, you think when you climb into the ring as if nothing had ever happened, as if this was just a normal day. Your side is still a little sore, but you’re able to play it off as a scratch with ease. How would he know to call you out on it?

This feels wrong, you think when you close your eyes as you lie on the mat and wait. You promised.

"You look like shit."

Your head turns like muscle memory. "Hey."

"Hi." Bucky’s eyebrow raises at your silence, but you’re not sure if the words aren’t just going to come bursting out of you. You have a tell. "You alright?"

Your grin tastes just a little bitter. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

"Right." He doesn’t quite believe you, of course, but it’s fine. You can do this.

You turn your gaze back to the ceiling and try to recall the very first July 4th, the version of you that you were. She resists you slipping her back on, but you take another deep breath, just like you’ve been practicing. A chuckle slips free.

"Fuck you, Barnes."

Your heart is still beating fast in your chest, but he must chalk it off to the training, because you can hear him huff. "There she is."

You close your eyes with a petulant sigh, just in case he can see your conscience written all over them. Again, you remind yourself that you tried asking him, that you tried everything else, that this is the only option you can think of right now.

"You’re horrible." It’s more like talking to yourself out loud, but of course Bucky doesn’t know that. And the sad truth is, he’s used to your temper.

"Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one."

You give an affirmative hum, waiting until you hear the door close behind him. Then, you rush to the showers, wasting no time to get ready and dressed again.

Bucky walks out the door of the Tower at precisely 09:43, a fact you know thanks to the time stamps on the security footage from the lobby you had FRIDAY pull up early on in the loop. This leaves you with a pretty small window of time to clean up, add another line to the tally on your thigh, and get back to your room to grab your stuff without making what you’re doing to obvious to either him or Sam. You have FRIDAY call up the elevator with barely a minute to spare, going down to the second floor and quickly heading towards the stairs. Behind you, the elevator dings once.

You basically sprint downstairs, readjusting your backpack. You almost barrel into the fire door, peering through the window into the lobby after another glance at your watch. Only a few seconds later, you can see Bucky walk across the entrance hall, the usual resting scowl on his face as he looks around once and then ducks out the side door.

You tug the cap you found at the back of your closet deeper into your face and start after him.

This feels wrong, and it’s a terrible idea, you can’t help but think as you watch him head down Lex, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. His strides are long, but unhurried, and even though you know he’s the furthest thing from vulnerable, the fact that you’re seeing him unguarded like this doesn’t sit right with you. Nevertheless, you continue.

You expect him to head for the subway, but instead, he turns left after the Chrysler Building, going east. With a slightly confused frown, you briefly join a group of clearly lost tourists to cross the street and follow him back up Third Avenue. At least there’s just enough people around to make it easy enough for you to hide in a crowd, you suppose.

You’re going to follow him, and find out what he’s up to, and then you’re going to see if and how it all connects to this stupid loop.

Easy as that.

It’s about an hour and a half later when you seriously start cursing Bucky’s name. Inexplicably, he’s still just walking around the streets of Manhattan like a fucking peasant. Your clothes are sticking to your body in ways you don’t care to describe, and you’re sick of having to pretend to be interested in shitty Independance Day memorabilia and battered paperbacks on sale while trying to avoid eye contact with the people trying to sell them to you.

You’re also pretty sure you’re walking around in circles.

Letting your head fall into your neck, you blink up into the bright sunlight from underneath the shade of your cap. As always, there is not a single cloud in sight, a perfect Friday in July. It’s making your eyes burn.

You glance back at Bucky, who has continued walking after taking a look at his phone, and sigh. All of this would be so much easier with your powers.

"What on earth are you up to," you mumble to yourself as you watch him take another left.

You count to ten before rounding the corner as well—and then you yelp when you almost slam into Bucky’s chest.

"What are you doing?" He doesn’t sound annoyed at all; more entertained. You take a step back, assessing, but his face doesn’t betray him whatsoever.

"Going on a walk," you try cautiously.

"Yeah, right." He tilts his head, features despicably neutral. "Why are you following me?"

"I’m not?" He stares at you, and you groan. "Fine. I just wanted to see where you’re going?"

"Why?" There’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite make sense of, but your thoughts tumble right over it, scrambling for an excuse and coming up empty. The glint in his eye is distracting.

"Because …" Because you don’t know what else to do at this point. "I don’t know, I was just curious."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "That’s a lot of dedication when you could’ve just asked."

You look at him doubtfully. "So you’d have told me?" you say, already knowing the answer.

"No." He puts his hands back into his pockets and turns around, leaving you standing there staring at his back.

"Well, there you go then," you shout and start to follow along again. You take the stupid hat off with a sigh and stuff it into the backpack, wiping sweat off your forehead. "How long did you know I was there?"

Bucky shrugs. "About when I got outside."

"Seriously." He stares at you over his shoulder. "Seriously?!"

"You came down the stairs," he says, shaking his head. "And in a Yankees cap."

"So?"

"Don’t tell me you suddenly like baseball."

"I might like baseball," you mumble. "It’s a very fine … ball sport."

He snorts. "Sure ya do. I’ll remind you next time the game’s on."

"Circling back," you quickly change the subject, "why the fuck did you make me chase you halfway across Midtown if you knew I was there anyway?"

"It was funny." The shit-eating grin spreading on his face surprises you so much you stumble over your own feet. His arm extends to stop your fall if necessary, as if on instinct. "You know," he continues, "I thought you’d lost me on Times Square. Almost asked one of those guys in costume to help you out."

You slap his hand away. "You’re the worst, Barnes."

"And you’re a shit spy, time powers or not." The smile changes, but stays. Somehow, you’re glad.

Your fingers twitch inside your own pockets, your thumbs tracing along your rings. "So," you say, suppressing the nervous chuckle. "Where are we actually going?"

"Don’t know yet." Bucky turns his head to look out for cars before he continues walking. It takes you a second to match his pace again.

"What do you mean, you don’t know."

"Well, I had to cancel my plans because I got an amateur stalker on my heels."

"Wow." You squint at him and the blinding sunshine behind his head. "And you’re calling me stubborn."

"To your face? I would never."

Oh, you hate this.

"So we’re actually just walking around town for the hell of it." And you’ve done all of this for nothing.

"Yup."

The realization that you wasted yet another day by thinking you could be sneaky around Bucky almost takes you down a spiral, and you don’t even notice he’s still talking to you until he ducks his head to catch your eye. "Huh?"

"I said I’ll buy you a coffee. Think you might need it." He pauses. "That is, if you wanna."

"I could always go for coffee," you say, and it’s true. First, though, you should tell him. Rip the band-aid off and get it over with. "Listen, I��"

But then he looks at you, his eyes impossibly blue in the sunshine, and for the first time in weeks, you don’t have to deal with that damn preciousness in them, because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, and so he just looks at you like he has a thousand times before, the normalcy of it like a breath of fresh air after his eyes have dragged you under again and again.

How come you’re not the one who’s really getting knocked around every single day?

Maybe it’d really be a kindness to spare him the news, just once. It’s still so early.

"What?" Bucky asks when the silence stretches.

You think of the ever unchanging Tower and the neverending pizza delivery and the fact that you hate this. You hate lying to him. You do it anyway.

Just once.

"I thought of something, but it doesn’t matter now," you say. "We have time."

* * *

"Are you gonna tell me what’s up with you?"

You pretend not to hear him, shuffling the straws around in their container until they look a bit more orderly. Even though you’re not working, even though this isn’t even your store, it’s hard to shake the need to feel useful. Particularly if you’re trying to ignore Bucky’s gaze burning into your neck.

You’re saved by your name being called out because your coffee is ready. For some reason, you half-expect him to swoop in front of you and take the drinks himself, but of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

With a shake of your head, you rid yourself of the ridiculous thought and hand Bucky his coffee without looking at him.

"You know," you say, stepping out of the crowded Starbucks into the sunshine. "I have a blanket somewhere in here." You point at your backpack. "We could try to fight for a spot in the park."

There’s a pause, and then Bucky sighs. "What else do you have in there, anyway?"

"Spy stuff."

You don’t expect him to find that funny, but he snorts slightly. Then, like a habit he can’t break, his gaze falls on your hands again.

"I’m just tired," you say wearily before he presses the matter.

"You should try the floor," Bucky says. "If you can’t sleep."

It helps, sometimes. "I’ll keep that in mind."

You take a sip of your coffee and scrunch your nose when you realize it isn’t what you ordered for yourself; it’s what you ordered for him. In your haste to change the topic earlier, you must have switched the cups.

"Sorry," you say, "this is actually—"

But you stop talking, because he’s already taking a tentative nip of yor drink, and then he licks his lips. And they curl slightly upwards.

He blinks a few times, as if he’s as surprised as you are, and tries again, less hesitantly this time. Then he looks at the writing on the cup. "Wait," he says, frowning, "I think you’ve got mine."

Your mouth closes, then opens again. "How do you know?" you finally say. "They both have my name on them."

"Yeah, but you always get the same thing," Bucky says, as if him knowing your order couldn’t possibly be news to you.

"It’s fine," you say when he tries to hand you your cup back. "Maybe I should try something different sometimes."

Bryant Park is already bustling with people, and it’s just about noon. The little green tables are all occupied by chess players and chatting families, the carousel horses manned with happily shrieking children.

Still, you find a place to spread out your blanket near the edge of the lawn, almost within talking distance of the Public Library’s security guard, who is currently on his first smoke break. You demonstratively sit down with your back to him. If ever a man took his job too seriously.

"Aren’t you hot in that?" you ask doubtfully when Bucky uncomfortably sits down opposite you, the collar of his leather jacket pushing up.

"'Course I am," he answers, not elaborating.

You let your eye roam through the park. "Terrible news," you say dryly. "Not a single person is looking at you, Sergeant Cool."

Bucky shakes his head, not looking at you.

"No one cares," you say, more sincerely this time. "Even if they did, they’re not gonna say anything. And they’ll have forgotten about you tomorrow."

He huffs again. "And you’re wonderin’ why I call you stubborn."

"I thought you didn’t do that to my face?"

He pulls his gloves off, throwing them on the blanket between you with his eyebrow raised. "Happy?"

In the bright sun, his left hand is gleaming, the inlets reflecting the light in a way that makes it dance across the cotton like swirls of pure gold. You smile and lean back, closing your eyes.

You don’t come to this park often, even though it’s not far from the Tower at all and it’s easier than returning to Central Park with all the memories it holds and that have turned more bitter than sweet after everything. It’s the same as with the library, you suppose. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re missing something until you find yourself in the middle of it.

It might have been a Saturday, you think, the last time you were here. What a concept; Saturday. You sit with the thought for a while, and then you let it drift away, just like you’ve been practicing.

It’s such an unexpected feeling, to get to experience this moment of quiet reprieve when lately, most of your time in this loop has been spent studying, or training, or fighting. You already know you’re getting another talking-to if you don’t return to the astral plane at all today; but it’s just the one day. Surely, you can be allowed one day.

Your brain craves it more than anything.

When you open your eyes again, Bucky is contemplating your backpack with a frown so oddly different than the one you’ve gotten used to in previous loops. He seems so … It takes you a while to come up with the right word, because somehow, it makes you think of Alpine, and that doesn’t make any sense at all. Comfortable. He seems comfortable.

His shoulders are relaxed, his jaw unclenched, and even though he’s still wearing the jacket, his eyes aren’t flitting around to assess everyone within sight. His head tilts slightly.

"Are you trying to see through it?" you say, and the dryness tastes wrong on your tongue.

Bucky nudges the backpack with his foot. "Just wonderin’ what you thought you were gonna be up to."

"I like to come prepared."

"Since when?"

Well, ever since resetting has kind of stopped being an option whatsoever. "This isn’t gonna turn into one of your 'constant vigilance' talks, is it, Moody?" you say lightly.

He looks at you again, and you’re not really sure if that’s better or worse. "You’re deflecting, doll."

"Well, what do I know!" you say. It’s worse, definitely worse, but you don’t know why. "You might have been off on a covert mission or visiting a secret girlfriend or buying a beehive to put on the roof or—"

He unzips the backpack. "So you brought a blanket, a baseball cap, binoculars and a banana?"

You try to bite your tongue, but it’s impossible. "I was kind of set on the bee scenario."

Bucky laughs.

Genuinely laughs. His nose scrunches up, his eyes creasing and his head thrown back a little, shaking with a quiet and almost childish glee as you blink at the unusual sight. It’s over almost as suddenly as it began, but … still. A warmth spreads from your chest to your cheeks as you watch him, your own smile almost hesitant by comparison.

Joy looks good on him.

It leaves a twinkle in his eye even as the laughter subsides, like specs of sunlight.

"What?" he says, his mouth still twitching.

"You seem happy." And it’s astonishing.

Bucky shakes his head slightly, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s blushing. "No need to sound so shocked about it."

"You sure?" you ask, your voice cracking only a little. "I feel like I need to call an ambulance."

"Shut up."

"Or Area 51. I think you might’ve been swapped with an alien doppelganger." You sit up properly. "Tell me something only the real Bucky would know. Oh, wait. He wouldn’t have told me, either."

"You are the most dramatic person I know, you know that?"

"You’re one to talk, Sergeant I Need Nobody’s Help, I Will Jump Out Of  A Plane Without A Parachute."

"So many rank drops today."

"Now who’s deflecting?"

"I take calculated risks."

Except he doesn’t even know his calculator is broken.

Bucky stares at you. "What’s that even supposed to mean?"

You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Not today. Your fingers twitch automatically to take it back, but of course, nothing happens. Nothing apart from his attention being brought back to your black rings.

"What did you do?"

The concern in his voice is quiet, but it’s there nevertheless, and it makes your heart ache, long desperately for it to go away, to be replaced by the joy that was there mere seconds ago. You want to make this day stop, make the world stop so you can continue living in that ease of just sitting here and laughing together without thinking about anything else.

And then you realize what’s really happening, and the world chokes, like something falling into place.

For a moment, you can’t breathe as you look at him, whole and confused and missing parts he can’t even remember leaving with you, and you feel as though your heart might stop because the only thought running through your head is Please, not now. Not now. Not now. Every single beat is an echoing no inside your mind.

You are so fucked up, you think, but you can’t find it in you to stop looking at his face, nearly flinching as you shove the feeling all the way down, down, down, until you can feel it like a brick in your stomach. It’s nauseating, like the vertigo you get at the very top of a roller coaster just before the car drops into freefall.

"Y/N?"

"I don’t know," you say tonelessly. He must have noticed your face change, he must have. So why doesn’t the frown deepen?

"Liar." Your heart is still pounding so loud he must hear it, even over the racket of children screaming in delight and cars blowing their horns in the distance.

Concern, you think again. Exact same thing that you see mirrored on Bucky’s face right now. You're concerned for your friend.

Roommate, really.

Colleague.

Guy you sometimes work with, professionally.

Exactly. That’s it. That has to be it.

You’re in deep enough shit already.

He’s still waiting for you to say something and you can hear the blood rushing in your ears, the buzzing in your head getting louder, and the only thing you can think to say is, once again, "I’m sorry."

Before Bucky can answer, his phone rings, and there’s the flicker of annoyance you’ve been waiting for.

"Hold that thought," he says. "Sam?"

Your heart sinks as Bucky presses his phone to his ear, reality catching up with you again. You try to rearrange your features into a neutrally curious expression when he glances back at you, but you’re probably failing horribly.

"No, I’m good, I didn’t end up going.Yeah. Alright."

You clear your throat as he hangs up. "So. Sam’s about to give his big speech then?"

Bucky looks bemused. "I’d hope not. That was hours ago."

"What?"

Confused, you look at your watch. Then you look at Bucky’s watch. Then you look at your phone.

Even though you can’t have been sitting here for more than thirty minutes, every clock you look at tells you it’s past 4 p.m. Confused, you twist your rings around your fingers, one by one, but they’re as pitch black as ever, and yet somehow …

"Should we go?" you ask, your voice just a little pitchy.

Bucky gazes at you for a very long moment, and then gets up to his feet and holds out his hand to pull you up. He still hasn’t put his gloves back on.

You take it.

"You’re really off today," he remarks and you hum noncommittantly as you fold the blanket back up and unceremoniously stuff it into the backpack. He shoulders it himself before you can grab it. "You’re just gonna complain again," he says, even though the Tower isn’t that far.

You don’t say anything, though, just trudging behind him without a glance back.

Probably because of the time of day, 42nd street is packed. You watch Bucky pass through the crowd with his head downcast and his hands back in his pockets. If it’s been a struggle not to get separated from him earlier this morning, it’s near impossible now.

He looks over his shoulder when, for the third time, several people have pushed between the two of you, and you shrug helplessly as you try to catch up to him. Again, you can’t help but think this would be so much easier with your powers working the way they’re supposed to; just stopping everyone else for a second while you move past them.

"Sorry," you mumble when you reach him waiting for you at a crossing. All of a sudden, you feel how tired you’ve been for a while.

"Wanna just go home?" Bucky asks.

"That’d be nice," you say, cringing at the thought of having to change immediately once you get back. Sam is probably already impatient.

Bucky’s mouth twitches. "Don’t make this a thing."

And then he takes your hand again and links his fingers with yours as if he’s done it a thousand times before. The light changes to green, but you don’t move, and Bucky softly tugs to get your attention. His hand is solid and warm in yours, and it does nothing to ease the feelings of unease and contentment that mingle in your stomach with his touch.

Neither does the fact that as soon as the crowd disperses and you slowly, reluctantly let go of his hand, he steps out into the street with his head half-turned to you and—well.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and it’s like the air is getting knocked out of your lungs.

After that, the days start to blur.

* * *

"Why would it have anything to do with the mission?" Strange asks, and you can’t decide whether he sounds condescending or genuinely confused.

"Because it’s never happened before then, maybe?" you say, throwing up your arms. "I don’t know!"

"The loop is tied to you, not the other way around. If Sergeant Barnes has only ever died during the mission before today, the only other variable in that equation is you."

His cloak curls at the seams in a way that’s almost apologetic. What a stupid thing to say about a piece of magical fabric, you think.

"Great," you huff, sitting down on the ground and crossing your arms in order to not shake violently. "So first time’s skipping and now if I spend time with him, he’s just gonna die earlier?"

There’s a pause as Strange frowns. "Show me your wrist."

You press your lips together tightly and hold out the arm with the swirling green symbols. Strange examines it with a particularly grim expression.

"Just say it," you mutter when it becomes unbearable.

"Time is a precious thread in the fabric of the universe," he says, dropping your hand. His silver eyes are very serious. "You don’t get an endless supply of it."

"I literally do," you reply, flourishing your wrist demonstratively. "That’s the whole problem."

"No." Strange shakes his head. "Your reality is going to collapse if time can’t move on from where it’s stuck. Not today, not tomorrow, but it will happen."

You stare at him with wide eyes. "What does that mean?"

"It means, no more distractions. Things are detereorating more quickly than I’d hoped." He sighs, and there’s something about his demeanor that lets real fear course through your bones for the first time in a while.

"Okay," you say, swallowing it down. "Let’s do some overtime, then."

"I’m afraid that’s not how it works. Look at her."

You glance at your sleeping body, stirring in her sleep.

"You asked when this is," Strange continues. "That’s the thing with this version of the astral plane. It’s unstable. It only exists between dreaming and waking, and so our time here is very limited. You are then, and now. Past and present and future all folded into each other and wrapped into one. The nature of time doesn’t like this."

"So, what?" You laugh humorlessly. "I go through an endless day, and then reality crumbles anyway?"

"Do you understand now why it’s so important that you get a grip on your powers?"

Because you’re the one who created the loop, and therefore the only person who can untangle it again.

"So no pressure then," you say tonelessly.

"All of the pressure, I’m afraid," Strange says grimly. "There’s really no time to waste anymore."

* * *

"When we live such fragile lives, it’s the best way we survive. I go around a time or two, just to waste my time with you."

Your head has started pounding to the beat of the song and Sam’s fist at your door, but you keep staring at the ceiling, unmoving. It all just starts over.

Even this godawful song.

"Tell me all that you’ve thrown away. Find out games you don’t wanna play."

You must admit, the universe has a certain sense of cruel humor. Not that that’s any news. It doesn’t fucking matter what you do any of these days, because the outcome stays the exact same, and there’s a moment each and every time where Bucky knows that, too. Only by then, it’s too late.

"Geez, I hate you."

You’re so tired.

"I know, Buck."

Fade to black. Back in with a blast and the sun in your face, FRIDAY blasting The—

"I’m coming in," Sam finally shouts from the other side of the door. "You better not be naked!"

You hear him enter, but you still don’t move. You’re busy replaying that look on Bucky’s face in your mind of the exact moment it goes wrong. It looks so pale, his mouth twitching downwards, a bit like with his coffee, but much more devastating.

Black out. Rewind. His eyes are on you, not even on the white jacket shooting him.

Black out. Rewind. The fingers on his metal hand grasp so tightly around your wrist you feel something move underneath your skin.

"What is going on with—Y/N!" You feel Sam rushing to your bedside in three long strides.

Right. You’re still covered in blood.

You can’t look away from his eyes until the last second. Black out. Rewind.

"FRIDAY, turn this shit off. Call an ambulance."

"Calling 911."

The sudden silence slams you back into the present with a start. "Cancel call," you say loudly, your voice only slightly shaking. "I’m fine, Sam."

"You don’t look fine!" He helps you sit up, looking you up and down, a sense of urgency still vibrating in his every movement, but of course, you’re not bleeding. "You look like you just shot a man and then rolled over."

"You’re not wrong," is all you get out before you start crying.

Black out. Rewind. God, you’re pathetic.

You shrink back from his arms, cradling your wrist to your chest. It’s starting to swell.

And yet, the green symbols swirl.

You’re not sure why you’re reacting like this now, after … you’re not sure. It’s not like this is your first time. Does that make you an even worse person? Probably.

Sam is talking to you, you recognize his voice, but you can’t focus on the words. You’re desperate to find something to focus your attention on, like you’ve been trying, training, grasping to do, but you’ve got nothing. Just numbness, a gaping nothingness, and the scars to prove you’re not just stuck in a nightmare but this is in fact your reality, and you are the only thing that remains while everything else resets in an endless cycle of hell, over and over and over again.

Nothing stays.

And you can’t help but feel like you’re running out of time, anyway.

This is ridiculous, you know that. You know you’re worrying Sam out of his mind, that you just need to focus, damnit, take a breath, stop crying, anything. Your incompetence to do any of these simple tasks is like another slap to the face.

Time passes, and doesn’t pass; it doesn’t matter at all whether you’re there for a minute or six hours, it’s all the same to you.

Through the fog of it all, Bucky’s voice is like your lighthouse.

And you despise yourself for it, even as you reach out for him.

"Hey," he says quietly, his hands rubbing circles into your back until he slowly, carefully pulls you out of your head back to earth. "It’s alright. Everything’s okay."

He says it over and over and over again until you nod slowly. It’s a pretty lie, after all.

"What happened to your wrist?"

You know what you have to do, but that concerned undertone makes it so hard. You’re still not used to it, but you want to be. Fuck, you want … No.

It doesn’t matter.

"I need to tell you something," you whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear. "One more time. And then … Then that’s it."

You have to do this. Have to close yourself off emotionally. Distance yourself from Bucky in order to stay rational about this situation and find your way out. Treat this like you’re not involved at all; like this is just another puzzle for you to solve, and nothing else.

It’s the only way.

You’re going to fix this mess you’ve created, if it’s the last thing you do.

* * * * *

"If we die here tonight, I’m blaming you," you told Steve through chattering teeth, and he laughed at you. If you hadn’t still felt bad about his bruises—no matter that they’d already healed completely again—you might have kicked him in the shin.

You’d reached the point of wanting to kick Captain America on a concerningly regular basis.

This time, though, you felt completely within your rights, because you’d been training hard all week, and thanks to New York being just about the most disgustingly freezing place on the planet if they asked you, you really didn’t see the point of driving into the city to a random ice rink. Particularly not on an evening in early January when it was already dark outside.

"You’ll be warmed up in no time," Steve said and waved at Nat, who was already waiting for the two of you, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up so the red roots of her hair stayed hidden.

"Couldn’t we have done this at the lake?" you asked, looking around wearily. The crowd was substantial.

"Sure," Nat said and put an arm around you. "Do you have about fifty friends we can invite so we can properly train your powers around other people?"

You grimaced. "There are children everywhere."

"Oh, yeah. Some of them went home early, but most opted to stay when I told them Steve would drop by."

You groaned. Of course they were Natasha’s Blip orphans; they had the same mischievous shimmer in their tired eyes. "Thanks for that, Nat."

"You’re so welcome," she answered, patting your shoulder. You narrowed your eyes when her coat shifted to the side.

"Is that my hoodie?" you said.

She looked down as if she hadn’t noticed what she was wearing at all. "Yeah, I think so."

"I was looking for that everywhere earlier!"

Natasha merely shrugged. "It’s your own fault for leaving your stuff in the dryer for anyone to take."

"Don’t pay attention to it, she does it to all of us," Steve said, putting an arm around her.

"That is not true."

"It is. You’re like a clothes hoarding dragon."

"Did you just call me a dragon?"

You didn’t listen to the rest of their bickering, because your eyes had started to water, and not because of the cold. It’d been a long time since you’ve felt this warmth inside, this feeling of belonging, of, well … family. It made your powers pulsate through your veins soothingly.

Still, the worry came back when they gave you a helmet and knee pads to wear.

"I’m a travesty on skates, but it’s not this bad," you told Natasha again when you shakily followed her to the rink entrance.

"We’re here to train, not to have fun," she said, taking your hands. Of course, she moved like a dancer even on the ice. "Well, both," she amended when you looked unconvinced. "Oh, don’t look at me like that, it was Steve’s idea."

"Then why is he sitting over there doing nothing?"

"He’s got the day off." She pulled you to the side of the rink. "Here’s what we’re gonna do," she said, pointing to the far end. "I’m going to close my eyes and you’re going to guide me straight through the middle to the other side."

You stared at her. "You’re insane."

Natasha ignored you. "One straight line, you tell me when to dodge someone. We’ll go slow."

"I don’t know how many times I can jump."

"It’s not exactly a life or death situation, Y/N. I can survive a few bruises and so can the kids."

"I’d rather not injure a child if you don’t mind," you say, trying not to sound hysterical.

"And I’m confident that you won’t. Do you trust me on this?"

You met Nat’s calm gaze and took a breath, even though the knot in your stomach tightened. "Fine."

"Such a vote of confidence," she snorted. "Just watch what they’re doing, and keep it in mind. Think of it like a dance recital. It’s all just a sequence of steps in a specific order."

You bit the inside of your cheek and nodded. Natasha closed her eyes. "Ready?" you asked.

She smiled. "I love this song."

You could barely hear the music over the thrum of adrenaline, but you supposed that was her way of saying yes. This’ll be the day that I die.

You pushed forward.

chapter six

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

[intrepidacious]

time after time [4]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 9.2k

chapter warnings: description of a panic attack; this writer is still grappling with the events of endgame and the nature of time travel; underneath the banter, tensions are rising

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: welcome back everyone. i missed you. 💚

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

four: groundhog day

“She needs a thing.”

It was one of the rare evenings when Natasha and you weren’t the only ones at the Compound, so you’d ordered take-out and given yourselves the evening off. It felt nice, normal even, a dinner between friends that hadn’t seen each other in a while but comfortably fell back into their old rhythm. You weren’t the new girl anymore, but still new enough to this kind of life, and so it felt like a big deal when they included you like this. For better or worse.

“I don’t need a thing,” you said with a roll of your eyes.

Steve was getting better with his chopsticks, but he was still the last one eating. Rhodey, apparently, was bored out of his mind and tried taking it out on you.

“Of course you do,” he said, “we all have a thing!”

“Rhodey,” you replied sternly. “I don’t want a thing.”

“I don’t have a thing,” Natasha said.

“Oh, please,” you both said in unison.

“Do I have a thing?” Steve asked, grin still easy on his face.

“You have a vibranium shield,” Rhodey said, “that you throw like a boomerang.”

“What’s my thing?” Natasha demanded.

“Do you not notice yourself posing?” you asked, sliding your leg to the side. “It’s such a thing.”

“Had a shield,” Steve said. “And it was magnetic.”

“You’ve also grown like ten inches since the forties, man, is that not enough of a thing for you?”

“Fine, alright,” Steve conceded. “You good, Nat?”

“Of course.” The absent-minded smile vanished from her face, replaced by a wicked grin as she contemplated you. “How about a cape?”

You groaned. “I’m not going to wear a cape.”

“Why not? It’s classic!” Rhodey snorted.

“It’s showy. None of you have a cape!”

“Thor has a cape,” Steve said.

“Thor is literally a god, that’s different.”

“Doctor Strange had a cloak. That’s kind of like a cape. Time power people wear capes,” Rhodey added.

“I don’t want to be associated with Strange!”

It came out sharper than you intended. You all sat in silence for half a minute, busying yourselves with your drinks. You buried your head in your hands. Natasha blew on the rim of her bottle.

You wondered if you should just try and rewind the moment, but you weren’t sure if you had the energy for it. And you didn’t want this awkwardness to last any longer than it already did.

“You know,” Steve said after a while, “Vision wore a cape, too.”

“Oh my god,” you sighed. This was just happening, apparently.

“So did Loki, though,” Natasha pointed out.

“Have none of you seen The Incredibles?” you asked. “Capes are terrible!”

“That’s a cartoon movie, Y/N,” Rhodey said. “That’s nothing like real life.”

“Is that one for the list?” Steve asked.

“You can shoot lasers out of your hands, you’re telling me the danger of getting sucked into a void is more unrealistic than that?” You stole one of the spring rolls off Steve’s plate. “It’s definitely one for the list.”

“If you’re getting sucked into a void, I doubt whether or not you were wearing a cape at the time would make much of a difference,” Rhodey snorted, taking another sip of his drink.

“And you could use it as a weapon,” Natasha added. “If it’s the right material.”

“Like an armor made of fabric,” Steve nodded, pocketing his notebook again. “I’ve heard of that.”

“I was thinking she could strangle someone with it, but sure, armor works, too,” Natasha shrugged. You laughed at Steve’s confoundedly impressed face. “Anyway,” she continued, still contemplating you, “I’ve got an idea you might like.”

“I’m not going to wear a cape,” you said again, but Natasha wasn’t listening to you anymore, turning her attention towards Rhodey again instead.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the night?”

“Nah,” he said with a fond smile. “I gotta be in D.C. early tomorrow. In fact, I should probably head out.”

“Already?” Steve said, one of his arms draped comfortably around the back of Natasha’s chair.

“I thought we were doing poker night,” you agreed. Despite his ribbing, you didn’t want Rhodey to leave yet. You still craved this sense of normalcy that came when people hung out with each other, just because they could.

Just because they wanted to.

“Again,” Rhodey said, stretching his legs before getting up, “I’m not playing cards against you lousy cheats anymore.” He pointed at you and Natasha.

“We would never cheat,” you protested in fake outrage.

“We’re far too talented for that,” Natasha agreed, winking at you.

“Lousy. Cheats.” You weren’t as stiff anymore as he hugged you goodbye, even squeezed back a little. “Call me about your next meeting.”

Steve nodded. “Fly safely, alright?”

“I’ll walk you out,” Natasha said, pushing her chair back so abruptly Steve almost lost his balance.

There was an unease to her steps that became more noticeable on the evenings she took Rhodey aside, and you watched them leave with a slight frown. Considering how effortlessly she’d been teasing your deepest worries out of you over the past months, you couldn’t shake the feeling that her own walls wouldn’t come down so soon.

“Wanna play me for the last one?” Steve interrupted your thoughts, nodding towards the lonely leftover spring roll.

Your stomach grumbled in appreciation as you reached for the deck of cards already placed next to the empty food containers. “You’re not scared I’m gonna scam you, then?”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” he shrugged. “Besides, you have a tell.”

“I do?” And here you thought you’d stopped sweating. "What’s my tell?"

"You don’t like lying."

Your fingers halted for just a fraction of a moment as you were shuffling the cards and you frowned. "That so?"

"Don’t get me wrong, you’re good at pretend." Steve gently took the deck out of your hands. "But when you feel bad about something, it’s like a neon sign above your head. You only need to know where to look."

He dealt the cards.

* * * * *

The sign next to the door tells you it’s still, again, and endlessly happy hour. "Get two of your favorites for the price of one!" it says in Lucy’s beautiful handwriting next to a lovely drawing of two colorful plastic cups.

Inside, the air conditioning is on full blast and the smell of ground coffee is enough to make you sigh contentedly. The queue, as usual, is at least ten deep, so you have some time to watch the people around you while you wait.

You’re late today, and you can see the remnants of a spilled drink behind a little yellow triangle proclaiming "Caution! Wet floor". Apparently it’s busy enough today that no one’s had the time to clean up in the past hour. You still grimace as you step up to the counter.

"How’s it going, Luce?"

"Ask for a frappuccino and I will fucking murder you." Your colleague tugs a strand of hair back under her cap with a sigh. "I swear, if I see another child today, I’m gonna quit."

"That bad?" you ask with a sympathetic smile. Holidays always are, particularly at this store, since it’s only a hop and a fall from Grand Central. You still remember your last New Year’s Eve shift with a shudder.

"Please kill me," Lucy says dryly and then, like always, "Usual?"

"Please," you say, adding the rest of your order. "Love what you’ve done with your face, by the way!"

"Thank you," she says, proudly turning her head so you can admire the other side of her red-white-and-blue themed makeup. "No one’s said anything all morning, can you believe that?"

Yes. Yes, you can, because this is New York and also she tells you every day. "Shut up!"

"I know, right?" She leans forward on her elbows, cracking her back. "You working this weekend?"

The way things are looking, you’re never working again. "Not ’til Wednesday."

"Boo, lucky," she groans as you sign your receipt. "I should go down with my hours, too. I feel like I’m in every day. Hi, welcome to Starbucks, what can I get started for ya?"

Her code switch as she talks to the next customer in line has you shuffle forward to the bar, carefully stepping around the melting puddle of a drink on the floor with a slight hiss as you strain your side slightly too much. The wound is healing, but so, so slowly.

You scroll through your phone while you wait for your drinks to be ready, handing out straws to people and wordlessly pointing them to the restroom before they harass your stressed coworkers. This part of the day in the late morning is your quiet time, and the almost familiar crowd with their incredibly mundane needs is strangely soothing to your nerves in their predictability.

It almost makes you miss work. Almost.

Your name is called, but before you can step up to collect your order, a familiar figure swoops in in front of you. You roll your eyes.

"What are you doing here," you groan.

"I could ask you the same thing," Bucky says, keeping the paper tray just out of your reach with a stern look on his face. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I was. Now I’m getting coffee." You reach for the tray again to no avail, and the stretch doesn’t feel fun at all. Still, you send him another reprimanding glare. "Bucky, I’m slightly wounded, I haven’t lost the use of my arms."

"You were shot," he says sharply as you step back into the sweltering New York sun. "You shouldn’t even be standing up right now, let alone waltz around town."

"Oh, I forgot, the man from the forties has a medical degree. Are you going to prescribe me cocaine?" You won’t admit it, but it’s a struggle to keep up with his long strides. To your great annoyance, Bucky seems to notice and slows down.

"If I would, at least I’d make sure you’d never use it," he says dryly, not looking at you. "That mine?"

"One to the left," you say, crossing your arms and watching as he takes a swig of coffee. Another failure today, it seems. "And I wasn’t shot," you add, muttering, "I was shot at."

"And the living time machine has a PhD in English."

"I have a myriad of talents."

"Mazel tov." The elevator dings before you can add the attempt to kick a super soldier in the shin to your skillset. "Sam ordered pizza, but I assume you knew that already," Bucky says as the doors close.

You curse quietly. The thought of Italian food has started to make you sick to your stomach; one of the many tragedies of your current situation. Bucky grins.

"I take that as a yes."

You grab your own cup of coffee off the paper tray with a little too much vigor, cursing again.

"You alright?"

"Shut up." You take an angry gulp of coffee.

"Tell me," Bucky says, watching you with an unimpressed expression. "Have you always been this stubborn or did you pick that up from Steve?"

"Why," you say blankly, "did you get your being incredibly annoying from him, too?"

He rolls his eyes. "I wouldn’t have to be if you’d just sit down and stop moving around so much. It’s not hard."

"I’m fine." The elevator finally stops and you hobble outside with gritted teeth, deliberately not looking at Bucky. Only a few more steps.

"No, stop that," you hear a voice before you turn the corner. "You can’t have that. You’re—you’re lactose intolerant!"

Both of you halt and take a moment to assess the delivery guy next to your front door. A pile of pizza boxes is precariously balanced on his left arm while with his right hand he’s trying to constrain a furious white ball of fluff.

You blink.

He notices both of you staring at him and quickly straightens up. "Oh. Hi! Sorry. I got your pizza and, uhm, your cat? I think?"

Alpine meows angrily.

"He was scratching at your door trying to get in," the guy continues, watching with big eyes as Bucky pries the struggling cat from his leg.

"She," he says, looking back at you with a frown.

You consider the cat.

You put her outside yesterday. Right?

"Sorry," the delivery guy says miserably, catching you before you get lost in thought.

"It’s fine," you say, finally looking at him again, forcing a friendly grin onto your face. "Would you mind bringing these in?"

It’s a coincidence. Of course it is.

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” Sam says, again. “You’re stuck in a time loop.”

You nod.

“Like Groundhog Day,” you and Sam confirm.

“Or Doubled and Redoubled,” you and Bucky offer.

“What the hell’s that?” you and Sam ask.

“It’s a good story,” you and Bucky say.

“It isn’t, by the way,” you tell Bucky. “It’s depressing as hell.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, a flicker of annoyance in his eye.

You slouch down in one of Alpine’s supposed spots with a deep sigh, ignoring the pain in your side. “And how would you know?”

Sam still looks somewhat unconvinced, despite your little presentation. Apparently, you introducing him to the poor unsuspecting delivery guy every day isn’t quite the same as showing him your blood-drenched hands first thing in the morning.

“And Bucky’s gonna die?” he asks, putting his half-eaten slice of pizza back into the box.

You close your eyes. “He is.”

“How?”

Shot. Stabbed. Crushed to death. Blown to pieces. Dead. Alive. Dead. Alive.

“Does it matter?” You twist your rings around and around, another endless circle. “But it’s connected to the loop, somehow. Just like my powers.”

“What about your powers?” Bucky asks, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s frowning again. He’s frowning so much these days. Today.

Talking about your powers feels like admitting to all your deficiencies, but you suppose this is your purgatory. Over and over, until sometimes, you reach a new little fork in the road. The tiniest bit of change.

It’s all you can cling to.

“My powers are like a remote control, right? You can pause or speed things up, no problem. Rewinding is the tricky bit.”

You get up with only a slight wince and grab the green whiteboard marker from the table, drawing a straight line on the plexiglass board. Today, you’ve come prepared for this.

“People usually think time is linear, right?” you continue. “And it kind of is, but only in this direction.” You draw a little arrowhead on the left side of the line and then point at the other end. “This right here, that’s now. There’s a pretty clear path from now to any point in the past, based on what we did with the information we had at any given moment. But, every time we make a decision, it could also go another way, right? Like, for example, if I used the blue marker.”

You draw a second arrow in blue from where the green one points at, ending it slightly above that one. Sam raises a hand.

“Yes?”

“What difference does it make which color you use?”

“In this case, none,” you answer, changing your pen again. “But if I go back in time and, say, turn left instead of right somewhere or tell you where someone’s gonna hit you before they do, that does make a difference, because it influences your decision.”

The red line curves more upwards than the other two, its arrow pointing in a completely different direction.

“The trick,” you say, tapping it, “is in avoiding something like this for random events and staying as close to the original path as possible.”

“What about the other paths, though?” Sam asks. “Do they just disappear?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, capping the pen. “They do for me. Normally, once I go back, I can’t return to the very first timeline again.”

Things are never the same when you’ve already lived through them once. Your knowledge of the outcome mars everything that comes before, whether you want that or not. That’s what makes this loop so different; because even though you know what’s going to happen, you’re still unable to prevent it.

And that never changes.

“So, essentially,” Bucky comments, “you’re switching realities every time you go back.”

You blink, considering it for a moment. “I mean, I guess so? I haven’t thought about it that way.”

“You haven’t thought about it that way?” Bucky says incredulously.

“Well, I don’t exactly have a degree in time travel,” you sigh, rubbing your temples. “I just do it.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t think about it.”

“What does all of this have to do with you Bill Murray-ing through this day?” Sam interjects.

“Who’s Bill Murray?”

“No one,” you say sharply. “Right now, time is fucked. Today isn’t moving on, it got stuck on repeat. That’s why my powers don’t work, either, you can’t go anywhere if it’s just the same point in time over and over again. Just one timeline tied into a knot.”

Or a single reality, you suppose. Maybe Bucky has a point.

“So everything just resets each time Bucky dies?” Sam says.

“Just like in a video game,” you confirm, slowly lowering yourself back down.

“That makes me feel so much better,” Bucky says, watching you with another frown.

“A rigged one,” Sam says. “It shouldn’t be that easy.”

And there’s your fork.

Your heart is pounding as you ask, “What do you mean?”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “He’s got the serum, remember? It should be about impossible to kill Bucky in a normal fight, let alone do it over and over again when he knows it’s coming.”

“I heal fast, I’m not invincible,” Bucky counters.

“No, he’s right.” If it weren’t so terrible to go through over and over again, it’d be almost comical how easily Bucky’s been killed over these past few days. You’ve had to take a mental note to keep him away from scissors. With your wound rendering you essentially useless in the fight, it’s often over long before Sam flies ahead through the tunnels, your alarm drowning out the string of curses falling out of your mouth.

“I can’t tell you what happened,” you inevitably tell Sam each morning as he helps you retie your tourniquet because your bandages have vanished again overnight. “I promised Bucky.”

“Are you shooting each other now?” he always asks. “Because you’re not supposed to do that literally.”

“Maybe there’s something that’s messing with your powers as well as mine,” you say now, looking at Bucky again. He puts his cup down, swallowing heavily. What kind of maniac doesn’t like chocolate in his coffee, you wonder.

“Like what?” he says.

“Could be a number of things,” Bruce says when you ask him the same question half an hour later.

It’s nice to see his face, even though you can see the bookshelf on the wall behind him through the projection if you squint. He looks as rattled as he always does, but with that glee in his eye that he gets when he’s presented with a particularly difficult problem. It makes Torres watch him wearily through his own phone screen, propped up against the books on the conference table.

“The most likely one is some sort of substance that’s working to lessen the effects of the serum in your blood,” Bruce continues, addressing Bucky. “Did you ingest anything, breathe something in?”

Bucky looks at you.

“There’s this substance at the lab,” you say. “You don’t touch it, but it’s this weird sort of blue … shit.” You gesture vaguely as Sam snorts.

“That is the technical term, actually,” Bruce says. “Have you noticed any other physical changes? Insomnia, loss of strength, headaches?”

“No changes,” Bucky says. It’s not really an answer.

“That’s the thing, Bruce,” you remind him gently. “Nothing has been changing. It can’t.”

“Fascinating,” he says. “And how long did you say this has been going on for?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You’ve started tallying up the days on your thigh, just out of sight from everyone, hidden by your clothes. You have to make sure you’re not losing any of them. It seems like it’d make them less significant, somehow.

“Too long,” Sam answers for you, putting his notepad down on the table. You can make out a lot of question marks.

Day twenty-four. It should be July 27th today, but you’re still three weeks behind.

“Right, apologies.” Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his nervous glance darting between Bucky and you. “I can ask around, but obviously I can’t tell you if this even does what you’re suspecting without getting a sample to my lab.”

“Actually, sir,” Torres speaks up. “There’s been rumors for a while now.”

Sam stops his pacing as Torres adjusts the angle of his phone while he’s walking.

“The first generation of Flag Smashers were all super soldiers themselves,” he continues. “Now, though, ULTIMATUM have been actively looking for a way to make super soldiers more human again. To level the playing field for everybody.”

One world, one people.

One dead body.

“Meaning what?” Sam asks, his arms still crossed.

“Meaning, according to my sources, they’re trying to develop a way to strip super people of their abilities.”

“That’d mean years of research, testing, a whole roster of scientists they’d have to recruit,” Bruce says doubtfully. “Even if they have the funding for that, they’d need a sample of the original serum or something similar enough to work with.”

Sam sits. The look he exchanges with Bucky tells you he has his suspicions about the latter.

“The super soldier serum was recreated before,” Torres shrugs, oblivious to their silent conversation. “I bet they’re still working with the data they collected back then. Also, these are just rumors at this point. If they’re true at all, they’re still in early stages.”

“Hypothetically,” you say to Bruce, “what would that look like?”

“It’s hard to predict the outcome of experiments like that,” he says. “It’s less than clear how an individual’s actual cells get altered. But my best guess is, they’d try to phase out any advancements one by one, to ensure they’re moving in the direction they want.”

“One by one,” you repeat. “Like, start with the fast healing, for example.”

“Exactly,” Bruce nods. “It’d still have to be administered somehow, though.”

“Eat anything weird lately, Buck?” Sam asks dryly.

“It’s not necessarily something you ate,” Bruce adds at Bucky’s stony expression. “It might also be intravenous, similar to the original serum.”

“What about skin contact?” you ask, a small puzzle piece finally fitting into place.

“Sure, that’s possible. But it’d have to be quite potent stuff.”

“It was.” At least if the stench is anything to go by. You turn to Bucky. “We collected a sample, and you put it in your pocket. It must have broken when the computers exploded, and when I started the loop …”

It was absorbed into it.

You don’t say it out loud. The look in Bucky’s eyes confuses you, because even though he seems to put it together at the same time as you, his expression turns strangely warm, almost careful. It’s such a stark contrast to his usual quiet demeanor that it takes you another moment or two to figure it out.

He looks at you as if you’re about to break.

You suppose he’s not far off, either, as you barely listen to Bruce and Torres saying their goodbyes to Sam and you’re left contemplating all the things you did wrong to end up here, now, again.

The list is endless.

“So what’s next?” Sam says, and you finally turn your head to look at the clock.

“You leave to give your speech,” you answer.

“I’m not gonna do the stupid speech.”

“Yes, you are,” you and Bucky say simultaneously, and you shrug at his scowl.

“Bucky and I need to do something, anyway,” you add.

Sam doesn’t like this any better today than any other day, but he still lets himself be convinced to get changed. You’ve been over this more than once, after all.

“What are we doing, then?” Bucky asks once it’s only the two of you.

You grimace slightly. “I need you to break me into the library.”

* * *

Before the loop, it’s been a while since you’ve been to any library. For the first time in a while, maybe all your life, you’ve enjoyed owning most of the books you read instead of lending them from somewhere.

So it still feels kind of like a novelty, setting foot into the Schwarzman Building. Even if it’s through the back entrance while the security guard is on his lunch break, enjoying a bit of sunshine on the steps outside.

It’d be so much easier if you had your powers, you think as you watch Bucky get through the locks you show him, more discretely than he probably has to. Stopping the flow of time has always come easiest to you, and in situations like this one, it was your most useful asset. You would have simply halted time and slipped past opened doors while everything waited for you to will it forward again.

Instead, you wait for Bucky.

The routine of it all is calming by now, in a way, his tongue poking his cheek in concentration, the only sound either of you makes the quiet clicks of keyboards and doors and locks until you can finally enter the reading hall through a small, unassuming stairwell leading up to the third floor. He seems to get a little quicker at it every day, as if his body retained some form of muscle memory from the countless redos as well.

The last door opens.

It’s not quite as impressive as entering through the marble-tiled entrance hall on Fifth, you suppose, but when the smell of pages and dust hits you again as you ascend the stairs, you can’t help but release a small, content sigh.

You’ve not been to the Main Branch often, and not in a while, but usually when you’d peruse the countless rows of books, there’d be groups of children and tourists dotted between the densely packed shelves, the reading tables filled with overcaffeinated students and academics and librarians and the usual array of curious caricatures omnipresent in any library. It’d been quiet, sticky, lively, like a school library during finals week, and you didn’t hate it but it wasn’t quite like this.

It’s blissfully quiet.

Every step you take creaks softly as if you’re about to break through the wooden floorboards. Your pace only stays determined until you reach the main reading room, because you can’t help but stop in a spot of sunshine and close your eyes to breathe it in, this peaceful stillness of life and the wonderful, familiar smell of books. Just for a second.

When you open them again, Bucky is staring at you.

“I haven’t been in here since 1936,” he told you five days ago.

“Hasn’t changed a bit, I bet,” you said.

The way he tilted his head seemed so precious. Like he was walking through his memories right in front of you. “Well, I definitely remember the gift shop. And the computers.”

“We need to go downstairs,” you say now, shaking your head to resettle yourself in the never-ending present.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Bucky asks, following you with his hands still in his pockets.

“Anything we can find on the astral plane. Which, sadly, isn’t a whole bunch.”

You can’t risk using the internal searching system on the library computers when you’re not even supposed to be in here, not unless you want to waste another afternoon getting caught, so the search to find even the right section has been quite tedious. There’s been a lot of running around in circles.

“Why?”

You just assume he’s not wondering why there’s not a lot of publicly available grimoires on magic shit. “Because Strange is an evasive asshole.”

There’s still no sign of life from anyone at Bleecker Street, or any of the Sanctums for that matter. Since no jet or plane would make it to Kamar-Taj in what limited hours you have, it seems the only way to reach Strange is in trying to get back to the astral dimension.

And figuring that out is a bitch.

“Weird," Bucky says, "that you two shouldn’t get along.”

“Fuck you, Barnes,” you snort.

You watch him stride away through the aisles with a small grin, appearing aimless, before he invariably stops in front of the same shelf. With a shake of your head, you continue walking.

"What is it with you and Voltaire," you murmur, not intending for him to hear.

"What’s wrong with Voltaire?" he still replies.

"Nothing," you say, looking down the next aisle over. "Dense, is all."

"We used to have this at home," Bucky says, pulling the volume off the shelf. "I remember my ma tryin’ to get through it, but with the four of us, she never managed."

You turn back towards him, surprised he’s offering you this glimpse into his past. "I didn’t know you had siblings."

It’s a half-truth. He brings up Rebecca rarely enough, but the fact that there used to be even more Barnes children is news to you. You’re almost shocked he’s mentioning it at all. Maybe it’s a mistake.

"Yeah." Bucky’s gaze is still absent, the memories clinging to him like fog. It makes you want to wipe them away gently.

You turn down the aisle sharply, not waiting for him to follow as you push through a door.

The upstairs library is already huge, but it’s nothing compared to the countless rows of stacks hidden downstairs and underground. It’s taken you almost two days to gain some semblance of orientation in this maze, and it takes you almost five minutes to find the shelf you were looking at yesterday. It doesn’t help your confusion in the slightest that the books seem to be mostly organized by size instead of topic.

With a sigh, you carry another stack of volumes to one of the reading tables. The additional trouble with doing research on a single day with everything constantly resetting while you’re running out of time is that there’s really no good way for you to take notes. You only have so much real estate on your own skin that you can comfortably reach in a public space, and there’s a spot right below your elbow that you keep empty.

You’ve been combing through all kinds of books on mysticism, but most of it has been a bunch of baloney and esoteric nonsense. While the theory of an astral plane is already hard enough for you to grasp, the practical step-by-step guide to getting there is either decidedly under-researched or they’re deliberately keeping it from you.

You’re about to put another book to the side after it tells you to meditate when you can hear Bucky approaching from the stacks behind you.

"Any luck yet?"

"Depends," you sigh. "Are you ready to take the next step in redefining your relationship with Jesus? Because, boy, do I have the almanac for you."

"I’m good," he says, and there’s the slightest hint of amusement in his voice. You bury your head in your hands.

Every day, it’s harder to look at him.

He doesn’t say it, but you see the determination in his eyes each day, the absolute certainty that today is the day. The last one.

It always is, for him, and his unexpected faith in you shatters you to the core. Meanwhile, you’re not even capable of asking for help.

"It’s not your fault, Twelve," Bucky says, and you flinch.

"Of course it’s my fault," you say quietly. "Who do you think got us into this mess."

"So you set out to kill me repeatedly?"

You shoot up straight. "Of course not!"

Bucky just leans against the table next to you, flicking through one of the books without paying it any attention. You press your lips together.

"What difference does it make, though? We’re here anyway."

"If you don’t know that already, I don’t know how to tell you," he says calmly.

None, you think. It makes zero difference, and you both know it, even though he’s nice or smart enough to not tell you to your face.

"I’m sorry," you say, once again, because lately all you want to do is apologize to him, no matter how many times he forgets.

Bucky frowns, but before he can say something else that will undoubtedly break your composure completely, you quickly clear your throat.

"Could you get me this one book down, actually? It’s on the top shelf and, well …" Stretching is still a struggle.

He shrugs and follows you back into the labyrinth. The silence tears at you in a way it hasn’t before, and you twist your fingers in front of your chest. You never look at your rings anymore.

"I never asked," Bucky says casually, dragging the fingers of his right hand along the spines as you keep looking for the book you’re after. "Do you have any siblings?"

Your hands still.

For a moment, you consider telling him. About your family. About the life you used to have, before everything. It seems so long ago, now, almost like a distant dream. You don’t dwell on it too long.

"Ask me tomorrow?" Your voice is thin.

He follows your gaze to the shelf and easily picks out the book you want. His eyes are very blue when he turns back to you, his head slightly tilted to the side. "Are you gonna tell me then?"

You swallow as you slowly take the book out of his hands and hold it against your chest. "Remember to ask me," you say, almost pleadingly, "and I might."

He doesn’t, so you don’t. It shouldn’t hurt.

* * *

"Here’s what I don’t get," Sam says, leaning back in his chair. "You said you only saw Strange once. Shouldn’t that happen every day, if you’re stuck in a time loop?"

You want to yell, and yell, and never stop.

"Theoretically, yes," you say, again. "Our time, here, is looped. But Bucky’s right."

"Hear that?" Bucky tells Sam. You both ignore him.

"Every time I go back in time, I essentially switch realities, except right now, that’s not happening because we’re stuck on repeat. That’s not true for the astral plane though, because it’s a different reality. So Strange can do whatever he wants, because he’s not part of the loop."

"I’m getting a headache," Sam says.

"Get in line, man," Bucky remarks. "I’m apparently dying."

"We’re missing something," you say, staring at the plexiglass board until your eyes start burning.

"Sanity?" Sam suggests.

"Well, let’s think about this rationally," Bucky says, voice only slightly laced with sarcasm. "How many other times do we know something like this has happened?"

You pull up the list of movies you already had ready for this question, pointing at them one by one. "Endless loop. Saving each other, that’s not working out so far. That one was terrible." You let out a heavy breath of air. "I guess we could try threatening Loki and see if it helps."

"Loki’s dead, though."

"Mhm, right." You scroll to the bottom. "Well, I guess that leaves blowing ourselves up, then. Can’t hurt."

"Sounds like a Friday night to me," Bucky says.

"Alright, lemmings one and two, let’s calm down again," Sam cuts in. "You said it’s because of the mission, right? Why don’t you just sit this one out, then?"

You roll your eyes. "Haven’t heard that before."

"I’m not letting the two of you go in there alone if these guys are dangerous enough to get one of us killed," Bucky predictably says.

"I can call Torres for backup," Sam tries. "Or, I don’t know, one of those guys in midtown."

"Give it up, Sam," you interrupt. "He’s not going to listen. We’ve been over this every day."

"Well, is there any part of the mission we—"

"Any part of the mission we overlooked?" you cut him off, voice getting louder until you’re shouting. "I don’t know, because every time I think I’ve got everything covered, something new pops up, and nothing fucking changes anyway! And then we’re here again, over and over, and I’m starting to go insane!"

Alpine hisses at you from her place on Bucky’s lap.

"You do realize we’re trying to help. Don’t you," Sam says, so calmly that your anger dissipates immediately. The usual wave of guilt hits you, instead, and you bite the inside of your cheek until you draw blood.

"I’m sorry," you say. "It’s just—everywhere I look, there’s a roadblock."

"I know." Sam pinches his nose as he stares at the board. "I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?"

Your heart drops.

Usually, you see this coming, but your thoughts are too muddled today. You feel the heat rising to your cheeks and Bucky scrunches his eyebrows together.

"What’s the Groundhog Day option?"

"It wouldn’t work," you say sharply, sending Sam a glare. He seems entertained by it.

"And how’d you know that?"

"Because it’s a movie," you hiss. "And a stupid one at that, things don’t work in real life like they do in a Hollywood film!"

"Hey!" Bucky says loudly. "No ignoring the dying man. What’s the Groundhog Day option?"

"You guys fucking breaks the loop," Sam answers before you can stop him. Alpine jumps to the floor and parades away. For the first time, you admire her.

"Oh," Bucky says, after a painfully long pause.

"Yeah. Oh." You don’t meet his eye. "Like I said, it’s stupid. And it isn’t how time works."

"It doesn’t work by you accidentally creating a loop either, though, does it," Bucky says, nodding at your half-hearted drawings on the board.

"Bucky, I’m not going to sleep with you just in case. That’s not even how it works in the goddamn movie," you say with a pointed look at Sam, who shrugs.

"I just thought I’d ask."

"Hold on a second," Bucky interjects, cheeks slightly tinged, "so you’d rather I keep dying than just see if it works?"

"What?" Your face is burning. So are his eyes. "No, I—it’s just not that easy."

"Sounds pretty straightforward to me," he argues.

"It’s not about the sex!" The words tumble out of your mouth to the beat of your heart. "He has to fall in love with her, that’s what breaks his loop in the movie. It’s a completely different situation!"

There’s a beat where the two of you stare at each other before Bucky’s face goes blank of emotion.

"Right." He nods, his jaw set tight.

Something inside you curls. "Sam, could you give us a minute?"

Sam looks between the two of you uncomfortably. It’s clear he doesn’t particularly want to stay, but he doesn’t want to leave the two of you alone, either. "You sure?"

"Not necessary," Bucky says, standing up. "I’m going for a walk."

"Bucky—"

"Don’t," he says, and the iciness in his voice freezes you to the spot. "And don’t follow me!"

You flinch as the door slams shut behind him.

"That went well," Sam says.

"Really?" You glare at him. "Did you have to bring up fucking Groundhog Day?"

"Sorry that my frame of reference for breaking a time loop isn’t wider than nineties pop culture," he says, crossing his arms. "Also, I don’t see what the problem is."

You stare at him and his expectantly raised eyebrows. Your heart is still thundering.

"I don’t fucking have time for this," you say, and turn your back.

* * *

When you enter the kitchen, it takes you a moment to realize that Sam is still on the phone.

"That’s nice," he says, nodding his head to acknowledge you. "No. Nah, but I’m leaving now. Yeah. Tell them hi from me, okay. Okay. You, too. See ya."

"How’s Sarah?" you ask after he ends the call.

"Good. She’s good." He starts folding up the recycling and you can’t bring yourself to tell him there’s no need. "They’re hosting the barbecue again this year, so the boys are thrilled."

"Sounds lovely," you say, twisting your necklace between your fingers.

"It’s chaos." He laughs. "Man, I miss 'em. Always feels like it’s been too long."

Even longer than he is able to remember, you think with a pang in your heart.

"Why didn’t you fly home for the holiday?" you ask.

"Because," Sam says, rolling his shoulders, "I can’t just be uncle Sam for Cass and AJ today, I have to be uncle Sam for the whole country. That’s my part on America’s day now." He shrugs it off. "Just how it is."

"I’m sorry," you say. It’s hard for you to imagine how he is able to handle all of this pressure, the scrutiny, the weight of everyone’s expectations on his back. You can barely handle your own life, and what’s that, by comparison?

"Don’t be." His neck cracks and he sighs quietly. "Kinda signed up for this, didn’t I?"

You look at the shield, casually placed on the kitchen counter, waiting for him to pick it up on the way out. It’s always looked heavier than it is.

"Besides," Sam continues, "pizza is almost as good as homemade hot dogs."

You successfully swallow down your slight gag. "It’s not that far to Louisiana. There’s still time for that hot dog."

He knows what you’re doing, and so his lopsided grin doesn’t reach his eyes. "Let’s get our cyborg through the day, alright? I’ll see her soon enough."

He squeezes your shoulder and heads for his room to change.

His words tug at something deep inside you, long after he’s closed the door behind him. Something you have to keep locked, normally, deep in the core of your ribcage, like an unruly bird, because otherwise it’ll keep breaking free and rendering you unable to move.

You sit crosslegged on the floor next to your window, your back to the wall, just like she used to. You feel ridiculous, but that birdlike thing inside compels you and you’re weak. The back of your closet seems to scream your name, begging you to keep digging until you find the sad remnants of an embrace in a soft piece of fabric.

You ignore it.

Still, your phone finds its way into your hand, and before you can stop yourself you’re scrolling through abysmally few contacts, your finger hovering over one of them for a whole ten seconds before you press it. There’s no air in your lungs as it rings an infinite amount of times, and then—

"You’ve reached Nat."

Her voice is like a kiss on the forehead and an ice cold shower at the same time. The room in front of you starts to blur.

"I obviously can’t talk right now, but I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If it’s about one of the kids, try the main office. Thanks!"

"Hey, Natasha," you say a few seconds after the beep, your voice thick. "It’s me. I just … I wanted to tell you that I really miss your voice."

You laugh wetly, because already, it’s fading from your memory again. A tear rolls down your cheek.

"So sappy, I know, but it’s true. I miss you, and I really need you today. Every day, actually." The lump in your throat grows. "Sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I love you, Nat."

You end the call and throw your phone on the floor, not caring if it breaks.

Normally, when you cry like this, you halt the world. Your emotions aren’t for anyone to witness, not like this. Not when everything is spinning and every gasp for air makes your entire body shake.

Now, though, you’re left with no other option than to have it keep moving with you, each passing second making the temporal rift between you and her larger.

You are incapable of saving anyone, no matter your promise. Useless.

You don’t hear the knock on the door, only his voice on the other side.

"Y/N? Can I come in?"

You clap your hand over your mouth so hard even more tears spring to your eyes, desperately trying to slow your breathing. You find yourself nodding.

"No!" you shout, and it sounds pathetically whiny.

He can’t see you like this, not when you look as broken as you feel. Your insides are twisting, screaming, yearning for someone to rock you in their lap and tell you everything is going to be alright.

But they’re all gone.

You have no one.

"Please?" he says again, and something about the way he does makes white-hot anger course through you.

You barely notice yourself rising to your feet, blindly grabbing the first thing within reach and throwing it with everything you have left in you. Your lamp crashes to the floor, the screen off center, the bulb shattering into a million pieces. Your alarm clock is next, the screen only cracking before you smash it against the wall and it finally stops its incessant ticking. You sweep everything off your desk with a swing of your blood-stained pillow, not caring about the noise or the damage or anything, really.

Your actions have no consequences anymore.

Pictures and books and clothes all fall victim to your wrath for the second time, and you step on them all, kicking and shoving until there’s a crack underneath your heel and you wince.

The splintered frame hurts more than the shards. You couldn’t care less about your own face, unrecognizable underneath the broken glass, but Natasha and Steve’s wide grins have also been shattered by the fall. It’s almost poetic, in a horrible way, and when you wrap your arms around yourself and stumble backwards, you notice that you’re shaking.

"Please," you whisper, sure it’s too quiet for anyone to hear, sure that by now, he’s long gone.

The door opens, anyway.

You don’t turn away from the picture, tears falling silently now. He gingerly steps over your mess until he’s so close you can feel him right behind you. It takes you another minute to catch your breath enough to speak.

"It’s not fair," you say quietly, voice still quivering. "I know I’m cursed, but why is it that everyone else has to pay? Why her? Why you?"

"You’re not cursed," Bucky says and you laugh mirthlessly.

"No, I am. I damned myself and I’m taking everyone else down with me, and I don’t even know … I don’t know how to stop this."

"Twelve—"

"Don’t—" you start, but you don’t have the energy anymore. It’s all been drained from you. Bucky sighs.

"Powers or not, you’re still in control of your actions."

It only makes you cry harder.

"Can I—" He clears his throat. "Can I give you a hug?"

And it’s so easy to turn, finally, and to find yourself enveloped by his arms, your fingers digging into his shirt so tightly it has to hurt, but he doesn’t say anything. His heartbeat is so loud when you’re this close, so alive, and he holds you through the next shaky fall of tears, warm and steady, hands pressing tightly against your back as if to remind you he’s still here.

At least for now.

"Step on my feet," he tells you softly, so you can tell it’s a request, not a demand. "There are shards everywhere and you’re already bleeding."

You do so, hesitantly, and Bucky clears the way out for both of you, slowly walking backwards with you leaning on him until you reach the threshold.

You barely notice as he sits you down on a bed, only whimpering as he carefully pries your fingers from his shirt to retreat a step from you, taking his warmth with him.

"I’ll be right back, doll."

He squeezes your hands before he lets go, and you fall back on the bed in shameful exhaustion. You can feel your mind drifting, as if you’re in a trance, your limbs heavy by your side. Something at the back of your head seems to tingle, like a memory or an inkling.

And then you feel the pull again.

This time, instead of falling it’s like treading waters, onwards and upwards through a thick, gooey resistance in the air, fighting the urge to open your eyes, incredibly aware of every itch in your body until … you’re not.

You feel very light, somehow, as if you’ve been carrying a heavy backpack that’s no longer dragging you down. Hesitantly, you open your eyes.

Odd angles and off colors, and the still disconcerting sight of your own body sleeping in bed.

Your gaze drops to your wrist. The now familiar band of green symbols is still wrapped around it, but when you concentrate, you can feel the slightest glimmer of your powers in that empty void inside of you.

Different realities. He was right.

"You’re back, then."

A mad laugh escapes you as you drop your hand. "Really? That’s all?"

Strange raises an eyebrow at you, his cloak flapping slightly. He’s sitting at your desk, seemingly without a care in the world, two steaming cups in front of him.

"Did you expect to be complimented for the bare minimum?" he asks, unperturbed. "Because then we’re both in for disappointment."

"You know what?" you say sharply, straightening up. "A single nice word would be great! You have no idea, no clue what I am going through here!"

"What you are going through?" He takes a sip of tea. "Imagine how Sergeant Barnes must feel."

Again, you feel rage bubbling up inside you. "That is all I imagine! Okay? I am failing him every single day, over and over again. And he doesn’t even really know it, which makes it worse because he still thinks that somehow, I’m going to save him, even though it’s all my fault!"

"Contrition. How refreshing." Strange’s cool gray eyes fixate on you. "Sit down."

You stare at him blankly.

"Don’t mistake my presence here for kindness," he says when you show no intentions of moving. "Your powers, left unchecked, continue to be a menace to the structure of space and time, and trust me, you don’t want to start tearing that down."

"Or what?" you say.

"Chaos," Strange answers. "Now sit. Down."

You sit on the edge of your reading chair, not letting him out of your sight for a second. The other mug of tea scoots closer to your end of the table on its own. A sweet, herbal smell drifts over. You eye it warily.

"I can’t well poison you without a body," Strange says, rolling his eyes. You suppose he has a point. "Here’s the deal," he continues. "I am going to help you in exchange for honest answers."

"You didn’t offer your help last time," you mutter around the rim of your mug.

"You were too busy acting tough and shouting at me to ask for it. Most people don’t react too generously to that."

The tea is both soothing and energizing at the same time; you’ve never tasted anything like it. "So I answer your questions and you help me … how?"

"Like I said, the only one capable of ending the loop is the one who started it in the first place." Strange’s cloak points at you. You frown back at it. "But for that, you need a stronger hold on your powers."

"And how do I do that, then?"

Strange’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he looks at you from head to toe. "Black tourmaline and silver."

Reflexively, you reach for your necklace.

"A bit primitive, but effective, as it seems," he continues. "Your own idea?"

You need him, you remind yourself. As much as it pains you.

"My mother’s," you answer reluctantly.

"Of course." Strange puts his fingertips together in a triangle, thinking. "That’d keep others from sniffing up your powers from miles away. Smart woman, your mother. Quick thinking. But that’s not all, is it?"

"Listen, doc, I’m not going to tell you my life story unless you give me something in return," you say, putting your empty mug back on the desk. "What are we going to do about my powers?"

Strange reaches into thin air and his hand vanishes in a mirror crack. When he pulls it back, he’s holding a book in it that he throws into your lap. "You get to studying."

* * * * *

"Can I ask you a weird question?" you said later that evening, staring at the ceiling. A content sort of exhaustion had started to set in, but none of you were ready to call it a night quite yet.

"Of course," Natasha said from her upside-down position on the couch, continuing to play with Steve’s hand in her lap.

You pushed up to your elbows. "Do you believe in fate?"

"Not really," Steve answered without so much as a pause.

"Seriously?" Nat turned her head towards him. "You don’t think there might be a reason we’re sitting here right now?"

"Sure I do." He booped her nose with their entwined fingers. "We’re here because we chose to be here. Like I chose to take the serum and you chose to escape the Red Room."

The quick shadows dancing across her face made you wonder whether Steve didn’t know everything about Natasha’s past, either. You sat up slowly, crossing your feet underneath you.

"So you don’t think there’s one way things are supposed to go, some grand plan or scheme or whatever, and we just … I don’t know. Pretend we can mess with it?" You fiddled around with your necklace.

"Nah," Steve said with a tired smile. "Everyone can change something."

"That’s putting a lot of faith in individuals, isn’t it?" Natasha asked.

"What do you think, then?"

She thought about it, wriggling her toes in the air. Her nails were painted as red as the roots of her hair. "I like the thought of serendipity," she finally settled on.

You grinned. "You mean, you like the movie Serendipity, you sap."

She threw a pillow at your head and you laughed. "I will neither confirm nor deny that," she said with a charming twinkle in her eye. "But that whole 'fate or free will' thing—I don’t know, I just don’t think there’s a clear cut answer like that."

Steve hummed. "So, happy accidents?"

"Yeah." She smiled at him. "Sometimes. Not fated, just fortunate."

"I think I like that," you said thoughtfully, pressing the pillow to your chest.

"Why are you asking?" Natasha looked at you and you dropped your gaze.

"Just wondering," you mumbled. You were pretty sure she knew, anyway.

Nat had a way of understanding things that bordered on the telepathic, an empathy that always seemed so out of place with everything else you’d learned about her, with what little you knew was in her past.

Whether or not there was a higher power behind it, it had to be a rare miracle in a series of coincidences that Natasha Romanoff had stayed as good as she did.

Serendipitous, almost.

Later, when you lay in bed and had the world stop to listen to your own heartbeat, you kept coming back to that thought. Green wisps of time curled around your fingers like shimmering jewelry, and you asked yourself if those accidents ever felt happy in the moment or if that was something you had to conclude later.

Maybe sometimes there was no way of telling at all.

chapter five

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

[intrepidacious]

time after time [3]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 10.1k 💀

chapter warnings: one last reminder to internalize the premise of the fic, i will just assume you know what’s up from this point on; canon-typical violence; mention of alcohol; some more permanent damage; even more banter

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this chapter has had me in a chokehold for two weeks and i ended up switching some stuff around. the fun never ceases. thanks to all of you for being patient with me, and a particular shoutout to @daisyprouvaire for making this just a bit sadder than i'd anticipated <3

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

three: every day's a holiday

Tony Stark might have sold the Tower back before the Snap, but he’d kept the two topmost levels installed for what was then still the Avengers to stay in if needed. Now, though, you were the only one actually living here while the few people that were left of the team could theoretically use the empty bedrooms while the Compound was being rebuilt.

No one ever did stop by.

It wasn’t meant to be a permanent solution when Happy had offered you a keycard, but it’d been months and no one had kicked you out yet, so you hadn’t really tried to move on. Besides, not a whole lot of people knew about it, which was a plus; and where else in New York City could you get an apartment that gave you this view and also paid for itself?

Still, it felt weird for you to be back in the city. Back in their old space.

Before the Compound, it’d been years since you’d had your own proper place, and while your room there had felt somewhat like home, you’d never really settled.

You went back only once when you got released from the hospital, collecting bits and pieces from the rubble, rescuing whatever little knick-knacks from the past five years you could find; a couple of pictures and trinkets, some books, a battered-up box, a hoodie with ripped seams.

Reminders of what you’d lost and what you didn’t want to return to.

And then, it was this.

Tidying up the dust bunnies no one had bothered with since the move to the Compound, trying to order groceries with expired credit cards, getting a job at the Starbucks downstairs so you didn’t have to ask Pepper for anything else. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous life for a former Avenger, but at least no one recognized you on your own and without the cape. You never cared for it much, anyway. So tacky.

You’d always been good at blending in with normal people. Even if it took another try or two sometimes. It was a quiet life, but you weren’t mad about that fact, you told yourself. You needed it. You deserved it.

You were fine with being useless again.

Of course, the day you decided to switch things up a little and go for that new show Netflix had been promoting incessantly, the universe was done with your laissez-faire style of living. Like a pesky little voice of conscience.

And on your day off, no less.

“You that time witch Steve told me about?”

You turned around apprehensively to find Sam Wilson standing in your kitchen area. He looked different sans wings and glasses, you thought, but no less imposing. Particularly with that raised eyebrow.

“Depends,” you answered, putting down your bowl of chips and giving him a once-over. He was apparently unarmed, but had no right to look this handsome in sweatpants, your brain supplied helpfully. You supposed it was his best attempt to look casual. “You that smartass he told me about?”

You hadn’t officially met, but you knew of each other, of course. After all, you used to have mutual friends, and you saved earth together that one time.

He’d been on the news just the other week, too, giving his little speech to the GRC; you’d been pretty impressed, to be honest. Even had FRIDAY play the “Star-Spangled Man With A Plan” remix to celebrate.

Today, you really weren’t in the mood, though. You just wanted to get back on your couch, watch some reruns and forget about the world at large and its stupid problems. You had enough of the fighting, and you had enough of heroes.

Though, if you had unexpected company, at least you were wearing your nice pajamas.

Sam smiled mischievously. “Care for a demonstration?”

Before you could even take a breath to answer, he grabbed an empty mug from the drainer and smashed it on the floor next to you.

You glared at him in disbelief. “Seriously?!”

Sam cocked his head in a your move kind of way. You raised your hands with a huff of annoyance.

“You that time witch Steve told me about?”

“Depends,” you said, slamming down the bowl of chips on the kitchen counter. “You that damn smartass he told me about?”

“Care for a demonstration?”

“Ah-ah-ah.” You wrangled the mug out of his hands before he had the chance to move, barely resisting the urge to kick his shin for good measure. “You people have a real problem with throwing things, you know that? This isn’t a ball field.” You carefully placed the mug back in its place on the rack, hoping to slow down your heartbeat with a few deep breaths.

“I might have a job for you,” Sam said, clearly amused.

You sighed. Of course this wasn’t just a random visit from your friendly neighborhood Captain America. “I don’t really do the hero stuff anymore.”

“Must be nice.” Sam leaned against the counter, stealing a couple of chips from your bowl. “You know, if you wanna lay low, you might’ve tried for a less fancy hideout.”

“I’m not hiding,” you lied. Sam raised his eyebrow again; it reminded you of Steve. “Just because I don’t go around announcing myself to the world in a shiny suit doesn’t mean I’m hiding.”

“Right. And how’s that treating you?”

You were processing, is what your therapist would have said. Getting to terms with everything that had happened. Finding your place in this confusing new world.

On the other hand, she didn’t know that you had quite literally seen every single thing online streaming services had to offer thanks to having your powers, lingering depression, and no real close friends left. A truly winning combination.

But that was none of the new Captain America’s business, no matter how attentively he was watching you.

“Who else knows about me?” you changed the subject. You didn’t want to have to leave the Tower, you realized suddenly. You didn’t want to have to pack up and leave, again.

You were so tired of losing things.

“No one. Barnes’ll have to, if you agree to do the job.”

“Great.” You rubbed your temples, adjusting the list of people in your mind. It’d gotten to the point of being disconcertingly long, once, but at least the damn wizards seemed to continue to be in the dark. And with the stone gone, they still wouldn’t know to look for you.

Almost without noticing, you reached for the pendant around your neck, thinking.

You had to admit, you’d been bored out of your mind these past few weeks. You could at least spare a few minutes to listen to him. Get your mind occupied again. It didn’t mean you had to get back out there, right?

“What kind of job are we talking?”

If Sam noticed your begrudging interest, he didn’t comment on it. “Have you heard of ULTIMATUM?” he asked.

“Is this one?”

“No. They call themselves the Underground Liberated Totally Integrated Mobile Army To Unite Mankind, and don’t make me say that again because it’s way too long.”

“Sounds like an acronym Tony would come up with.” You made your way to the espresso maker with a sigh. “Do you drink coffee?”

You hadn’t expected to time jump today and the fatigue was already settling in your bones. If he wanted you to sit through an impromptu meeting, you’d need caffeine.

“Make that three cups,” Sam said.

“Upstairs is all clear,” another voice called from the hall, right on cue. A moment later, Bucky Barnes strode into the room, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He’d cut his hair since the last time you’d seen him, you noticed. It suited him annoyingly well.

“Wonderful,” you said sarcastically. “Anyone else in my home that I should know about, FRIDAY? We talked about this, you know.”

“You said to keep out all Masters of the Mystic Arts, robbers, axe murderers, extraterrestrials, insane robots and other threats to humanity, end quote,” FRIDAY told you pleasantly. “Captain Wilson and Sergeant Barnes do not fall on that spectrum. Do you want me to add them?”

“Maybe later,” you said, glancing at the pair. An entire conversation seemed to pass between the two of them without either saying a single word. Sam held up three fingers with a sly smirk; Bucky ended up rolling his eyes.

“That her then?” he asked, clearly unimpressed with your polkadot bottoms.

“That me then.” You smiled sweetly at him. “Disappointed?”

He ignored the question, but the way he looked at you and then crossed his arms made you decide to put salt in his coffee. “I still don’t see why we need her. It’s not like we haven’t done this sort of thing before, just the two of us.”

“You didn’t see me complaining when you decided to help a psycho escape prison because you thought he could help us out,” Sam said.

“He did help, and you did complain. Non-stop.”

“Because it was a stupid-ass move. I’m choosing allies from now on.”

“That’s assuming I agree,” you interrupted their little bickering session. You’d definitely circle back to the prison break at a later point. “Which is unlikely unless someone finally tells me why the hell you broke in here in the first place.”

“Not breaking in when you have a working key,” Sam said. “If your idea of security is not changing any of the passwords Stark came up with around 2015, you have bigger problems than us.”

“Oh, the lectures do come with the shield,” you muttered, measuring ground coffee into the machine. “Apparently you have bigger problems, too, or you wouldn’t be here,” you said over your shoulder.

“Possibly,” Sam agreed and shook the crumbs at the bottom of the chips bowl into his hand. “Do you have more of these? I haven’t eaten all day.”

“How,” you said, because it was almost 4 p.m.

“I don’t know,” Sam answered, voice dripping with sarcasm. “This morning my fridge was just emptier than I remembered it being last night.”

You turned and barely caught the last wisp of a grin tugging at Bucky’s lips before his face turned stony again. So he did have more than the one expression. That was intriguing.

“Fine,” you decided, “coffee and leftovers in the meeting room in five, but you gotta carry some of this stuff. And I swear,” you told Bucky, “if you start smashing things, too, I’m kicking both of you out.”

Bucky took his time looking you up and down so slowly that you swore you could feel his gaze on every inch of your body. It was slightly upsetting and incredibly infuriating. Finally, he let his eyes meet yours. They were an oddly bright blue.

“I’d like to see you try.”

You rolled your eyes as you marched past him and ignored the shiver running down your spine.

* * * * *

You’re trying. You really are.

“Can you stop that?” Bucky tells you with a pointed look.

You do stop bouncing your leg. Instead, you start drumming your fingers against the metal part of your seat, the rhythm giving you something to focus on. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap—

“For crying out loud, could you just sit still for five minutes?”

“Nope,” you say, giving him a humorless smile through gritted teeth. Bucky rolls his eyes.

That’s good, you think, starting to tap your foot again. If he’s angry with you, he’s not dead yet, and if he’s not dead, well, that’s a good thing.

It doesn’t need to make sense. Nothing makes sense anyway.

Geez, you have to get out of here.

It’s your eighth time in the loop. You have been through this day eight times, and not one single time were you able to save him.

Nor have your powers deemed you worthy of even the slightest hitch, of even the tiniest glimmer of control flowing through you. No matter how the day goes, no matter what you do, you always go on that mission, Bucky always dies, and you wake up in your bed, drenched in sweat and soot and blood, and dry-heaving by the time you make it to the bathroom.

The butterfly effect has always terrified you, but right now, on an endless day like this one, it might be your only chance to change anything. So you’ve gone against all your instincts, and you’ve tried. Oh, you’ve tried.

“Can’t we do this mission tomorrow?” you ask on day five.

“Nope,” Sam says, because how could he know? “Get changed, lazy ass, I’d like to be back in time for the fireworks.”

You’re back in time for your alarm.

Okay, you think, maybe it’s the timing of it all. Maybe you’re just off by ten minutes or so in order to make it out. So you get changed right after lunch.

“Jet’s leaving in half an hour, get ready.”

You throw the door open. “I’m good to go. Let’s leave in five.”

Doesn’t matter. Bucky gets shot.

The next day, you lock yourself into your room with the music on full volume until Sam virtually bangs the door in one and a half hours after your usual take-off time.

Doesn’t matter. Bucky gets stabbed this time, which is even worse to watch. It’s slower, too.

“Hey,” he manages to get out, a small trickle of blood in the corner of his pained smile. “Don’ worry, doll, I’ll be fine.”

And you nod, even though you know he won’t be. Neither of you are that lucky. Not in this hellcycle.

Next, you pretend to get Torres’ message before Sam is even back from The Garden and you leave at 3 p.m. You actually make it in and out of the facility without a hitch and you almost think you’ve finally done it when Bucky gets hit by a truck in the tunnels on your way back out. By the time Sam and you manage to carry him to the quinjet, mayhem has started, and in the middle of the resulting fight you suddenly sit up in bed, hands still raised as if holding your gun, music blaring,

“Let me know that I’ve done wrong, when I’ve known this all along.”

It takes you a couple of seconds to realize that a stray bullet must have hit Bucky while he was unconscious.

Once again, you reach the toilet just in time.

In other words, you’re way past the point of plausible deniability about your situation. Instead, you’re fucking furious.

You know the only person to blame for any of this is yourself, but that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t even know how you messed up that first reset so badly. It just makes no damn sense.

You activated the time stone.

But the stone is gone. All the stones were destroyed, so how could you have activated it?

Your unintended trip to the astral plane has done nothing but unsettle you. As if you didn’t have enough problems already, now you have to think of moving as soon as you get out of the loop.

Why, after all these years, does this bad joke of a scenario happen to you now?

It’s not like you can google something like “time loop problem” and come up with a list of practical steps to follow. You know this because you did google, and if you have to read the name Phil Connors one more time you are going to scream.

“Earth to Y/N.”

You snap out of your thoughts to find both Sam and Bucky staring at you.

“What?” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

“You want a formal invite?” Bucky asks.

You bite your tongue and grab your gear, following them out of the jet and breathing in the sweet evening breeze. It’s usually the last thing you can appreciate about today.

The buildings aren’t visible from where Sam usually lands the jet, but the tunnel entrance is only a couple of yards away from where you’re standing, half-hidden by the underbrush covering this side of the mountain. Today, it’s your next try.

“Hey, Sam!” you shout, jogging to catch up with the guys before they make it all the way up the path. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” he says, “but without Redwing, we’re going in there completely blind, and I’d rather not serve ourselves up on a silver platter to maybe hundreds of ‘em.”

That’s dramatic. Dozens are more than enough to have this whole mission go south.

You force yourself to wink. “Who needs Redwing if you’ve got me?”

“What did you do?” Bucky asks immediately.

“Your job, Sergeant lookout,” you retort. “Come on, it’s faster than trekking all the way up there.”

A look passes between the two of them. Finally, Bucky shrugs.

“Your call, Sam.” There’s a tone in his voice, one that makes it clear that even though he has an opinion, he’s not going to voice it out loud.

Sam sighs. “What the heck did I expect,” he mutters and you already open your mouth to continue your arguing when he turns and stomps back downhill, still grumbling to himself quietly.

“What was that about?” you wonder aloud, readjusting the intercom in your ear.

Bucky’s jaw is set again, an annoyed flush covering his cheeks. “Get going, Twelve,” he says and turns his back on you.

Your hands ball into fists at the stupid nickname.

He doesn’t use it a lot, not anymore, even though he must enjoy the stony expression it puts on your face each time. It makes you want to shove it in his face, the fact that yes, you can do your part very well, fuck you.

Well, these days, you’re not so sure. So it just hurts.

You push the feeling all the way back down and follow them to the tunnel. The sight of the tire tracks on the sandy ground makes you bite the inside of your cheek again. You haven’t seen them before, only the concrete that covers the floor of the lab. You almost trip when it starts with a tiny step.

“You’re really weird today,” Sam says, a frown forming behind his glasses as he shines his flashlight at you. You squint.

“Didn’t sleep well,” you say, automatically, like you do every day.

The truth is, you can’t remember the last time you had a full night. Bucky dying sends you straight back to waking up to your damn alarm going off, and while you thankfully don’t feel any physical repercussions of sleep deprivation, your mind is exhausted.

And sure, maybe you’re starting to get a bit desperate in your frustration, but what’s the worst that could happen? Someone dies?

The thought inadvertantly makes you chuckle darkly.

“What’s funny?” Bucky asks.

“Your face,” you mumble and he snorts.

“Nap time was not long enough for you today if that’s the best you can do.”

You give him the side-eye. “Don’t drag my naps into this.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“You never nap.”

“I nap often. Passionately.”

“All the five-year-olds on this mission need to shut up now,” Sam interrupts. “There could be an entire squadron descending on us and I couldn’t hear a thing over your squabbling.”

“No one’s here yet, Sam,” you say, dutifully raising your arms, even though you can’t do anything anyway. It seems to reassure him, though.

“I don’t like the sound of that yet,” he says nevertheless, raising his shield as you round another corner. The tunnel finally widens.

“The guards are both upstairs,” you tell him. “As long as we don’t walk in banging pots and pans, we should be fine.”

There are no cameras down here, only in the small lab and the other buildings. You double checked. Makes sense, too, you suppose. Less evidence of whatever they’re doing down here.

“How many times did you jump?” Bucky asks bluntly, lowering his gun once he confirms that the room is empty.

“You’ll never know.” You put your bag down on the table and cross your arms before his gaze, predictably, falls on your rings again.

Sam approaches the containers. “Look at that. What is that?”

They collect the dark blue liquid and you hold your nose at the stench you’ve come to expect, heading towards the computers to make the copy. The monitors are beeping steadily, displaying the usual formulas and data you can’t make sense of.

You plug in the drive and confirm with a glance that the guards upstairs are still engrossed in their card game and unaware of your presence.

The progress bar creeps to the right unbearably slowly, and you find yourself tapping your fingers again. Someone moves behind you to stare over your shoulder.

“You’re hovering again, Barnes,” you say sharply.

“Not quite,” Sam says. “How’s it looking?”

You whirl around, but the lab is empty. “Where’s Bucky?” you say, trying to keep the rushing panic out of your voice.

“Relax. He’s just taking a quick look upstairs before we leave.”

“But that wasn’t the plan,” you almost yell, looking at the monitors again. He’s not in view of any of the cameras yet, but who knows for how long.

“You know I can take care of myself, right?” Bucky says quietly on the intercom.

You curse and start running. “Sam, we have to get out of here fast,” you pant, sprinting up the stairs two at a time while trying to get your gun out of its holster. “Barnes, I swear—”

He’s standing in the door behind the filing cabinet by the time you make it to the first floor with burning lungs, half-turned towards you. “Are you babysitting me?”

“Not the time,” you gasp. “Not '44.”

Bucky frowns. “Forty—”

The beeping sound of a six-digit code being entered on the other side of the lab door has him stop talking. You stumble past him, your finger already on the trigger.

There’s no telling when the silent alarm has gone off, exactly, but there’s a lot more white jackets than the two guards in front of that door, shuffling wildly amongst themselves. It makes it easy for you to take the first two of them down, and you barely notice something flying into the room.

You yelp when Bucky turns you both around and shoves you back into the stairwell just before the entire floor caves in. Your gun drops to the floor as you dive for his hand, but he slips through your fingers, falling through the gaping hole. Barely a moment later, the explosives in your bag detonate on the table downstairs.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, trembling. You smash every single item in your room to pieces.

They don’t stay broken.

* * *

On day ten, you get drunk.

Because what the hell does it matter, anyway? You crave a bit of nothingness, a void that will make the guilt and anger and sadness finally alleviate, if only for a little bit. You’re so sick of this.

Every time you eliminate another threat during the mission, something else goes to shit unexpectedly. You can’t keep up with what Sam or Bucky are going to do the same way you control your own actions.

It’s this realization, combined with your still slightly tipsy state when you wake up with yet another gunshot still ringing in your ears, that makes you see you cannot, in fact, take care of this on your own. There are simply too many factors for one person to consider.

So really, you’re out of alternatives.

You stumble to your bedroom door just in time for the knocking.

“Rise and shine, Mc—”

“Sam, I need your help.”

He blinks at you, one fist still raised as he takes you in, his grin falling away. “You—what in the—is that blood?”

“It’s not mine.” You usher him into your room and close the door with your foot. “I fucked up.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Sam says, eyebrows furrowed in alarm. “What the hell did you do, rob an ambulance and take a bath?”

“I’m stuck in a time loop!” you blurt.

To his credit, it takes him a full second or two before he laughs, and even then, it’s short-lived. “You’re stuck in a—you’re serious,” he says, noticing your helpless expression.

Slowly, you nod and hold up the hand with the green circle wrapped around your wrist. There’s a pause as Sam alternates staring at the symbols and your blood-speckled skin while he processes.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

You take a deep breath. “Ten days ago, it was July 4th. The three of us went on a mission—you’ll get a message in a few hours. And I—I somehow just—it went south, and Bucky died. He died, and I got stuck.”

Sam has his brooding face. “Has Bucky died since then?”

“Every single time.”

“That his blood?”

You nod, tears prickling behind your closed eyes.

“And I’m guessing you can’t stop it.”

“Yup,” you say, swallowing thickly.

“Christ.”

To your surprise, he pulls you in for a hug. It’s a bit awkward, because you try your best to angle your bloody hands away from his shirt, but it also makes you realize how long it’s been since anyone has hugged you for longer than a short greeting.

Sam notices your discomfort, of course. “Is this the first time you’re telling me?” he asks.

You nod again and he squeezes you slightly.

“Have you told Bucky?”

A desperate laugh bubbles up in your chest. “Are you crazy? What good would that do?”

Sam looks at you with a serious expression. “I’m just saying,” he tells you gently. “If you know it’s going to be his last day, he might want to know that.”

“But it isn’t,” you protest, taking another step back. “None of this was supposed to happen. If it were, it’d be July 5th, but instead, I’m stuck here and my powers don’t work at all and I—I don’t know what to do.”

You turn on the bathroom light with your elbow and start scrubbing the blood off your skin under the scorching hot water. It’s already started to dry under your nails. Once you’re done, you take a moment to stare at yourself in the mirror. The scratches on your face have almost healed.

Sam is sitting on the edge of your bed by the time you return. “I know he’s taboo or something, but have you tried contacting the wizard guy?” he asks.

You plop down next to him. “Nope. And I’m not going to.”

“They might be able to help you.” They’re only going to make things even worse.

“Sam—”

“I don’t know what your problem with them is, and I don’t need to know. But is it worth more than Bucky’s life?”

Well, fuck.

“Strange found me on my second rerun, somehow. With some weird mirror reality shit,” you admit, clearing your throat. “Pretty sure I pissed him off.”

“Let’s do that again, then.”

“Alright,” you say sarcastically. “Let me just pull out my book of magic tricks that I’ve kept secret until now.”

“You do know the man has a phone and an address in the Village, right?”

There’s a beat. “I … hadn’t thought of that,” you confess quietly.

Sam rolls his eyes. “All of you with your super serum and your weird powers, and none of you have a single brain cell to spare.”

“Rude.”

He ignores you and stands up. “FRIDAY, please set up a virtual call to Stephen Strange in the conference room in fifteen. And tell Bucky to get his ass up there.”

“Yes, Captain,” FRIDAY confirms.

“I hate it when you go cap mode at me,” you mumble.

“I don’t care,” he says, pulling you up to your feet. “Seriously, Y/N. Ten days of this bullshit on your own, this is like the self-sacrificing crap Steve used to pull.”

You scrunch your nose in protest. “I resent that.”

“Good!”

* * *

“So,” you finish with a slightly manic smile. “Any questions.”

“Several,” Bucky says dryly.

To be fair, you should have expected that.

Filling Bucky in on your situation—on his situation—has to be one of the most uncomfortable things you’ve ever had to do. You don’t exactly relish in telling a man about his imminent demise. Particularly not when he has the tendency to look like a kicked puppy on a good day.

You don’t know what to make of the expression that’s currently on his face. His gaze is strangely unfocused. You’re pretty sure he’s just indulging you because Sam’s clearly upset. He hasn’t stopped moving since Bucky entered the room.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

You fidget around with your pitch black rings. “Because I’m the one who messed up. I should be the one to fix it. Except, I’m really shit at what I do.”

“Stop that,” Bucky says, leaning forward, frown deepening. “Fine. Why aren’t your powers working?”

“I don’t know. Same reason.”

He rolls his eyes. “Does your self-deprecation ever get tiring?”

What a disappointment you are, says the voice in your head. You push it down. “I don’t know, Bucky. You tell me.”

“I’ll stop if you do, Twelve,” he says with a slight grin, his head cocked to the side.

You grit your teeth. “See, here’s the problem, we could do that, but you’re going to forget you said that in a few hours.”

“I’m calling the mayor,” Sam interrupts, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Tell her I’m not gonna do the stupid speech.”

“No, you’re not,” Bucky says. “Goal is to break the loop, right? So there’s only one version of today. One normal version. Or d’you really wanna put your shield on the line again?”

“He’s right,” you say before Sam feels the need to answer that. “I know this is asking a lot, but I only told you so that you’d be more careful tonight. Both of you.”

You can only hope that it’ll make any difference.

“Alright,” Sam concedes, even though he definitely doesn’t like it. “But I’ll drop by Bleecker Street on my way home later. See if they’ll answer the door, at least.”

For reasons you don’t know but that don’t really surprise you, the time wizards have not deemed you worthy enough to pick up their phone. Honestly, you can’t find it in you to be mad about that, despite everything. They probably wouldn’t be able to help you anyway.

“So what’s the plan?” Bucky asks.

It’s only when you look up in the resuming silence that you realize the question is directed at you. You cough uncomfortably, twisting the ring on your pinkie finger so hard you feel it leave a burn.

“I don’t know,” you say quietly.

“Walk us through it,” Sam says, looking at his watch and exchanging a glance with Bucky. “We have about four hours until I leave. Maybe we can get somewhere with this.”

You’re about to nod when Bucky stands up, tilting his head for you to follow him. You do, slowly, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling like he’s about to shout at you in private. Instead, he pulls his jacket on.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“We are getting you coffee,” he says, shoving a pair of your shoes that are lying on the floor next to the coat rack in your direction. “You look like you’re about to drop down dead, and Sam’s right. We need to know what’s gonna happen.”

You bite the inside of your cheek while you stand next to him in the elevator. It should be discomforting, the way he’s able to read you without ever needing multiple tries, and it is, most of the time, but today …

You’re so tired.

“I need you to promise me something,” Bucky says, clearing his throat. You look at him expectantly. “If this still goes wrong today—”

It tears at you. “Bucky—”

“—you tell me first the next time, alright,” he continues, ignoring your interruption. He keeps staring at the elevator doors. “Not Sam, not anyone else.”

You want to tell him it isn’t going to go wrong anymore, but you’ve never been able to lie to him. So you hold up your pinkie finger and murmur, “Okay.”

The entrance hall of the Tower is mostly empty, but the streets are starting to get busy, people heading towards the nearby train station or walking their dogs. The steady buzz of traffic does wonders for your aching head.

“You should tell me something I couldn’t possibly know about you unless you told me yourself,” you say as you’re waiting in line at Starbucks.

You can feel Bucky staring at you for a long time, sizing you up. “No,” he says, finally.

“I’m not gonna be able to convince you if Sam doesn’t vouch for me,” you huff. “You’re going to think I’m insane.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You roll your eyes and move up to the register, waving hi to your fellow partners and ordering your usual after some delightfully normal small talk. “What do you want?” you turn to Bucky.

“Coffee.”

“What kind?”

“Just … coffee.” You’d be more annoyed at his answer if he didn’t look genuinely confused.

“Drip, then?” your coworker Lucy offers helpfully, reaching for a paper sleeve.

“Sure,” Bucky shrugs, again somewhere else entirely with his mind. “Can I borrow your pen for a second?”

She hands it to him and swipes your member card. “You working this weekend?” she asks you.

“Not ‘til Wednesday,” you say, signing your receipt.

“Boo, lucky. I should go down with my hours, too. I feel like I’m in every day.” She spots the person behind you getting antsy and sighs. “Hi, welcome to Starbucks, what can I get started for ya?”

“Why do you need a pen?” you ask Bucky while you’re waiting.

“You stay the same when you go back, right? That hasn’t changed?”

You frown at the odd question. “I mean, I wake up in yesterday’s pajamas every day, but I’m also still covered in your blood, so, kind of?”

Treating your situation with a little sarcasm is your only way of coping right now; thankfully, Bucky isn’t so different in that regard.

He nods, uncapping the sharpie. “Give me your hand.”

The request stuns you so much you don’t even ask him why, letting him pull you closer by the wrist, his bare fingers curling around your arm just above the green circlet of time runes for only a moment.

You could count the times Bucky has touched you skin to skin on one hand, but on every instance he does, it’s with a strange ease, as if he were doing it all the time. It sets your nerve endings on fire, though. The cool of his vibranium arm makes the tiny hairs in your neck stand up.

You’re just not used to it, is all.

He writes something on your inner arm, right below the elbow, and you turn your head to try and make out the scrawled letters.

“Nose led what?”

“That’s an F,” Bucky says, a faint blush on his cheeks, but he keeps writing. “No self-deprecation. That goes for both of us.”

Touché. If the note stays through the loop, he’s not going to be able to deny his own handwriting tomorrow. You squint at the rest of it. “What does that say?”

“That’s not for you.” He smirks and puts the cap back on the sharpie. “Now keep that safe, would ya?”

“Is that Russian?” you ask, almost twisting your neck while balancing your coffee with the other hand.

“Ask me tomorrow,” Bucky says, taking a sip of his own drink. His mouth twitches downwards involuntarily. “And don’t just google it.”

You definitely want to google it, but his reaction distracts you just enough. “You know you’re not supposed to make that sort of face when you drink coffee, right?” you say, hiding your amusement behind your own cup.

“I’m not making a face.” He makes it again and you grin.

“You totally are.” It’d be almost endearing if it weren’t Bucky. “Have you ever tried drinking coffee literally any other way than,” you gesture at his black bean water, “that?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t, I’m just saying!” You close your eyes at the cool gust of air that hits you when you reenter the Tower. “It’s the little things, sometimes.”

“Guess so,” Bucky says absently, and doesn’t speak again for the entire elevator ride.

Somehow, that’s the moment that flashes through your mind hours later, when there’s a wound in his chest that won’t stop bleeding. That little downwards curl of his lips when he drinks his coffee.

You’ve never noticed it before.

* * *

“Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one.”

You watch him hang up the piece of cloth and turn his back. For some reason, your heart is racing.

He’s not going to believe you. You’re just not sure if that makes it better or worse.

“Hey, Bucky?” He’s almost at the door by the time you make yourself open your mouth, half-turning as you awkwardly shuffle closer, tugging at your sleeve. You wish there’d been time to wash the sweat off before you had this conversation, but okay. “I have to tell you something and it’s going to sound strange, but I promise I’m not leading you on.”

Bucky stares at you expectantly. “Okay …?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Considering the, you know, everything about me, this might not be a surprise as much as … I don’t know, a shock, maybe?” You feel like this went better yesterday. You definitely didn’t ramble this much. “I mean, it’s a crazy situation even for me, but I’m just going to tell you anyway. I’m in—”

“Crazy?” His expression hardens somewhat, and an irritated flush appears on his cheeks. “Why is it crazy?”

You laugh nervously. “Trust me, you’re gonna think so, too.”

Bucky continues frowning, his eyes fixated on something behind your head. Fine, you think, here goes nothing.

“I’m stuck in a time loop.”

Several things happen on Bucky’s face in such rapid succession that you can’t quite make them out. In the end, he settles on his eyebrows tilting upwards in confusion. “Sorry, could you say that again?”

“I told you it sounds insane. But I’m stuck in a time loop.” You drag your sleeve up, careful not to smudge the ink on your skin even more. “Look, this is your handwriting.”

“How?” Bucky says lowly, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I mean, how long?”

“This is my twelfth July fourth.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I tried resetting—something, and it backfired. And now I’m, well … stuck.”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, contemplating you for a couple of seconds. “Why are you telling me?” he asks finally.

“Because—” The words get stuck in your throat when he looks at you like that. The last time you’ve seen his eyes, they were unfocused, empty. Now, they’re blue like the ocean and just as alive. You hate that they’ve ever looked anything but. “Because later today, you are going to die,” you finish quietly.

Bucky blinks. And then he does nothing at all, he just keeps staring at you, blankly. It makes you squirm.

“I swear, I’m not—pulling a horrible prank on you or anything, I just—”

“I believe you.” There’s nothing in his voice, not even a hint of emotion.

You turn your head away to inconspicuously rub your eyes dry. “Good, that—that’s good,” you manage.

“How did it happen?” He sounds so matter-of-fact it makes you want to scream.

You push it down. “It’s different each day. First couple times you got shot. Yesterday—yesterday you took a knife.” You don’t tell him it was because of you again. You can’t.

“That’s not … Okay.” Bucky takes a breath, taking a small step backwards so he leans against the door. “So are we getting attacked or …”

“There’ll be a mission later. In a couple of hours.”

He nods, not meeting your eye. “Good.”

Something inside you shatters. “Good?”

“It gives us time to come up with a plan. What about you, and Sam?” His hands ball into fists. “Are you going to get hurt?”

“We’re fine,” you nearly snap. How is he not grasping this? “You’re not.”

“Have you told him?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest. “Not as far as he remembers.”

“Good,” Bucky repeats, nodding slowly. “Don’t. He has enough to worry about. We’re gonna work this out.”

“The two of us?” you say skeptically. “Yeah, that definitely sounds like it’s gonna work out great.”

He heaves a sigh and pushes the door open, eyes slowly dragging over your frame. “It’ll have to,” he says, and there’s something strange in his voice that makes you soften a bit.

“You’re gonna be fine,” you say, but it doesn’t soothe your nerves, either. “It’s something about that mission, I think. ‘Til then, you’re gonna be …” You trail off.

There’s the tiniest bit of a crooked smile in the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Guess it’s finally time to pick up fire-eating.”

“No time like the present,” you agree half-heartedly.

“Right.” His frown is still more determined than worried as his gaze trails back to your arm again, one foot in the doorway. “Listen, there’s actually something I should …” You can see the gears in his head turning, but he trails off, shaking his head. “Go shower, Twelve.”

The door closes behind him before you can ask what that was about.

You wash the sweat and grime off under the hot water, but you’re careful to stick one arm out of the stream. The ink smears only a little.

* * *

Four more days pass something like this: You tell Bucky, who makes you promise not to say anything to Sam, and then you fail to change anything of significance. Hours of research amount to nothing more than finding out the keycode to open the wall on the first floor. It’s somewhat of a relief. Ever since the ceiling incident, you haven’t been keen on moving through the tunnels unless absolutely necessary.

It doesn’t help that Bucky keeps acting shifty whenever you show him his handwriting.

You wait two days before you get a hand mirror and awkwardly copy down his letters. It’s not a long phrase, only two words: скажи ей. It doesn’t tell you a whole lot to google it, only makes you frown at your laptop. Tell her.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” you test the following morning. The letters have started to fade, no matter how careful you are.

Bucky doesn’t meet your eyes when he says, “Not now.” He doesn’t mention it again later.

And then there’s the coffee.

You don’t tend to vary a lot with your own order, or with Sam’s, who really prefers the iced teas anyway, but introducing Bucky to different ways of taking his coffee is the one part of your day you’re allowing yourself a little lightness.

At heart, you’re a problem-solver, and right now, this seems like the only problem you have any control over.

He likes caramel, but doesn’t prefer it over vanilla. Texture is more important to him than temperature, and you find out he likes oat milk almost by accident. It’s a tiny victory.

The rest still sucks.

“We need to find these damn cameras,” you tell Bucky as you kick Riff in the head. “Maybe if they don’t see us coming, they don’t send a whole squadron at once.”

“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Sam’s voice sounds through the comms.

“We stayed out of the cameras’ range,” Bucky shouts over the cacophony of shots hitting the shield. “That’s not our problem.”

Damnit. If it’s not the cameras, either, something else entirely must trigger the alarm. Another idea down the drain. “Now!”

Down goes the blaster gun, quickly followed by your friend with the knife. Your heart is beating in your throat. Less than two minutes until the computers blow, and then the timing game truly begins. “Let’s move!” you say. “Just stay close to me.”

The copy. The explosion. Blaster gun getting back up. Jesse James by the far wall. The idiot with the explosives near the tunnel entrance. It’s like the most depressing clockwork on the planet, tuned precisely to the second. You get a bit farther each time you rewind it, but as soon as you’ve taken care of all the eventualities you’ve encountered, you enter dangerous waters.

Because as soon as you shoot your last checkpoint, anything could happen. And the not knowing is what’s killing him.

Bucky is walking ahead of you, his heavy breaths the only sound reverberating off the tunnel walls. The silence makes you want to scream, but you just bite your lip raw and keep your finger on the trigger, wearily watching the ceiling, the dancing shadows along the walls, his back. Every step further into the unknown has you more on edge.

When you hear a swooshing sound, you raise your gun instantly, but Bucky holds his hand over the muzzle. The fact that it’s the right one makes you freeze.

“Why the hell aren’t you answering me?” Sam yells at you, and a cloud of dust whirls up when his feet hit the floor heavily. “I thought you were dead!”

“Not quite yet,” Bucky murmurs, throwing him the shield back without a glance, without stopping for a second.

You lower your gun. “Comms broke,” you say shortly, daring another look over your shoulder. Still nothing. “I thought you were getting our ride ready.”

“I was, before the two of you went radio silent on me,” Sam grumbles, reattaching his shield. “I took another look uphill, too, there’re even more heading down here.”

And don’t you know it. Your steps quicken somewhat.

Another turn and you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, catch a stripe of reddish twilight in the distance that makes your heart beat even faster. Just as you’re about to dare a sigh of relief, you can see Bucky’s shoulders tense out of the corner of your eye.

You don’t think, moving purely out of instinct. You dive towards him, throwing your own body over his side as if it could be enough of a barrier against this curse. He tumbles, metal arm automatically clenched around your waist.

Not again. Not when you’re so close you can smell it.

You don’t even know where the shot comes from. All you know is the pain exploding in your side.

Even without your doing, time passes so terribly slowly.

Your mouth is opened wide, even though no sound comes out. Sam shouts something, but you can’t make out his words. The only thing you can focus on is the blood slowly spreading on Bucky’s vest, and his eyes, wide and wild. He catches you as your knees buckle.

“Y/N!” Your name falls from his lips like a cry.

There are at least five more shots before your world goes dark.

And then you gasp awake, blinking at the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Your hands fly to your side and you bite down a whimper at the searing pain. For once, it’s your own blood covering your palms when you carefully lift up your top to inspect the wound. The bullet seems to only have grazed you before lodging itself into Bucky, but you’re still bleeding profusely.

Stumbling to your bathroom, you grab the first clean towel you can find and hold it under a stream of warm water before applying pressure. Tears well up in your eyes at the sting. The music keeps going and going, but you still stifle your sobs in your shoulder. And then—

“Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!”

You take a few unsteady breaths, trying to free your blocked nose. “I don’t feel so good today, Sam!”

Your bedroom door opens and you quickly slam the door to your tiny bathroom shut with your foot before he sees you.

“Come on, Y/L/N,” you hear him right outside your door. Inches away from you, and from your bloody bed sheets. “You already bailed on our run yesterday, don’t leave me hangin’ again.”

You almost laugh through gritted teeth. For you, it’s been a good month since you went with him on one of your weekly runs. Last Thursday, you’ve given some whimsy excuse you can’t even remember anymore; that was only yesterday.

“Sorry,” you say, your voice wobbling a bit. “I’m not feeling so hot today.”

There’s a prolonged silence on the other side and you can’t decide if you’re silently begging him to leave or to come in, pressing the towel into your side so hard it almost makes you sick. The music turns off.

A rustling noise has you blink through your tears, staring at the door as if you could will a window into it. It’s followed by some soft thumps and more swishing, before you hear steps stop in front of the bathroom again.

“I’ll make you a hot water bottle,” Sam says gently. “Do you need anything else?”

You press the back of your hand against your mouth to muffle your whimper. The green symbols sting your nose. “No,” you manage softly. “Thank you.”

Surely, the universe is laughing at you.

When you emerge from the bathroom, an improvised towel tourniquet wrapped around your torso, you find your bed made. Sam must have stripped your bloody sheets and stuck them in the laundry basket. The gesture almost makes you start crying again.

It doesn’t seem like it’s the first time he’s done something like this, but it’s the first time he’s done it for you. You think about Sarah, and you can’t help but wonder when he’s going to see her again. If he’s ever going to see her again.

You stopped changing your sheets days ago. It’s always the same ones when you wake up.

Almost unconsciously, you find yourself drawn towards the shelves on the other side of your room. The book is still there, still mocking you with its cheerful cover. No matter how many times you put it away, it always ends up in the wrong spot. Your fingers trace the broken spine. The Wind in the Willows.

I’ll be here when you’re done acting like a child.

Your throat constricts when you realize there might be only one way out of this.

* * *

You don’t know how long you stand there, gaze unfocused, trying and failing to think of any other solution. The only other one you have left is Sam, and you first have to convince Bucky to tell him. Despite it all, you’re not about to start breaking promises.

When you open the door to your bedroom, you’re greeted by a whining ball of fur.

“Not now, Alpine.”

She meows at you pitifully, running around your legs repeatedly until you almost trip up the stairs.

“You are a hellcat from hell,” you murmur, picking her up with one hand, wincing at the stretch. Immediately, she digs her claws into your forearm and you hiss. “Fine. Fine! You brought this on yourself,” you tell her and carry her out to the hall, not too gently putting her down and locking her out of the living area.

You have more urgent things to take care of than Bucky’s stupid, egotistical piece of work of a cat.

“Hey.”

You flinch and then curse quietly at the stabbing pain just below your ribs.

“Sorry.” Bucky strolls a bit closer, his steps louder now, before he leans against the wall next to you. “You look like shit.”

You make yourself look at him. This is the part that somehow never gets any easier. His eyes are so blue in the morning light, his hair auburn at the tips. “I need to talk to you.”

The letters on your arm have almost faded into nothing, but he still believes you.

“What about you, and Sam?”

Always that question. “We’re fine,” you say, like you always do, but he’s too good at reading you. The way you hold yourself, the faint tear tracks you haven’t washed away, the bulky shirt you barely managed to button with one hand.

His expression hardens and softens at the same time. “Where?”

“Don’t—” you start, but the blood loss makes you dizzy, and his eyes drag you under like a current. You’re so tired.

“Tell me.”

His gaze doesn’t leave you as you lift up your shirt, careful not to touch your makeshift bandage. It’s not working very well, the red tinge on the towel still growing at a sickening rate. Bucky curses under his breath.

You’re not sure how you get to the med ward in only a few seconds, but you’re still dazed when he loosens his grip around you and starts rummaging through the cupboards.

“Don’t get up,” he says sternly, and you drop your head back on the cot.

So damn useless.

“This is gonna hurt, doll,” Bucky says before peeling the towel off your skin in one smooth move.

Turns out he’s right. Your fingers dig into your thigh, your teeth clenched tightly.

“Did you disinfect this at all before you mummified yourself?” Your tense silence is answer enough. “Oh, for the love of god.”

Despite the sharpness in his tone, his fingers are surprisingly soft against your skin as he skilfully, methodically cleans out your wound and applies a fresh layer of gauze. It makes your eyes water.

It’s only when he’s finished with your new tourniquet and he sits down on the floor in front of you that you notice the light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Are you okay?” you whisper.

Bucky’s jaw doesn’t unclench with his mirthless chuckle. His wild ocean eyes remain fixed on your side. “This is because of me,” he says, and you can almost taste the undercurrent of loathing in his words.

“That’s not true.” This is no one’s fault but your own.

“Not worth that.”

“Hey,” you say, and the edge in your voice makes him look at you. “The ‘no self-deprecation’ thing wasn’t my idea, so I’d appreciate you sticking to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“Well, tough,” you say after a beat. “‘Cause that’s just how it is.”

You count the ticks of the clock outside until you lose track of the numbers before you commit to your decision. “I’m going to talk to Strange.”

Bucky presses his lips together. “Are you sure?”

“No, but I’m out of my depth.” Laughing still hurts. “And we’re going to tell Sam.” You can see him open his mouth, so you continue talking before he can protest. “I promised that I would tell you first, and I’ve done that. We’ve been at this for almost a week, I can’t do it anymore, I just can’t fucking do it anymore.”

Hot tears threaten to spill and you turn your head towards the ceiling in angry embarrassment.

“We can’t do this alone, we don’t work together, we don’t, we—we need Sam. Maybe he can think about something we don’t. But I’m tired, Buck. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“I’m sorry.” There’s a weight to it that makes your insides ache.

“Me too.”

You’ve never felt so powerless in your life, but you still reach out to him, slowly, your hand shaking. He interlaces his fingers with yours calmly, easily, and the warmth of it travels up all the way to your cheeks.

* * * * *

“They do have a point,” you said, scrolling through another news article about ULTIMATUM. You’d changed into slightly more dignified clothes and were now perched over your phone in one of the leather office chairs in the meeting room, knees tucked under your chin, your second cup of coffee perilously balanced on the armrest.

“So did Karli Morgenthau,” Sam said. “Doesn’t mean the way they go about making it is right.”

You hummed in agreement, zooming in on one of the pictures. The girl in the white jacket in its center wasn’t Karli, but she did remind you of her. She had the same defiant hold of her chin that you’d seen on the news so many times, the same soft, angry way of holding herself. The reporters had picked up on it, too. They didn’t know her name yet, didn’t even know if she was going to try to fill her footsteps or if it was a mere coincidence that made her the focal point of the photographs, but they’d still resorted to calling her the New Flag Smasher.

As if they were all the same.

“What I still don’t get is why you would need me. I mean, he’s right.” You nodded at Bucky. “You have done this sort of thing before. I haven’t.”

“You’ve done a pretty decent job at these kinds of extraction missions in the past, though,” Sam said. “And unlike Sergeant Grumpy Cat over here, I’m still a full-time human with a will to live. I don’t trust the methods these people use, so we could use an extra pair of hands.”

The irony of his phrasing didn’t escape you.

“So I’m your worst-case solution,” you clarified. “Charming. How do you even know you can trust me? We don’t know each other, I’m sure there’s other people, better agents you can—”

“Steve did.” It was Bucky who said it, and the surprise made you stop talking. “Trust you.”

“And what does that matter? Steve’s gone.” You dug your nails into your palms so hard it hurt. “They’re all gone, so what difference does it make, really, if he trusted me, or didn’t, or you do. The world’s gonna keep moving either way, and we still can’t change that. I can’t change that.”

“So what’s your—”

You took a deep, shuddering breath. When you held it, so did the world. Sam’s hand froze mid-air, his sentence unfinished, and Bucky became even more still, his face turned towards the floor.

Your tears fell in the quiet of a standing universe, unexpected and angry, with no one there to witness them. It took you a few minutes to calm down again, to rub at your cheeks until your eyes finally dried up again. In the silence, you realized something, almost through a haze.

With one last critical look at your reflection on your phone screen, you released your hold and everything started to move again. Sam grabbed his mug, the same one you’d kept him from breaking earlier.

“—plan, then?” he finished his question calmly, taking a sip. “Do nothing instead, because nothing matters?”

“He’s put you up to this, hasn’t he?” you said tonelessly. “Steve. You said he’s the one who told you about me. What else did he say?”

“To remind you you still owe Captain America a favor,” Sam answered.

Of course he’d done that.

You sat in silence again, but this time the AC kept whirring and Bucky kept tapping his mug with his metal fingers, the coffee untouched. It was a breathing kind of quiet.

“Well, good thing Walker’s out of a job, then.” You took another breath and reached for the coffee pot. “What do you need me to do?”

“What is it you can do, exactly?” Bucky asked.

You looked at Sam. “What did you tell him?”

“That you’re a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the kind of abilities we can use,” he replied, a sly smile on his face. At least he stuck to the official story.

You contemplated the pair of them. They were both good men, trustworthy, loyal; according to Steve, at least. Then again, you’d never had cause to doubt his judgment before.

Well. Not until the end.

“What I can do stays between us,” you said finally, crossing your arms. “That’s my one condition.”

Sam knew already, anyway, so it was really up to Bucky. He leaned forward on his elbows, vibranium fingers interlocking with his flesh ones, blue eyes narrowed in on you. “To do what, exactly?”

“Save you a few broken bones and bullet wounds.” You clearly intrigued him, and you couldn’t quite hide the smug look spreading on your face. “What do you say, Barnes? Think you can trust me?”

chapter four

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

[intrepidacious]

time after time [2]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 8.2k

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, the angst continues, another reminder to read the fic premise; a couple of guest appearances; flashbacks are my establishing shots and i’m going to make it everyone’s problem

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: 2am updates are kind of my brand at this point. big shout-out to @barnesafterglow who read a good chunk of this yesterday and is still talking to me <3 thank you all for your patience and your love for chapter one!!

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

two: twice upon a time

The first time you met Natasha Romanoff in person, a few weeks after the Snap, she only had to look at you for a couple of seconds to be able to read you like a book.

They’d compiled a file, of course, filled with all the general academic credits and official family information that was still available to the public and definitely more than a few things you’d tried to bury, too. Even then, the folder was reassuringly slim.

She’d have to take you at your word about what you’d come to offer her, anyway.

“And why would we want to have you?” she asked. As if she were interviewing you for a job. Which, technically speaking, she was.

You were on edge and Natasha knew it, even though you tried to hide your ever twitching fingers in your lap under the table, picking at the skin around your nails until you felt it break. You took a deep breath.

“Look, I know that I’m not exactly a soldier, or a—a superhero type, but I … I don’t know, I would just like to use my … thing to do good, for once. You know, stuff that will help people.”

And do it on your own terms. It stayed unsaid, then. You didn’t admit that part until much later.

Natasha’s face stayed perfectly neutral through your rambling, and you weren’t sure whether that was calming you down or making you more anxious. You reached for your necklace, tugging at the chain.

“But I can’t really do that on my own,” you continued, “and you, well, all of you, you’ve done it for a while and you’re good at it. And I think I could help with that.”

She still didn’t say anything, just kept waiting while you sat awkwardly in that uncomfortable office chair, regretting your decision of ever following through with your crazy impulsive idea of coming here.

But where else would you have gone?

“Also,” you remarked in a sudden burst of boldness, “I think you could use every extra pair of hands you can get at the moment.”

There was something almost like bemusement that appeared in the curl of Natasha’s lip, but she didn’t kick you out, which you took as a sign that your little outburst might have been closer to the truth than you’d really expected. You leaned back ever so slightly.

You couldn’t be sure, then, if she’d pieced together what little information they’d had on you in your file or if she’d just figured you out while you were sitting in this office, but it didn’t make all that much of a difference. She didn’t have to ask why you’d decided to offer up your abilities to the Avengers now, after everything, when they’d been hidden away for most of your life.

“You’re lonely. And you need a purpose, like all of us,” she said, looking you up and down apprehensively.

Then, without warning, she threw her glass at you.

You flinched to the side and it shattered on the wall behind you. The leftover drink slowly sank into the carpet as you turned to stare at her in shock.

Natasha lifted one of her perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “You wanna try that again?”

Really, you should’ve expected the test.

You closed your eyes and raised your hands.

It’s a strange experience, going back in time. No one had really asked you to describe what it was like, and you probably couldn’t have if you tried. It felt a little like retracing your own steps in your head, relocating your conscience to an earlier moment, second by second, in a rapid backwards motion. Like very vivid remembering. Only, it’s not just that.

“You’re lonely,” Natasha said, swirling the dregs of her glass, her green eyes tracing over you. “And you need a purpose, like all of us.”

You were expecting it this time, but the glass still slipped through your fingers and broke into tiny shards on the floor. Not good enough. You didn’t wait for her reaction this time, cursing under your breath and pulling yourself back again. As always, it took considerably more effort.

You tried your best not to stare at the glass while Natasha spoke, but you didn’t really listen anymore. This time, you caught it, even though its contents spilled over your hand.

Natasha smirked. “Not bad. First try?”

“This is when I lie to sound capable, right?” You shook the liquid off your fingers, sure she’d already noticed the sweat on your temples. No use in lying to a spy, anyway, you supposed, so you admitted, “Third.”

“We’ll work on that. But honesty’s a good start.” She held out her hand and you returned the glass. “Have you ever done combat training?”

You could barely stifle a nervous laugh. “Do I look like I’ve ever done combat training?”

“I don’t tend to judge people based on how they appear,” Natasha said, uncrossing her legs. “Come with me.”

You followed her back out of the office into the wide, empty hallway. You hadn’t seen anyone else around on the whole Compound, even though it could probably house hundreds of people on the ground floor alone. The clacking sound of your steps on the tiled floor seemed to echo all around you.

It felt like you were announcing yourself to everyone within a two-mile radius while Natasha moved around on her bare feet without a single sound.

A glass elevator took you down to the subterranean level of the building. Once the doors slid open, Natasha marched straight to a double door with square windows and large metal handlebars.

“Leave your shoes and bag by the door,” she told you. She waited for you to untie your laces and awkwardly wiggle out of your boots before she let you both in.

The Compound gym was even bigger than you’d expected. You weren’t sure if you were more surprised by that revelation or by the presence of a certain super soldier kicking the life out of a punching bag on the other side of the hall.

“Hey Rogers,” Natasha shouted as it got smacked to the ground. “Brought a new recruit!”

“Really?” he called back, unwrapping the bandages around his knuckles.

“Really?” you said. Sure, that was what you came here for, but even so, you were a little shocked it had been that simple.

“Like you said, we’re a little desperate at the moment,” she winked.

“I didn’t say that,” you muttered anxiously as Captain America jogged over to join you, a towel thrown over his shoulder. Despite his workout, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Steve Rogers,” he said, holding out his hand with a smile.

You shook it, slightly bewildered, and introduced yourself. He repeated your name back at you and you had to take a moment to think how strange this whole situation was, even in all the madness that’d been going on. How unreal.

“I’m sure it’ll be good to have ya,” he said, and you almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Thankfully, you caught yourself in time.

Meanwhile, Natasha had dragged one of the thick foam mats away from the heavy equipment and rolled it out. Cracking her neck, she stepped onto it and pushed her hair out of her face.

“Okay. Show me how you’d throw a punch.”

She held out her hands flat in front of her and nodded her head for you to join her on the mat. You’d never felt so stupid in your life as you tried to rack your brains for whatever little you took from those self-defense lessons however long ago. At least Captain Goddamn America seemed to be politely ignoring you in favor of putting some weights away.

“Just move on instinct, you’re not getting graded,” Natasha said calmly.

Your instincts were telling you you were absolutely getting graded and this was your worst idea to date, but you tried your best. She had you aim at different heights a few times before she stopped you.

“Okay, your posture’s terrible. You have to straighten your back and bend your knees more, see?” She demonstrated the right stance, waiting for you to copy her. “There you go. That’s your standard pose.”

“Alright,” you said, testing it out with a little bounce. “And what do I do with that?”

“Depends on what you’re trying to do. With the right training, you can use your own weight to your advantage in a fight. Steve?”

“Oh, great, am I volunteering?” He joined you on the mat and you moved to give the two of them enough space.

“You love it. Now watch me,” she added, looking at you.

Before Steve could even properly raise up his arms, Natasha launched into a handflip and somehow managed to wrap her legs around his body. The sudden movement made him stumble backwards. He lurched his body forwards to get her off his shoulders, but she used the momentum of her fall to kick him off his feet onto the mat. She gracefully landed on all fours like a cat. It looked effortless.

“You’re right,” Steve groaned, “this is very fun for me.”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna be able to do that,” you said flatly.

“I don’t expect you to,” Natasha said, pulling her hair behind her ears again. “But you do have to be able to survive in a fight, even without your powers, if you want to join the team. We can’t babysit you.”

You pressed your lips together, slowly curling your hands into fists and opening them again.

“Alright,” you said, your voice strangely dry. “When do we start?”

* * * * *

Your initial reaction is relief.

Relief, because it’s Friday again, which means nothing has actually happened, which means Bucky is still alive.

Then, the implications of that fact hit you all at once.

You must’ve blacked out for a second or two, because when you open your eyes again, you’re lying on the floor next to your bed, heart still pounding a mile an hour. Your breath comes out in short gasps, and you force it to slow just in time for the knock on the door.

“Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!”

“Just gimme a minute!” you shout back and stumble to the bathroom.

Your hands and face are speckled with blood and you wash it off furiously, biting your lip as the tiny cuts on your skin left by the glass shards burn under your touch. Turning off the faucet, you keep leaning onto the basin and stare at your hands.

You’re not sure what you expected. Your rings are still the blackest you’ve ever seen them, and the dimly glowing symbols keep slowly circling around your wrist. It doesn’t take you long to put two and two together, because once is a coincidence, a strange, fateful accident, but twice is a pattern. And of course you’ve heard about this kind of thing happening. Only not like this.

Life everlasting.

No. Definitely not like this.

So it appears you’ve gotten yourself stuck in some macabre version of Groundhog Day. Alright. Cool cool cool. You can work with that, probably. Maybe.

“Did you get lost in there?” Sam remarks with a grin when you finally step out of your room, still looking slightly disheveled.

“I—” You stop yourself, blinking at him until he starts looking slightly concerned.

“You alright? You look …” His eyebrows raise even higher. “Shell-shocked.”

Well, this isn’t exactly an everyday occurence even for me, Samuel, you want to tell him. Instead, you say, “Don’t ever wake me up like that again.” It lacks yesterday’s punch.

“Sweet white teenage angst not your style?”

You hum, but don’t reply otherwise, still lost in thought as you climb the stairs, trying to assess your situation and come up with some sort of plan.

It’s fairly obvious you fucked up your reset the other day. So much for the precious space-time continuum; oh, you hate it when the wizard people are right every now and then.

You glance sideways at Sam while he stretches his back in the ring. He seems fine, completely normal, unaware of what’s going on with you, and of course he would be. Nothing unusual about that part of your powers. Or what’s left of them.

You raise your hands experimentally.

“I’m not high-fiving you until you get one kick in, at least.”

Not even the slightest hitch. It’s like your powers have just up and left you completely. A strange heaviness settles in your stomach. Fucking useless.

You avert your burning eyes from Sam’s gaze.

It’s not like you … talk.

None of you do, not really. Sure, you chat. You’re great at chatting. You’ve had years, countless tries of perfecting smalltalk, of knowing the things you can get away with saying to certain people. It’s made you reckless in the past, knowing you could probably replay entire conversations in the blink of an eye, the pressure of expectation gone completely.

Ever since you started coming out of hiding again, though, the fun has drizzled out of that more and more. It’s one thing to impress strangers and another to be several steps ahead of the people you’ve started to consider your friends.

Because even though sometimes it sure would be easier, having people un-live conversations they’ve had with you, particularly hard or emotional ones, is sort of a shitty move if you continue to spend your time around them afterwards. And you’ve grown determined to not intentionally hurt people with your powers. Not anymore.

So yes, you chat. You know Sam’s favorite color and the video games his nephews want for their birthdays. You know what kind of music Bucky listens to, mostly because he forgets to turn on the soundproofing in his room and Jazz trumpets are surprisingly loud. You know their habits, the foods they like, the movies they hate.

But you don’t … share. Nothing that goes deeper than the general stuff.

It’s moments like these that make you miss Nat the most.

There was something about that woman that made everyone around her open up, whether they wanted to or not. You’re almost resolved to call her as soon as you get back to your room before you remember.

You’re gonna have to do this on your own. Back to square one.

“What is up with you today?”

“I’m fine,” you grunt, but make no effort to get back up again. “Didn’t sleep well. Ow.” You narrow your eyes at Sam. “Did you just kick me?”

“I wanted to see if you’re still alive.”

“Horrible. I’m quitting. You can go spar with Bucky again.”

“At least he puts up a fight.” Sam crouches down next to you. “Anything you wanna tell me?”

Yes. You shake your head. He probably wouldn’t believe you, anyway.

“Alright,” he says, clapping you on the shoulder. You scrunch your nose. “I’m gonna hit the showers. But we’re doing a rain check for tomorrow, and you sort out your pea under the mattress situation.”

“Okay.”

You listen to Sam’s receding steps and the sound of the door opening and closing again. Then, there’s nothing but silence and the ticking of the clock on the far wall.

Even though you know you should probably just head out as well, you can’t help but linger again. Just in case.

“You look like shit.”

Your head rolls to the side. Fuck you, Barnes. “Hey, Buck.”

Same spot on the bench next to the ring, same hunched over position, same concentrated look on his face while he cleans up the shimmering golden nooks in his arm.

“Buck?” He huffs, even though he continues to wear his usual exasperated expression. “Did Sam hit you in the head?”

You don’t answer, just keep staring at his profile for a little while longer. Your eyes are drawn to the nape of his neck, to the center of his chest. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it hurts.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Bucky says lowly. You turn your gaze back to the ceiling.

“Nothing,” you answer, pulling an arm over your eyes. The sweatband rubs against your eyebrow.

Maybe, you think, just maybe, it could still be a fluke. Only one more time to get things right, and then all will just go back to normal. Maybe you’ll be fine today. He’ll be fine.

There’s a buzzing in your ears, and you’re not sure if it comes from the green symbols gyrating around your arm or if you’re just imagining it altogether.

“What happened to your face?” Bucky asks unexpectedly, casually, as if he were talking about the weather.

“What do you mean?”

“You look like you dove head-first into a rose bush.”

“Hah.” You slowly sit up, your muscles aching for a hot shower. Three days of training and fighting in a row are not agreeing with your body. “Must’ve scratched myself in my sleep.”

If he sees through your lie, he doesn’t call you out on it. “Didn’t know you have talons.”

You raise your eyebrows in fake surprise. It’s so easy to fall back into your usual bickering, even with everything that’s going on. “You’re right, I don’t. Your cat probably got into my room again and let out her past week’s aggressions.”

“My cat slept soundly, thank you very much,” Bucky says dryly.

“See, that’s exactly what she wants you to think.”

“Funny.” He stands up, hanging the piece of cloth over the side of the boxing ring to air out. “Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one.”

“Thanks, Buck,” you say with a smirk. He ignores you.

* * *

The shower is what brings your mood back down again. In the silence of the water hitting your back, there’s enough time for you to think about the upcoming day that you’ve already been through twice.

Up until the mission, it’s gone by fine, unremarkably so, which only makes the build-up to the evening even worse, in your opinion. You face the stream of hot water directly, trying to rid yourself of the image of Bucky lying on the floor, bleeding out in front of you.

You need to be rational about this.

First, you need to figure out what’s going on with your powers. Then, you have to make up your mind about lunch, because while you don’t exactly resent the thought of your third pizza in as many days, your stomach sadly doesn’t agree with that notion. And finally, you’re going to break this damn cycle you’re in. Easy as that.

You turn off the shower with your newfound resolve and grab the clean towel.

Your determination lasts up until you get back to your room and realize you don’t actually know how you are going to fix your powers. They’ve always been somewhat fickle, unpredictable even to you, acting up whenever it’s most inconvenient. Impossible.

No one has ever been able to tell you where they came from, nor how you could properly control them. Everything you know you had to figure out through trial and error, replaying the same scenario over and over again, and, more often than not, lucky coincidences.

Usually, when your rings are black and your powers are weakened, it helps to let your body regain its strength first. In other words, you need to sleep.

This is something you probably should have thought through before getting your morning coffee with an extra shot of espresso, out of habit, but that’s not something you can change right now.

The living room area wouldn’t usually be your first choice for a midday nap, but you’re not ready to face the bloodstains on your bedding quite yet, so you’ll have to make do with one of the suspiciously IKEA-looking throw pillows on the couch. The TV is chattering away in the background, just loud enough to somewhat distract you from your own thoughts.

It’s not enough to fall asleep, though.

You keep tossing and turning, half-listening to three or four episodes of some nineties sitcom, while your anxiety gnaws away at your insides. There’s a constant low pounding in your head that drives you up the wall, and again you swear you can hear the symbols looping around your wrist. You keep scratching at your sweatband, but it’s no use.

You don’t know how much time has passed before the pattering of small paws makes you sigh in disdain.

There’s an obnoxiously loud meowing close to your feet, followed by a sudden weight dropping on your stomach that almost invites your garlic bread back up for a double feature. You peer out at the white shape on top of you, innocently toying with the hem of your shirt.

In general, you like cats just fine, but something about Alpine has always unsettled you. Sure, she’s a cute-looking ball of fluff, but she’s also quick to scratch unsuspecting people bending down to pet her, and she seems to have a particular bone to pick with you.

“Maybe she’s just a good judge of character,” Sam jokes whenever you complain about it.

“She doesn’t like you any better.”

“Yeah, but I’m allergic to her,” Sam shrugs. “The farther she stays away, the more a favor it’s doing me.”

In truth, the only person Alpine likes is Bucky, and she loves to show it every chance she gets.

“You’re in her spot.”

Alpine graciously allows you to push up to your elbows with a groan. Bucky’s tall figure is looming over your head; there’s a bemused expression on his face. He must’ve just walked in through the door, because he’s still wearing his jacket.

“Why does the cat need a spot on the couch, exactly?” You try to shoo her off your lap, but Alpine digs her claws deeper into your shorts and you wince. “You really need to teach her manners.”

“You gotta be gentle with her,” Bucky says, pulling her off you without a hitch. “Move over.”

You swing your legs off the couch with a roll of your eyes. “Can’t you sit somewhere else?”

“Nope. This is my spot, too.”

“Great,” you sigh, angling yourself away from him. “I’ll be sure to make a reservation next time.”

Alpine starts purring as Bucky scratches her under the chin. “You watchin’ that?”

“I was trying to nap,” you mumble, throwing him the remote with a little more force than necessary. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Thirteen twelve hours.”

“Please stop just saying numbers when I ask you that.”

Bucky smirks again and switches channels. “Quarter past one-ish.”

You blink at him tiredly, surprised to find out he’s been back so early. The past two days, you didn’t see him around again until the broadcast was about to start. Then again, you didn’t really pay attention at that point, either.

There’s that tick in his jaw that he always gets when something is bothering him, even as he’s distracted by a playful cat in his lap. You’d better relieve him of the burden of your presence.

“Well,” you say, standing up. Alpine whines indignantly at the sudden movement. “I’ll try to find a cat-free spot in this tower, then.”

“Try the floor,” Bucky says as you’re almost out of the room. He doesn’t turn when you do, but he seems to feel your questioning gaze. “If you can’t sleep. It helps, sometimes.”

You hide your hands in your pants pockets, even though it’s far too late by now. He’s already noticed your black rings.

With a short hum, you briskly walk back to your room, leaning against the door as it closes behind you. This is getting ridiculous, you think, worrying the ring on your pinkie finger with your thumb. As if you didn’t have enough reasons to get a hold of your powers again; you don’t know what you would do if Bucky really got suspicious of you now.

Taking a deep breath, you eye your bed. Compared to yesterday, the blood stains on your sheets are barely more than a few specks, because you weren’t as close to Bucky when it happened. Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel any better.

“Fine,” you mutter in annoyance, grabbing one of your pillows and throwing it on the floor next to your bed. “FRIDAY, can you wake me in time for Sam’s speech?”

“Of course,” FRIDAY tells you. “Do you want me to use the same song as this morning?”

“Please don’t.” A little idea pipes up at the back of your head. “Do you have any record of playing that song before?”

“Last dates played. Friday, July 4th 2025, 07:50 a.m. Playtime: forty-five seconds. Thursday, March 13th 2014, 02:49 a.m. Playtime: one hour, twenty-seven minutes, eighteen seconds. End of record.”

Interesting night for Tony, then, but not exactly telling when it comes to your time loop situation. With a sigh, you get settled on the floor, staring up at the ceiling until your eyes get too tired.

You’ll think of something once you’ve had a bit of sleep. He’ll be fine.

And then, just as you’re finally about to drift off, you feel a sudden jolt go through you. It’s a bizarre sensation, like you’re falling and jumping at the same time, but your body isn’t actually moving with you. Like someone pulling at your very consciousness.

Your eyes fly open and you gasp for air.

You’re still in your room, which should be good news, but everything looks … weird. Not as out of focus as it would be if you were simply dreaming, but somehow crooked, the angles unusually pronounced. The colors are all off, the lights way lower than they should be this time of day, and when you reach out for the edge of your bed, your hands—

You take a sharp breath. Your fingers are bare, no trace of your rings anywhere, and even worse, your hands are partly transparent. Cautiously, you get up on your equally as see-through legs and turn around.

When you see your own body still lying in bed next to where you’re standing, you almost trip over your own feet.

You stare at yourself in disbelief. One of your body’s hands is tucked under the pillow, and it’s breathing regularly. Carefully, you take a step closer and reach out your noncorporeal hand. Your shoulder feels warm and solid underneath your fingertips.

Your body wrinkles its nose in its sleep and you jerk back again, losing your balance and falling to the floor. Your body doesn’t react at all, even though you pull part of the blanket with you as you go down.

“Okay. This is a dream,” you tell yourself, even though you feel your heart pounding. “Just some weird-ass dream, and I have to wake up.” Again, you can’t help but look at the sleeping body lying in your bed.

You press your hands over your eyes, willing yourself to slow your breathing. The edge of your nightstand jabs you painfully between the shoulder blades, too real to be nothing more than an act of your imagination.

“You’re not what I expected.”

The man’s voice makes you flinch slightly. Slowly, you peek through your fingers.

You either didn’t notice him while you were taking in your surroundings or he’s just blended in with them seamlessly, although you’re not sure how that last one could even be a possibility. His back is turned to you, his frame covered by a long, deep red cloak with intricate patterns stitched along the seams. He’s perusing your bookshelf, picking up old copies seemingly at random.

For some reason, your shock at the sight of him is outweighed by immediate irritation. Something about the man instantly irks you.

“Thanks, I think,” you tell him, throwing the edge of the blanket over your sleeping body again as you get up, never letting the man out of your sight.

He turns around, one of his eyebrows raised. Your eyes immediately fall on the amulet around his neck and your heart gives a stutter. You ignore it.

“Not a compliment.” He holds up a book. “This is how you spend your time, then?”

It’s one of your favorite comfort novels. You take good care of your books for the most part, but this one is quite battered; you’ve been bringing it with you on missions for years. A bit of home that fits into your pocket and helps calming you down on countless quinjet rides better than pictures ever could.

“Sue me for trying to relax in between saving the world,” you say, crossing your arms.

“Of course,” the man says wryly. “Because god forbid you use those powers of yours to their full extent, we wouldn’t want that.”

“And what’s it to you?” you snap.

The man calmly puts the book down again; not where he picked it up from, you notice in annoyance.

“My name is Doctor Stephen Strange,” he says, watching your face for your reaction. “Ah, so you have heard of me.”

Of course you have. You know who he is, you must’ve seen his picture hundreds of times during the Blip, and even before that, you’d heard about his reputation. As one of the keepers of the time stone back when it still existed, he’s on your list of people you least want to see, ever.

You narrow your eyes at him. “How did you find me? What—” You take a quick look back at your own sleeping form. “What is this place?”

“The astral plane,” he says, swiping your bookshelf for dust and inspecting his fingertips contemptuously. They’re shaking ever so slightly. “Something you would know if you hadn’t spent the past decade avoiding every single chance to use your powers responsibly.”

“Wow,” you huff. “You don’t know anything about me or about my powers.”

“Don’t I, Y/N Y/L/N?” Strange’s cloak flaps slightly as if it were shrugging.

“I spent the last couple of years trying to save lives.”

“You’re riding on luck and pretend it’s control. You have no idea what this could do to the grand scheme of things.”

“Well, I never asked for these powers, okay?” you say defensively. “I just have them. What I don’t have is any interest in being a pawn in some grand scheme of things when I never wanted any of this.”

“People don’t generally get a choice in that matter.” His gaze drops to your wrist. “And now look where your resistance to accept your responsibilities got you.”

The green band of symbols is still leisurely circling around your arm. You bite your tongue. “I don’t know how that happened,” you say, your voice breaking slightly on the last word.

“It happened because you activated the time stone,” Strange sneers. “Your powers are a lot stronger than you even care to realize, and it was idiotic to keep them a secret.”

“Why, so you could use them for your own gain?”

“So I could prevent this exact kind of thing from happening.”

You throw your hands in the air in frustration. “So end it, then. Or did you drag me here just to berate me?”

Strange chuckles humorlessly. “This is not something others can just fix for you, Miss Y/L/N. You cast a very powerful spell in creating this loop, and you are the only one who can lift it again.”

“Great. I’m screwed, then, is that what you’re saying?” You might not be inside of your body at the moment, but you can still feel your cheeks heating up. “I want you to leave me the fuck alone.”

“You need to calm down,” Stange says sharply.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, get out of my—head, or whatever this is. Get out!”

“Alright then. Continue to play stubborn. See how far it gets you.” He holds out his right hand and there’s a crack in the air behind him; almost like a doorway, or a mirror. “I’ll be here when you’re done acting like a child.”

You come to on your bedroom floor, feeling almost more tired than you did when you laid down earlier. It takes your bleary eyes a moment to adjust to your surroundings again. When you sit up, a thin throw blanket that you don’t remember pulling over your shoulders falls into your lap.

This really is just a whole bunch of disasters stacked on top of each other.

You don’t even have to look at your rings to know there’s still not the slightest green spec in sight. Your fingers find your necklace and you tug slightly to reassure yourself of its presence. How the hell did Strange even find you?

There’s no time to think about it for too long, because once again, there’s a knock at your bedroom door.

“We got a lead on that lab,” Sam shouts on the other side. “Jet’s leaving in half an hour, get ready.”

You blink at the clock on your wall in confusion. Even though you feel like you only spent a couple of minutes in this other dimension you were dragged into, several hours have passed in this one.

Time is seriously out of your hands, and it’s only getting worse.

* * *

“Don’t you think that maybe they have an alarm set or something?” you say, contemplating the explosives laid out in front of you.

Sam raises his eyebrows, adjusting the intercom chip in his ear. “Is that a hunch or are you telling me?”

“Both.” You flex your fingers. “It’s just that announcing ourselves probably isn’t in our best interest right now.”

“And you couldn’t have said that earlier? As in, before we landed?” Sam sighs.

Bucky snorts as you shrug your shoulders helplessly. Your body desperately needed the half hour of uneasy sleep the flight has afforded it, even though your powers seem to be unimpressed by it.

“Look, it’s gonna be fine,” Sam continues, squeezing your arm. “We’ve handled worse. Besides, if they do have an alarm set, they’re gonna come to us whether we knock down that wall or not.”

“I guess,” you mumble, grabbing the explosives. “Let’s play knock-knock with terrorists then, that oughtta be fun.”

“Reminds me of ‘44,” Bucky says, more to himself than to either of you.

When you follow Sam down the hallway once again, you can’t help but search for the cameras you know are hidden here somewhere, but it’s impossible to tell in the dingy light. You should bring a stronger flashlight next ti—no.

You blink, stopping that thought before it’s fully formed.

There won’t be a next time. This thing ends tonight, once and for all.

Third time’s the charm, right?

About as charming as a kick to the face, you think as you find yourself delivering just that.

Sam takes off. “We better get moving. If you take care of the drive and these idiots, I’ll clear the tunnels for a way out of here!”

Bucky catches Sam’s shield as you disarm the white jacket with the knife and duck as the shots ring out. You’re sweating in your kevlar vest.

“Two o’clock, Bucky,” you tell him, throwing another punch. You’re so sick of this white-coated asshole in particular; it’s like they think you’re in the rumble from West Side Story. “And whatever you do, don’t throw that shield, alright?”

“You’re bossy today,” Bucky huffs, taking out the one with the blaster.

“I think you mean thorough,” you reply as Riff finally goes out cold.

“You tell yourself that.” He reloads his gun instead, shield firmly locked around his right arm. “How much longer for the transfer?”

You glance at the monitors and try to remember. “About a minute, maybe two.”

“Sam, you copy?” The last white jacket goes down.

“Ready for take-off in five,” Sam confirms cheerfully. “Heads-up, there’s at least another dozen heading your way.”

“Got it.” Bucky bumps your shoulder as he starts back towards the computers, leaving you only a second to process the different turnout of events.

Shouldn’t he insist on leaving?

The only thing that differentiates this mission from the first one is that you haven’t had to jump back to know what to look out for, and therefore don’t suffer the immediate side effects a redo usually has on you. You suppose that’s what they initially expected your powers to be like; flawless, useful, magical.

It’s like a slap in the face, even though Bucky doesn’t realize he’s doing it. The fact that he really does think lesser of you because of your stupid, faulty powers stings more than you care to admit.

You shake yourself back to the present moment. “Take the drive and then get away from there!” you shout, trying to catch up with him. Your lungs are burning. “They’re gonna blow up the—”

The blast of the explosion throws you backwards and you land on one of the unconscious bodies on the ground. Coughing, you roll to your hands and knees.

“Wha—ppening?” Sam’s cut off voice comes through the broken comms.

“Bucky?” You stumble towards the flaming mess that was the lab corner.

He must have hit his head on the side of the big table, but the shield had protected him from the sharp edge. He’s pressing a hand to his wound and he’s conscious and fine. He’s fine.

You can’t stop a relieved laugh as you crouch down next to him. “Wanna get out of here or what?”

The reflection of the flames makes his eyes almost look green as he squints at you, groaning. “Geez, I hate you.”

“Come on, tough guy,” you say and he lets you pull him to his feet, almost toppling over at his unsteadiness. “Let’s get you home.”

You keep turning around as you make your way to the tunnels, keep looking back towards the staircase you came down, worrying about the reinforcements Sam told you about. Maybe that’s your mistake.

Because you haven’t made it this far before, you don’t think to check that the unconscious white jackets are all still unconscious.

You still have Bucky’s shield arm around your shoulder as he jerks, sensing the motion on his left before you do. He catches the first bullet with his metal arm as you twist out of your hold on him, grabbing your knife and whirling back around. He makes a side step, taking a big swing—

Only you told him not to throw the shield.

You fling your knife as fast as you can, but his single moment of hesitation was long enough for the trigger to be pulled a second time. You turn just in time to see the realization on Bucky’s face, the shock and panic in his eyes as they meet yours.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and–

“Okay, alright, turn it off, FRIDAY!”

By the time you wipe your mouth and flush the toilet with shaky knees, hair and face still caked with blood, you’re finally starting to understand how well and truly screwed you are.

* * *

You lean against the fridge, staring at Sam while he’s typing away at the kitchen island. He likes working standing up for some reason, particularly when he has to write some sort of statement.

“If I have to give the speech standing up, I’ve gotta write it standing up,” he’s explained it to you once. You can’t pretend to get it, but you suppose it’s also a perk to be within an arm’s length of snacks at all times while you’re getting stuff done.

“What do you want?” Sam says evenly. His gaze remains fixed on his laptop, his fingers never stopping to move.

You bite your lip. It’s a bad, very bad, terrible idea. You shouldn’t be bothering him with your fuck-up. You don’t even know how to go about it without having him laugh in your face.

“What if I told you that I’m stuck in a time loop?”

The question comes out weirdly flat, as if you’re joking. Fuck, what’s happening to you? You’ve always been fine with being the person who knows more than anyone else in the room. This situation though …

It’s different. It unrattles you in a way your powers never have, because even though it’s your own doing, it also seems so out of your control.

Sam raises an eyebrow, still not looking up. “I’d ask when you started drinking today and why you did it without me.”

Honestly, you should have expected something along these lines as long as you have no way of proving it to him.

“Well,” you say light-heartedly, as if you’re merely chitchatting. “What would you do if you were reliving the same day over and over again?”

“Enjoy my time off, probably,” Sam says, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m starving. Shouldn’t the food be here by now?”

You check your phone. “About half a minute.”

It gives you an idea for the future.

Lo and behold. You startle the poor delivery guy, opening the front door right before he can knock. “Hi,” you smile, handing him a generous tip. “We don’t know each other, right?”

“Uhm. What?”

“Do you have like, two minutes?”

“Did you have to haggle for them, first?” Sam calls over when you finally make it back to the kitchen, closing his laptop and helping you put down the boxes and containers on the counter.

“Had to convert to Pastafarianism,” you say, getting out the cutlery. “Ready for blasphemy?”

Sam chuckles.

By the time lunch is done and Sam has left for Madison Square Garden, another wave of exhaustion catches up with you. You pull your rings off and leave them on the table before you lie down on the second couch in the living room area, hoping that maybe this time, you’ll get a little bit of rest.

Only once again, it’s no use. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in the lab, watching Bucky get shot. The background buzz of the TV isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of your cursed memories.

Or the sound of the cat whining next to your ear.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Alpine settles on your chest this time, leaving long white hairs all over your shirt and hitting you in the face with her tail. You grimace, trying not to inhale any of her fur.

“You’re in her spot.”

You don’t bother turning your aching head. “I thought her spot was over there!” you say accusingly, gesturing vaguely to the other side of the living room.

“Who told you that?” Bucky says, a bemused tone in his voice as he scoops Alpine up in his gloved hands, careful not to touch you. “Move over.”

You blink at him. You did.

You feel his expectant glare on you and sigh.

“Really, you too? We have plenty of room, you know.” You pull your knees in.

“I do,” he says, sitting down next to you and reaching underneath the cushions. “But you’re always hoggin’ the remote.”

You put your cold feet on his thigh in retaliation. Bucky tenses.

“How are you so cold, it’s like ninety degrees outside.”

“Emphasis on outside,” you shrug. “I just run cold.”

“That you do.” He switches channels, then pulls his gloves off and puts them on the table next to your rings.

You bite the inside of your cheek and roll to the floor inelegantly. Alpine meows in disdain, like a knife scratching the whole diameter of a dinner plate.

“Please tell your cat to chill, geez,” you mumble, slumping down on the other couch and stretching your legs out again with a contented sigh.

Bucky doesn’t reply.

“My dear girl,” a thickly accented voice on the TV says, “you cannot keep bumping your head against reality and saying it is not there. The evidence was definite. We can’t remove it by wishing or crying.”

“He trusted me,” a female voice answers. “I led him into a trap, I convicted him. Is that real enough for you?”

“There is no one to blame,” the first voice continues. “The case was a little deeper than you figured. This often happens. You must realize now one thing, it is over for both of you.”

“What are you watching?” you ask.

There’s a short pause before Bucky answers. “Hitchcock. Spellbound.”

You can’t help your reaction.

“Why’d you just do that?” Bucky says.

You stare at the ceiling. “Do what?”

“You flinched.”

“Did not.” You can taste blood in your mouth.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

You turn to the side and demonstratively stare at him, even though it makes your insides twist. Bucky’s face doesn’t change at all as he gazes back at you, frown deepening between his eyebrows. It’s like he’s trying to drown you with the endless blue of his eyes.

You drop your gaze and shake your head.

“What’s your point, Bucky? Not everyone likes staring at people like you do.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s weird. And invasive.”

“It’s invasive to look at you?”

“Yes,” you say, “if you do it like that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know!” You sit back up again in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

You look at his face this time, not his eyes. It still makes your cheeks burn, because his jaw sets that way again and he doesn’t immediately respond.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, finally, and you hide your face between your hands in what you can only hope looks like frustration. Then you realize that that’s only making your missing rings more obvious.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you snap, balling your hands into fists.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you!”

“You promised,” Bucky says coolly. “Remember?”

Your stomach plummets.

“Yes,” you say, forcing your voice to stay calm. “But I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to worry. I’ve got this.”

You feel his eyes on your back all the way to your room, and you’re not sure if you’re lying to him or to yourself, even as you slam the door behind you and look anywhere but your bed.

Your book is lying in the wrong place.

* * * * *

“Honestly, Nat, you could’ve killed her.”

“Don’t be dramatic. She’s made of stronger stuff than that.”

There were yellow dots dancing across your vision when you opened your eyes, groaning at the bright neon lights hitting you in the face.

You were lying on the mat in the gym of the Compound and your nose had been ripped clean off; at least that was what it felt like. Judging by your red-soaked shirt, your guess wasn’t that far off, though.

“Hey,” Natasha said, kneeling down next to you. “Sorry, that must hurt like a bitch.”

“Your head is bery solid,” you replied, touching the blood still dribbling down your face. “Ow.”

“Thank you,” she said and handed you a wet towel. “Put that in your neck and lean your head back.”

“Di’ I faind?”

“You knocked yourself out, honey,” she said with a sly grin.

“It isn’t funny, Nat,” Steve shouted. You snorted, then winced in pain.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha winked. “You’re gonna be as pretty as before once you clean up. Already reset your nose while you were out.”

“Thangs.”

Surprisingly, this was the first serious injury you’d sustained in the past couple of weeks you’ve been living as a rookie Avenger; though in truth, that was mostly due to the fact that Natasha had only had you build up your stamina and agility up until today. Your first proper day in the ring was nothing short of humiliating.

“You could always go back to the moment before you decided to headbutt me,” Natasha said once the bleeding had finally stopped.

You wiped your nose carefully, taking a few breaths to clear your airways. “Sadly, that’s not how it works,” you said, letting her help you slowly come upright again. “I’m the one moving through time, so I stay exactly the same. I can help you guys avoid the punches, but I’ll still be the one receiving them.”

Cursed to stay the same, just like you’d always said.

Natasha tilted her head. “That seems like something you could work on with proper help.”

You grimaced. “I’ve tried that before. There’s no one who can help me, no one who can … fix me, or my powers.”

There was worry in her eyes, then, and you were taken aback by how genuine it seemed. It left a crack in your shell.

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said quietly.

But it was. “I mean it,” you said, your lip twitching. “You can’t tell them that I’m here. For all they know, I got dusted just like everyone else.”

She knew; it had been the one condition you’d set in exchange for your help. That didn’t mean she had to like it.

There was a prolonged pause until Natasha nodded. “All the more reason to get you proper training,” she said, getting back to her feet and helping you up. “Let’s get you some ice cream. Good for the healing.”

You smiled when both she and Steve kept worrying about you the entire way to the kitchen, even though both of them tried hard not to make it obvious. It still filled you with a strange sense of warmth that almost had you forget about the pain.

You were safe here.

Things were finally starting to look up.

chapter three

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[intrepidacious]

one: turn back the clock [2/2]

» time after time series: chapter one

this is a repost of my time loop fic in shorter parts for greater reading convenience. please refer to the series masterlist for more context.

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 2.5k

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, accidentally starting a time loop, banter, pretty angsty to start us off with ngl, reminder to read the fic premise. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

For a moment, you’re completely disoriented, staring at your surroundings in confusion. You’re in your own bedroom back at the Tower, your feet tangled in the sheets and eyes still bleary. You almost let yourself believe that it was all just a nightmare, another horrible dream conjured up by some subconscious remnants of the past, although even the worst of your dreams haven’t felt as real as what you just went through.

The idea is short-lived, anyway.

Your hands are still shaking when you lift them to your face. There’s blood all over your palms and stuck under your fingernails, leaving crimson stains on your bedding. Bucky’s blood.

You swallow down the bile that rises in your stomach and carefully twist your rings around on your fingers, one after the other. All of them are completely pitch black, darker than you’ve ever seen them.

Then again, you’ve never tried anything like this.

You clear your throat and take a deep breath. “FRIDAY?” you say cautiously. The music quietens as the A.I. comes to attention with a gentle tinkle. “What day is it?”

“Today is Friday, July 4th,” FRIDAY tells you.

You huff incredulously, your heart still pounding wildly. Somehow, you did it. It’s yesterday morning again. You actually did it.

Stumbling, you reach your tiny bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror. There’s a tiny nick on your left cheek from where the white jacket hit you with your gun last night, but you couldn’t care less because you’re back. It worked.

You scrub your hands under the hot water until it runs clear again, still stunned. You can’t remember ever jumping backwards that far, not without feeling completely exhausted anyway, but right now, you’re strangely alright, even though the adrenaline is still rushing through your veins.

The mix of emotions running through your head is so confusing that you don’t notice the band around your wrist until you’re drying off your hands.

It’s so close to your skin it almost looks like a tattoo, partially translucent and glowing dimly emerald. Instinctively, you try to rub at it, but your fingers go straight through it and you feel a tiny spark of electricity. When you hold out your hand at the right angle, you can see it’s made up of tiny symbols forming geometric shapes, moving around your arm in a slow, seamless circle. The longer you stare at it, the more hairs stand up on the back of your neck.

There’s a pounding at your door, followed immediately by Sam’s voice. “Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!”

You look at the clock on your bedroom wall. It’s shortly before 8 a.m., which gives you almost the entire day before you’re called on that mission. More than enough time to recuperate your powers and figure out a plan to make sure everything goes smoothly this time.

Until then, you just have to act normally.

“Not gonna happen, birdbrain!” you shout back, just like you did yesterday, and go through the pile of semi-clean gym clothes by the foot of your bed. As you get changed, you take another second to look at the strange emerald band around your wrist. Then, you pull a sweatband over it to camouflage it. You’ll deal with this later. For now, it’s training with Sam, a shower and breakfast.

And discreetly checking up on Bucky in a normal, non I Just Watched You Die kind of way. You can totally manage that.

“Don’t ever wake me up like that again!” you call out to Sam, closing the door to your room behind you.

He pushes away from the wall and falls into step next to you, grinning. “Sweet white teenage angst not your style?”

“You’re the worst.” The song is stuck in your head now, too, just like yesterday, but unlike then, you can’t find it in you to be mad about that fact. You did it.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sam remarks as you’re climbing up the stairs and you look at him in surprise. This is new.

Yester-today you didn’t talk at all on your way to the gym, what with you being both tired and annoyed at him. You’re usually wary about changing details during your redos, because the tiniest things can make the outcome of a situation unpredictable.

Still, you’ve never gone this far back. And isn’t this about making today a better day, really?

So you smile. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Not bad,” Sam says, eyebrow still raised. “Suspicious, maybe. Are you gonna salt someone’s coffee again?”

“I did that one time.” You roll your eyes as you push open the door to the gym. It’s a lot smaller than the one at the Compound was, and you particularly miss the swimming pool, but the view from the Tower is without compare. Midtown looks magnificent in the early sunlight.

You drop your rings into the little metal dish you keep next to the window and climb into the boxing ring after Sam, stretching your back.

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

Before Sam and Bucky found you, you hadn’t sparred for months and not exactly missed it. Training with soldiers and former assassins who held back every single punch and still managed to drop you on the mat with infuriating ease had never been very fun for you, and what with the universe saved and all, you hadn’t really seen the point in keeping up the practice once the dust blew over. Now that you’re regularly going on missions again, though, you have to stay in shape.

And although you hate to admit it even to yourself, there is something calming about being back in a routine like this. It keeps your head from getting stuck in the fuzzy grayness of it all. Damn those dopamines your therapist keeps telling you about.

Today, though, this today, your eyes are continually drawn to the door while you’re dodging and blocking Sam. It makes you sloppy even by your standards, which are mediocre at best thanks to your impatience. Of course it doesn’t escape his notice.

“What is up with you today?” he asks when he helps you get back to your feet for the third time this morning.

You dab the sweat off your face, hissing when you accidentally rub the cut on your cheek. At least Sam hasn’t said anything about that. “Slept weird,” you say evasively.

“Nightmare?” he offers with a compassionate look.

“Sort of,” you answer. “Feels a little … déjà-vu-y.”

“I know the type,” Sam says. “Wanna talk about it?”

You do. But the time stuff is your problem to deal with, and so you shake your head.

“Alright,” he says, rolling his shoulders back and raising an eyebrow. “Come on, then. You gotta get one kick in, at least, and hurry up, because I’m starving.”

“You could stop moving, then we’re done faster,” you grin. Your stomach is growling, too.

“Nice try, McFly.”

“You used that one earlier,” you say, shaking your head in faux disappointment. “Are you running out of nicknames, Sammy?”

“I’m not gonna be creative for someone who can’t kick above their waistline.”

“How dare you!”

You lose that round, too, but Sam deems you motivated enough to call it a day. He throws his towel over his shoulder and heads to the showers while you lay your head down on the mat and close your eyes for a moment. Waiting.

Yester-today, you didn’t hear Bucky come in, either. He was just sitting next to the ring when you looked to your side, hair sticking to his forehead and shirt clinging to his muscles, still a little damp after his shower. Then, you felt a slight rush of embarrassment at how much of a sweaty mess you were.

Now, you couldn’t care less.

“You look like shit.”

You turn your head and there he is. Living, breathing proof that you actually did do it. And for the first time in a long while, you feel nothing but gratitude for your powers.

Oh, fuck you, Barnes. If you’re sticking to the rules you’ve set for yourself long ago, that’s what you’re supposed to say, because that’s what you said the first time. Change as little as possible.

But even if you hadn’t broken them earlier, you couldn’t do it now. Not when you’re feeling this happy to see Bucky alive again. Alive and well, and slightly grumpy as ever.

So what falls out of your mouth instead is, “You’re looking good.”

Bucky squints at you and you smile at the way his cheeks are still slightly pink from his morning run, proof of his heart still beating. “Did Sam hit you in the head?”

You laugh. “Why, can’t I say that you look good and mean it?”

Bucky tilts his head slightly, but then shakes it. “Nah. You’re messin’ with me.”

“No, I’m not,” you tell him earnestly, sitting up to look at him properly. At his chest, solid and whole and moving calmly. “I’m just … glad you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he frowns.

“I don’t know,” you say, tugging at your sweatband. “It’s been a weird couple of days.”

“Yeah.” He looks at you for another beat, then he shakes his head again and gets up. “Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one.”

“Thanks, Bucky.” You smile at him again, but he averts his eyes.

***

“I probably only have one reset left,” you say, trying to ignore the chill that goes down your spine. “Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again.”

“I prefer heroic. You alright?”

And for a moment, you hesitate. Because even though the rest of the day has passed pretty much exactly the same as it did the first time up until this point, you’ve felt the doubts creeping in ever since you laid down for a nap in the early afternoon, tossing and turning for the better part of an hour, only to find your rings hadn’t regained even the slightest speck of green.

You’re terrified of the moment you’re going to have to use your powers, because what if with this large jump, you overdid it? What if this time, there won’t be any redos?

No. You’re made of stronger stuff than your doubts, you know that. Things are going to be okay.

You nod with newfound determination. “‘Course I am. It’s gonna be fine.” You flex your fingers to reassure yourself. “Just try not to get killed.”

It’s a plea more than anything else, but of course Bucky doesn’t respond, not to you. Not to it.

“Can’t say that, bud,” he says instead. “Twenty seconds.”

But who’s counting? You close your eyes and hold your breath, balling your hands into fists so tightly it hurts.

“I don’t wanna complain,” Sam says as the dust settles. “But I did expect this to be more difficult.”

“Don’t jinx it, Sam,” you say wrily.

“You’re such a pessimist.” He still raises his shield a bit higher. “Any more comin’, Bucky?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Your heart twinges slightly, but you bite your lip. Your job is to make sure the mission gets done and everyone stays alive. Both of those things, not just one. “I’m right behind you.”

The lab looks exactly the same as it did the first time, small and crammed and somehow even gloomier today, though that’s probably just your imagination. Now that you know to look for it, you can tell the file cabinet on the far side of the wall doesn’t quite touch the floor, something that Bucky must’ve picked up on immediately.

You feign interest in the papers on the table again, shuffling them to keep your hands occupied. “You’re hovering again, Barnes.”

“You sure you’re alright?”

You turn, surprised at the question, to find Bucky’s gaze lingering on your hands. Not for the first time, you silently curse his perceptiveness. “Yeah,” you say, crossing your arms.

His jaw sets, but he doesn’t comment on your dismissiveness. He just moves to open the cabinet. You don’t find it in you to say anything, and so he doesn’t look quite as happy with himself. It doesn’t give you any pleasure.

When the downstairs lab fills with white jackets, your stomach is still threatening to drop, but you grit your teeth. This is exactly the kind of situation you’ve trained for; the most important thing now is remembering the order of things. Like a dance recital.

Duck to the side. Bucky steps right. Wait for Sam’s move. Shoot. You take another step back before the white jacket can drag you away by the throat again and kick them in the stomach until they stay on the ground, which is a way kinder fate than yesterday’d brought them. You shudder slightly as you turn to look at the hole in the ceiling. Three. Two. One.

The second explosion goes off at the same time as someone shouts your name, and you whip your head around only to be roughly shoved to the side and fall the ground. A large piece of ceiling lands right where you’d just been standing. Which is obviously a different place than yesterday because you knocked that white jacket unconscious. Wow, you’re an idiot.

Bucky seems to agree. “Whatever’s happening right now, you gotta snap out of it.” There’s something about the look on his face that makes your blood boil.

“What’s happening is that I’m trying to fix this,” you say sharply.

“By getting yourself killed?!”

“We need to get moving,” Sam’s voice says on the intercom before you have time to reply. “If you take care of the drive and these idiots, I’ll clear the tunnels for a way out of here!”

Bucky stares at you for another second as if he’s trying to decide on the thing that’s most wrong with you right now. You shove him off you.

He rolls his eyes and gets back on his feet, holding up his arm for Sam to throw the shield his way. By the time you see the white jacket aiming their gun, they’re already pulling the trigger. You throw up your hands.

A surge of emptiness goes through you, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Time seems to still for just the blink of an eye as Bucky’s head is thrown forwards.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume. The room seems to wobble in front of you as you scramble to your hands and knees in bed, trying to get a proper breath of air.

“FRIDAY.” You almost flinch at the panic in your own voice. “FRIDAY, what day is it?”

“Today is Friday, July 4th.”

part 1 | series masterlist

[intrepidacious]

Build a blurb hehehe! 🩹 tending to each other's wounds, 🚪 showing up at the other's door, begging for comfort, 🍯 friends to lovers, 🔥 slow burn - Enjoy >:3

heal me, baby

summary: Your friendship starts with you cleaning up his wounds and Bucky paying to get the blood stains out of your couch. Something else starts, too.

pairing: bucky barnes x nurse!reader

word count: 2.6k

warnings: canon typical violence, some fluff, s.h.i.e.l.d. still exists AU, protective bucky strikes again

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: lisha heard me request prompts to write something short and decided to go with slow burn. thanks for that, love. happy easter and joyous pesach to those of you who celebrate, i hope you're all well <3

masterlist | read on ao3

The first time it happened, he’d been shot.

It’s how you’d first met him, actually, because he’d been so out of it with blood loss he tried to break down your door instead of his own—which was one floor up, but you didn’t find that out until later—and when you’d finally stopped screaming in his face, he just collapsed in your hallway.

When he woke up again, you’d just finished bandaging up his wounds, moving on to cleaning the scratches on his face.

“Your hands are very soft,” he said, still delirious. You were used to strange comments from your patients at the hospital, so you’d just rolled your eyes.

“You’re paying to get the blood stains out of my couch.”

He did. In fact, he tried to get you a whole new couch, but you liked the one you already had.

“Thank you,” he told you for the twentieth time as you helped him up to his apartment the next morning. His wounds had already started to close. “This really isn’t necessary.”

“Nurse’s orders,” you replied sternly and kept your grip on his arm until you reached his front door. No welcome mat, no seasonal decorations, not even his name next to the bell.

He coughed, as if there was anything to be embarrassed about now. “I’m Bucky, by the way.”

You nodded politely. “I know.” That arm did him no favors when it came to staying anonymous.

There was a quiet scratching coming from the other side of the door, but his eyes didn’t stray from yours. They looked pretty, you supposed, when they weren’t glazed over in pain. “And do I get your name?”

“With the receipt from my dry cleaning.”

His low chuckle followed you back downstairs.

The second time wasn’t nearly as bad. In fact, his knock on your door was so tentative you wouldn’t even have heard it had you not just walked by the door one last time to check the locks before bed.

“Sorry,” he said as soon as you cracked the door open. “I’m kinda out of thread?”

The gash in his palm was deep, but not bad by any standards; still, you could understand why he’d be cautious with wounds on his right side. He didn’t even flinch once as you stitched him up.

“You’re a good patient,” you told him, pulling the knot tight.

Bucky huffed quietly. “All your good patients show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night?”

“No,” you shrugged, setting your tools aside for sterilization. “But there’s gotta be something that makes you special, right?”

There was something akin to a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth right as you turned away.

“I owe you,” he called after you.

You raised your brows. “You wanna repay me for a bit of suture?”

“And your professional craftsmanship,” Bucky said. “D’you think I could do stitches that neat with my left hand?”

Honestly, yes. But if he insisted …

“I have Saturday night off,” you said. “How about a takeout?”

His grin widened a fraction. “We’re talkin’ food, right?”

“Yes,” you laughed. “For now.”

You weren’t sure whether to expect him to join you on Saturday, but he showed up on your doorstep at 6 p.m. sharp, completely unharmed this time. Instead, he was carrying several plastic bags full of food.

“I wasn’t sure what to get, so …” he muttered once you’d stopped laughing and showed him into the kitchen.

“So you got everything?” You eyed the containers of food, all steaming and smelling divine. “Are we expecting seven more?”

“We?” He sounded so genuinely surprised that you shook your head at him incredulously.

“You don’t expect me to eat all of this on my own!” You took plates and cutlery for two out of your cupboards. “I’m pretty sure I owe you now, Bucky.”

Another tentative smile formed on his face, again a bit wider than the last one you’d seen. You wondered how long it would take you to get a full laugh.

It became a habit, you bandaging up whatever wounds he got on his latest mission and the two of you sharing takeout on your nights off, some movie the background noise to your chatting. In the beginning, it was mostly you talking, telling him about work, about your friends, asking only few questions about his life. It took Bucky a couple of weeks to open up on his own. To relax his shoulders where he was sitting, until he slouched into your couch almost as casually as you did.

Bucky was easy to talk to, you realized quickly, because he was a great listener. It didn’t take you much longer to notice how your stomach would twist and your lungs would constrict whenever he looked at you, whenever his smile grew another fraction of an inch.

You didn’t need your degree to tell you what those symptoms meant.

But he needed a friend more than he needed to be rushed into anything, and so you bit your tongue and you said nothing.

***

The problems really started when S.H.I.E.L.D. decided to hire you as, essentially, a freelance nurse to go in the field with a crew when they were short a doctor.

“Absolutely not,” Bucky argued until he was hoarse, with you, with Fury, with Rogers, with anyone who would listen.

You still went. Frankly, the pay was better than what you earned after three years at the hospital.

Then again, they didn’t really put you into actually dangerous situations at the hospital.

The first mission you were sent on together mostly consisted of awkward silence, Bucky still fuming about the fact that you were coming along, and that he’d been unable to put a stop to it, you still rolling your eyes about the fact that he was angry about all of that.

Of course, it turned out that they barely needed you, anyway. You stayed out of the building, and the rest of the team did all the dirtywork while you sat around in the quinjet and waited. There was a fight; you heard the shouts and the shots, and the barked commands the comms. When they made their way back, though, sticky with soot and sweat, the most painful thing you had to fix was a cut on agent Romanoff’s temple.

Still, that night when you sat down, you found your hands almost shaking with relief that it’d been that easy.

Bucky had a key at that point, from when he’d offered to water your plants while you went to see your parents during your vacation days a few months back, but you didn’t expect him to come that night. Didn’t expect to hear his knuckles softly rapping against the doorframe, because he always knocked, even though he had a key. Didn’t expect his slow, heavy steps in the hallway. Didn’t expect him sinking to his knees in front of the couch, in front of you, as if his strength had finally given out all at once. Didn’t expect his eyes drinking you in, tracing every inch of your skin as if to prove to himself that you were unharmed.

You shivered, even though he didn’t touch you.

He was never the one to reach out first, instead preferring to stare at you in silence, like a man drowning. So you did it for him.

He must have heard your heart thundering in your breast when you pulled him into your embrace, but he still didn’t speak. He just held onto you like you were his lifeline, and not for the first time you wondered what lies the demons in his head sprouted.

“I’m fine,” you whispered into his hair, carding your fingers through it. “I’m here.”

Every mission after went much the same, the only thing different each time the amount of time he needed until he could find his voice again. Until he could start believing your words.

“I’m sorry,” he said, again and again.

Every single time, you answered, “Don’t be.”

***

The first time it went badly, it was a mission Bucky hadn’t been on.

You didn’t get hurt then, either, not physically at least, but some of the agents they carried past you ... fuck. It felt worse than it did in the hospital, because there, you could depend on equipment being sterile and well-stocked. Out in the field, there was no such luck.

Your eyes must’ve looked empty, but maybe he just chalked it up to exhaustion. To your usual empathy with anyone in pain. Or maybe you’d gotten good at hiding things from him.

But sleep didn’t find you that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you were back out there, fighting to keep agents alive and whole while they still struggled to get the jet up in the air. You kept tossing and turning, trying to shut the memories out, but it was no use.

And then your feet started moving on their own accord, out of your bedroom, out of your apartment, quickly, before you could overthink this, up the stairs, stopping only in front of Bucky’s door, your hand raised to knock softly against his frame like you’d heard him do countless times.

It swung open.

Your vision went slightly unfocused when Bucky stood in front of you, chest on full display. Your gaze crept up slowly, too slowly, following the chain of his dog tags to his neck, his chin, his eyes. A slight blush had spread on his cheeks.

“Hey.” He sounded as ruffled as you felt.

“Hi,” you replied weakly. “I …”

Your mind was blank, devoid of all coherent thought.

“Can’t sleep?” Bucky offered and you nodded, even though you weren’t even sure anymore what force had brought you here in the middle of the night.

You looked down again, stopping yourself at the scars on his left shoulder. You’d never seen them up close. He’d never allowed you to, no matter how badly he was bleeding. Bucky tensed when he noticed your transfixion.

The scars trailed towards the center of his chest like they were pointing at his still beating heart, red and harsh and beautiful. Proof that despite everything, he was still alive. Despite everything, he still chose to be better, no, to be good every day.

It brought tears to your eyes.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, not daring to look at his face.

“Yeah,” he said, because he knew you’d call him out on a lie. His voice was rough around the edges. You wanted to wrap it in the softest linens. “At night, mostly.”

You’d usually tell him the reason for that, the medical explanation, but your brain was still empty. Bucky just stared at you, waiting. You drew a shuddering, deliberate breath.

“Today was bad.”

He took a step to the side and let you in.

Alpine immediately darted towards you, running between your legs until you picked her up and pressed her against your chest, inhaling deeply into her fur. Cautiously, you followed Bucky through the hallway to where he wordlessly held another door open for you.

You’d been to his bedroom before, to watch movies or to just spend time with each other when you both had nothing else to do, but this … this felt different, somehow.

You rolled into a tight ball on his bed, careful not to take up too much space as he crawled in next to you and pulled the blanket over both of you. It smelled like a gentle hug.

“Do you want to talk about it?” was the only thing he asked, and you shook your head. “Try to close your eyes.”

You fell asleep swiftly, contently, and when you woke up hours later, you found yourself tucked closely to Bucky’s chest, his metal arm wrapped tightly around you, warm from sleep. Alpine had curled up on your pillow, her fluffy tail resting on your head.

You smiled and snuggled closer.

***

His problem with the missions, he told you, wasn’t that you were going per se, it was that he wasn’t able to keep an eye on you at all times. Naturally, it was worse when you were assigned to leave and he wasn’t.

“I have a bad feeling about this one,” he murmured when he came to see you off.

“I’ll be fine, Buck,” you said lightly. He only hugged you more tightly, only letting go when Steve shouted his name for the third time. They had their own plane to catch. So you smiled at him. “Promise.”

He reached out to pull a piece of hair out of your face, his fingertips gently grazing your temple before he pressed a featherlight kiss to your hairline. You froze, staring at him with big eyes. Bucky took a step back.

“Just be careful, alright?”

You couldn’t do anything but nod, turning your head over your shoulder over and over again until you took the final step up the gangway. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time.

The second it went badly, when you heard your leg snap, you felt the regret of your own broken promise through the searing pain.

And then the world went black.

You came to when they pulled you out from under the rubble, your leg still twisted at an awful angle, your forehead warm and sticky. The way back had you going in and out of consciousness over and over again, only vague impressions sticking in your mind. The way your seatbelt was tugged just too tightly around your waist. The way the jet shook when it landed, and how you cried out because it meant your leg moved. The shouting outside.

When you woke up in the med ward, they’d already put you in plaster and disinfected your head. You blinked against the horrible white lights until you could make out Bucky in the chair next to your bed, still dirty and roughed up from his own mission, holding your hand tightly in his own.

“Your hands are very soft,” you said with a tired smile.

He shot you a weary glance, but didn’t let go. Instead, he just moved closer, helping you to sit upright. “How are you feeling?”

“Could be worse,” you said, wincing slightly when you tried to move your leg.

He was so careful when he sat down on the bed next to you, as if he were terrified of breaking you further. When he wrapped his arms around you, you noticed he was shaking slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours. “I just—when they told me, for a second I thought I lost you, and I couldn’t … I can’t …”

And something in you broke, the dam of butterflies seemingly exploding. You sucked in a sharp breath, your eyes fluttering shut. “I need …”

You could feel Bucky’s unsteady breath against your lips. “Anything.”

So you kissed him.

His arms tightened around you when he answered your kiss with just as much fervor, as if he, too, needed to reassure himself that this was real, this was happening. He tasted faintly like dust and blood. You didn’t care.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging him closer, closer, until your need for air left you gasping. You had no intentions of moving away already, though. Neither did he.

“I’m fine,” you murmured between kisses. “I’m here.”

When you finally retreated far enough to see his face, your heart almost burst out of your chest.

Bucky smiled at you, as brightly as the sun, eyes incredulous and sparkling with happiness. You thought you’d never seen anyone look this beautiful before in your life.

And then he laughed, and you knew.

thank you for reading!! i'm currently self-isolating, so if you could be awesome and leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this, that'd be absolutely grand. it'd be my social interaction of the day 💛 if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

[intrepidacious]

baby, it's bad out there

summary: Your best friend Kate has always been good at attracting trouble and this time, it’s starting to become your problem, too. Then again, what’s Christmas in New York City without meet-cutes and gunfire?

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 9.8k

warnings: HAWKEYE SPOILERS, canon typical violence, more or less canon compliant, a holiday fic in january?? it’s more likely than you think, reader buys christmas presents but doesn’t explicitly celebrate, slightly deus ex machina in the form of [redacted]

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: happy new year everybody!! 💛 whether you celebrate the holidays or not, i hope you all had a calm last week of 2021 and a good start of 2022. three weeks ago i was watching hawkeye and thought “why don’t i write something christmassy” and then this sort of happened and got out of hand big time. apparently, i can’t write short things. huge thanks to @barnesafterglow for reassuring me when i felt like i was losing my mind, which was constantly. x

masterlist | read on ao3

Needless to say, you hadn’t seen your day ending up like this.

You’re clinging to the edge of the roof, trying desperately to grasp at something, anything, to hold onto and try to haul yourself back up. The wind is tearing into you, numbing your fingers, clawing into you like icy cuts. Your breath comes in hurried hazy clouds in front of your face.

Another shot sounds, and with a gasp, you lose your grip.

And then you’re falling.

***

eleven hours earlier

“An Avenger.” You snicker as you glance down on your phone screen again while trying not to lose hold of any of your shopping bags. Your friend’s large eyes seem to almost burst with excitement. “You know, you could’ve just said you don’t wanna come shopping with me this year, Kate. You don’t have to make stuff up.”

“When have I ever made something like that up?”

“Fifth grade,” you answer without hesitation, “when you said you’d met Captain America on that field trip.”

“Again, that was not made up, I saw him—”

“That was a random guy in a baseball cap—”

“—he was looking right at Tyler—”

“—Tyler needed glasses and he also had a crush on you, of course he’d agree—”

“—it was one hundred percent real and even if it weren’t, I was eleven, let it go.”

“You brought it up, Elsa.” You readjust the straps of the overfilled tote bag on your shoulder. “I will find someone else to go to winter wonderland with, by the way.”

“You’re a menace,” Kate grumbles. “I’m off saving the city and you thank me with threats.”

“Put the dog on screen again and I might reconsider,” you answer as you stop for a red light, holding your phone closer to your face again. “Aaaww, did you put him in a bow tie? Well, aren’t you a handsome boy!”

“You already love that dog more than me, don’t you?”

“One hundred percent,” you say, still cooing. “You’ll bring him next week, right?”

“Uhm, yeah …” Kate says, trailing off. She flips the screen again and sits down on the floor next to pizza dog, who places his head in her lap. “I don’t know if I’m gonna make it yet. What with all this—stuff going on. I’m gonna try, obviously,” she adds hastily, seeing the look of disappointment on your face. “I just don’t think these guys are gonna take the weekend off.”

“They better,” you sigh and join the crowd of people shuffling to cross the street while carrying their several salaries’ worth of Christmas shopping. “I miss you, Bishop.”

Kate smiles. “Miss you too.”

“And take a selfie with your new best friend. I have the right to see my supposed replacement.”

“Bye.”

You shake your head as Kate and pizza dog disappear from your screen with a chime.

It’s started snowing during your call, gray clouds covering the sky and turning the crisp winter air into icy gusts of wind that make your eyes water. So much for New York City at Christmas; they only ever tell you about the lights and the window decorations, not about the damn cold.

Thankfully, your apartment is only a couple of blocks away now. The thought of curling up on the couch with your cat and a hot drink is the one thing that keeps your spirits up while you try shoving your phone back into your coat pocket while also not slipping on the sidewalk.

Of course, that’s the exact moment someone bumps into you, sending both you and your shopping bags flying to the ground.

A surprised yelp escapes you as you attempt to break your fall on anything but your bags of presents. There’s a sharp pain coursing through your wrist and knees as you land, unceremoniously, on the curb.

“Well, merry Christmas, asshole!”you shout after the idiot who doesn’t even bother to stop and check on you. Continuing to curse under your breath, you scramble to get back on your feet and gather your bearings. The bags have soaked through, but at least nothing seems badly damaged.

“I think that’s yours.”

“Shit!” You take your phone out of the gloved hand offering it to you. It must have skidded away from you when you fell, and now the screen is cracked. You want to cry. “Sorry, I mean, thank you, I’m just—”

You take a look at the person in front of you and immediately lose your train of thought because, damn—he’s gorgeous.

The first thing you notice is that he hasn’t even bothered to close his jacket; it’s as if the searing cold tearing at you is nothing more than a light breeze to him, his gloves the one concession to the temperature.

Slowly, your gaze travels upwards. There’s some dark stubble on his perfect jawline. His cheeks and nose are tinted a beautiful shade of pink. A few snowflakes have got caught in his hair, and you would find yourself mesmerized by the way it curls ever so slightly on his forehead if it weren’t for his eyes. Wow—his eyes. Midnight blue with some lighter specs that make you think of the ocean, the color accentuated by his navy sweater. You’d be quite happy never looking at anything but his eyes ever again.

You realize you might be staring a little.

“Sorry,” you continue weakly. “That guy just barrelled into me.”

“I saw.” He frowns slightly and your eyes flicker to the little dimple between his brows. Your fingers itch to touch it. “You alright, doll?”

“Yeah, I’m …” You trail off, still nodding like a maniac, wondering for a split second if this is it, if you got sent into a Hallmark movie and you need to just let this happen, before you thankfully catch yourself. You’re being ridiculous, you think. Reel it back in, fast. “I like your sweater.”

Well done.

He blinks. “Thanks. I like yours, too.”

Tradition demands that Kate and you do your shopping together while wearing the ugliest Christmas sweaters you can find, and just because she’s blown you off this year doesn’t mean you’ll forgo that. In this moment, though, you wish you’d opted for anything that doesn’t depict Santa riding a dinosaur. You pull your coat closed.

There’s a slight twinkle of amusement in his beautiful eyes, but not like he’s making fun of you. He doesn’t say anything else, though, he just keeps watching you, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

He looks strangely familiar that way, as if you’d seen him before somewhere, but you can’t quite place him. You can only hope it’s not high school or something equally embarrassing.

Cringing slightly at the thought, you cough and do that awkward smile and nod. “Anyway, thank you, I should get—”

“Is it still working?”

Your head? Not while he’s looking at you, no. “What?”

“Your phone.”

“Oh!” Your hands shake slightly as you try unlocking it. The display stays black. Of fucking course. “I mean, I was running low on battery earlier, maybe plugging it in at home will help,” you say without much hope in your voice.

“Worth a try.” He glances at your bags. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Real life, not a movie. You still manage a smile. “Yes, of course, it’s fine. I’m not far ahead. Thank you, really. Happy holidays.”

“You, too.” He gives you another look and a light smirk tugs on his lips. And then he’s gone.

With a sigh, you turn down the street to haul your soggy bags home and mourn the fact that life does not follow the plot of your favorite rom coms after all. If it were, he’d be running after you now, insisting to carry your bags or at least ask for your number. The thought of it is so delicious you almost turn around, but thankfully, you still have an ounce of self-respect left, so you don’t.

You’re still distracted by your not-quite meet cute when you arrive at your doorstep, which is why you don’t immediately realize something is amiss. The green moving truck parked next to the entrance doesn’t strike you as particularly remarkable as you rummage through your tote bag for your keys.

Not until the guys get out of the car.

Your head turns automatically when you hear someone say your name, but you don’t recognize the men in front of you. They must be working for the same company, since they’re all wearing matching tracksuits. Maybe one of your neighbors is moving, you think, but you get a bad feeling from this. They’re not built like movers.

“Can I help you?” you say, grabbing your keys tightly.

“Hopefully,” one of them answers. His accent is heavy, Russian maybe, but you’re not sure. “We are looking for a friend of yours. Kate Bishop.”

Eyes flitting between the three of them, you take another step towards your door. What do they want from Kate? “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you mean.”

Either you're a worse liar than you like to think or they know something you don’t but either way, they just chuckle darkly. All the hair at the back of your neck is standing up now. Blindly, you reach for the handle behind you in the wild hope that it will just open on its own and you can put at least a door between those weird men and yourself. It doesn’t move an inch.

“Oh, but I think you do,” the same man says, and before you even have a second to breathe, you’re blinking down the barrel of a gun. Your blood turns cold.

“Come on, bro,” the guy to his right says, rolling his eyes. “She said just talk.”

“I am trying, but if she doesn’t want to do the talking, I am going to nudge a little. Show her we are not idiots.”

Should you scream? You feel like you should scream, but there’s no one else around and you don’t doubt that he might just shoot you where you’re standing. On the steps to your home, surrounded by a bunch of presents. What do they want from Kate? You’ve always been terrible in a crisis.

“What will she do, attack you with presents?”

“Fine, fine.” He puts the gun back into his trousers, but your heart is still racing. “See? No harm done. Just tell us where Kate Bishop is and we leave.”

Yeah, right. “Look,” you say slowly. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding …”

“I will tell you misunderstanding.” The man on the right takes a step closer to you and you flinch. It makes him grin, a ghastly, self-assured grin that makes you sick to your stomach. “Is when your friend got involved with the Ronin and pretends she knows what she’s doing.”

There’s only a couple of feet between him and you now and your brain short-circuits. So you swing your wet and heavy shopping bags at his face.

He does not expect that. The impact of the bags is enough to make him fall backwards at his companions, who also grunt in surprise. You frantically snatch your keys out of your bag, stabbing them at the hole to get into the building, but you’re not fast enough. You shriek when hands grab you from behind, kicking at whoever’s dragging you back down the stairs and into the alleyway next to your building. It’s no use.

For the second time today, you’re shoved to the ground roughly, but this time, you don’t get to catch your fall. You wince as your head hits the side of the dumpster, tears immediately springing to your eyes.

“Now can I nudge a little?” you hear one of the men growl. There’s the click of a safety catch being released, and you instinctively brace yourself for a shot.

It doesn’t come.

Instead there’s a yelp and a crash, and the dumpster shakes as something heavy falls on top of it. You push yourself upright where you landed in a small heap of snow, ignoring the sting in your wrist, and roll around just in time to see the second tracksuit guy go down with a groan. Someone shouts something in a language you don’t understand. A strange cracking sound and a scream. Then—

You scramble backwards when a shadow appears in front of you. There’s a wave of nausea that hits you at the sudden movement.

“Are you hurt?” You know that voice.

When you look up, you stare directly into those midnight blue eyes again. Once again, they almost take your breath away, even though now they’re dark with concern.

“I think so, I … I hit my head a little,” you say dumbly.

“Here.” You take his hands and let yourself be put upright, stumbling a little. His grip tightens ever so slightly when you do, holding you steady as the feeling of dizziness eases. There are a few stars swimming across your vision, but apart from that, you feel okay. Well, physically. “We gotta get you somewhere safe, doll, alright?”

You nod when you notice some movement behind his shoulder. The flash of a gun reflected against the snow.

The gasp falls from your lips the same moment as the shot rings out and the stranger in front of you whirls back around, pulling you behind his back with one swift movement. There’s a clanging sound as the bullet hits—metal?

Two more shots are fired and the man catches both of them with the palm of his left hand. He doesn’t seem to feel either of them. Within seconds, he wrestles the gun out of the assailant’s hand and hits him in the head with the hilt. And you realize why he’s seemed so familiar to you before.

“You’re Bucky Barnes,” you manage, eyes wide as you take him in properly.

His hair is short now, which is why you didn’t recognize him before, with his left arm hidden under his layers. There’s a hole in the palm of his glove now, though, and you can see the shiny vibranium underneath for just a moment before he balls it into a fist.

“I know,” he says, jaw set as he drags the unconscious guy further into the alley. Your knees buckle and you have to steady yourself against the dumpster. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

It seems such a weird thing to say, you almost laugh. If only you didn’t still feel like you’re spinning. When did the world stop making sense? “I didn’t think you would.”

“Good.” He brushes off his hands and picks something up from the ground. There’s something next to his shoe, a discoloration of the snow next to the dumpster. “We need to leave. More of them might show up.”

A surge of panic courses through you. “My cat, I can’t just—I can’t leave her here alone, she’s only eight months old.” For some reason, the thought of your kitten being left all by herself makes you sob involuntarily. But you can’t move. Your head is throbbing.

“Doll, you gotta breathe. Focus on something for me, alright?” You draw a shuddering breath, but your gaze is still flitting between the wall, Bucky’s arm, the snow, the men on the ground, your shoes. “Listen to me. What’s your apartment number?”

“4D,” you answer tonelessly. That’s blood right there on the ground. That’s definitely blood being covered by a thin layer of snow right now. It looks almost pink.

You feel another wave of nausea and close your eyes, gulping in huge gasps of cold air. This isn’t real, you keep thinking, it can’t be, even though every single beat of your heart tells you the difference, hammering the truth into your head until you feel dizzy with it. You tilt your head back until you lean against the wall, steadying yourself.

Rational, you tell yourself, hiding your face in your hands, you need to be rational about all this. One deep breath. In. Out.

“Three Men Injured After Attack On Civilian,” you whisper to yourself, trying to keep the bile down. “Read more on 12.”

Usually, it helps you to take a step back from it all, to see any situation through a more neutral lens, if you pretend you’re already reporting on it. Sadly, your brain doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

Maybe if you don’t open your eyes, you’ll just wake up from an ill-advised late afternoon nap and everything will be back to normal.

A loud screeching noise overhead has you flinch.

“It’s okay, it’s just me.” Bucky jumps down the last couple of feet of the fire escape. “I have her, let’s leave.”

Numbly, you follow him through the alleyway back to the street. You’re almost surprised at the noise of the city that seems to come rushing back all at once. Life has continued despite what just happened only a few feet away, people all around you looking none the wiser.

You steal a glance over your shoulder. If you tilt your head just so, you can make out a boot and some of that rose colored snow.

“Don’t look back,” Bucky says quietly.

You turn back to stare at him. It’s only now that you notice his jacket, which is halfway closed now, appears to be moving. Another tiny gasp escapes you when you realize he has your cat tucked safely inside. She’s surprisingly quiet for an unexpected venture into the streets of Manhattan with a man she doesn’t know. In fact, she seems to be enjoying herself, curiously sticking her tiny pink nose outside and watching as you move back towards the crowd.

Maybe you should take a few pointers from her. You take another deep breath.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” you ask, wincing at how hoarse your voice sounds to your own ears.

“They’re already on their way. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where you can fire a few shots without anyone calling the cops immediately. Stop turning around,” Bucky says and your head shoots back forwards immediately. “Rule number one of not attracting attention is to act normally.”

“Right.” You can’t even remember how normal people walk. Do you usually move your arms this much? Hastily, you stuff your hands into your coat pockets. You feel your useless, dead phone inside, and your fingers clutch around it almost desperately.

“You’re doing great,” Bucky says and you almost laugh. You can still feel the adrenaline rushing through your veins, but at least you’re starting to be a bit more aware again, the panic slowly subsiding.

“What just happened back there?” you say through your teeth as you attempt to rearrange your facial features into something that signals casual stroll and not complete shell-shock.

“I was hoping you could tell me that.” Bucky’s scowl radiates neutral disinterest. You try to pull your eyebrows down slightly. “Do you know who sent those men?”

You give up the grimacing. “Of course not!”

“What were they asking for?”

Your heart sinks and you bite your lip to keep your focus in the present. “Kate Bishop. She, she’s my best friend, but I don’t—I can’t imagine what they’d want from her.”

Unless she was telling the truth, something at the back of your head tells you, but it seems so ludicrous. There’s something about Kate, your Kate, working with an Avenger that’s so far away from reality you can’t even put it into words.

Just like some men following you to your doorstep and demanding you tell them where she is.

NYU Student Involved With Organized Crime, you try in your head. Kate Bishop, 22, claims to have been recruited by—nope. Absolutely not.

If Bucky notices your inner conflict, he doesn’t remark on it. “For now, we’ll hide in the crowd in case they kept eyes on your door from a vantage point.”

You accidentally bite down so hard you taste blood. “Is that likely?”

“I don’t know these guys. But better safe than sorry.”

You turn another corner onto one of the larger avenues. Your eyes are pulled to the place next to the crossing where you’d dropped your phone. It couldn’t have been more than half an hour ago, even though you feel like your world has been turned on its head twice over since.

“You were going this way,” you say slowly, looking at Bucky. “Why were you even there when they …” You leave the sentence unfinished.

He coughs slightly. “I noticed one of them following you. Didn’t feel right, so I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“And still are, huh?”

He lets his eyes meet yours again, another lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Still am.”

You’re pretty positive the flutter in your stomach has nothing to do with the leftover adrenaline. Neither does the heat in your cheeks as you look away. “Well, I appreciate it,” you murmur.

If Bucky hears you, he doesn’t answer.

***

“Pretty sure your cat’s asleep.”

Without your phone, you have no way of knowing how long you’ve been walking aimlessly through Midtown and Hell’s Kitchen, changing direction every now and then, seemingly at random. The sun has set completely and the wind has picked up, making the temperatures drop even further. At this point, you can barely feel your toes as you hurry to keep up with Bucky’s long strides.

You peek at his jacket. Your tiny white cat is barely visible anymore, cuddled closely to Bucky’s stomach to keep warm. Once again, you find yourself strangely jealous of her.

“She must really like you. She’s usually very vocal.” Your chuckle comes out in a white cloud of steam. “Her name’s Alpine, by the way.”

“Fitting,” Bucky says, carefully petting her between the ears without waking her. “You still haven’t told me yours.”

“Oh.” You’ve been talking on and off during your walk, mostly pointing out dogs or decorated windows, unimportant things that have kept your mind off the men asking for Kate. Somehow, your name seems to not have come up. “It’s Y/N.”

He repeats it with a smirk. “That’s pretty.”

You can’t say if Bucky Barnes is flirting with you or if he’s just taking the distraction very seriously. Either way, you’re not complaining, because there’s a warmth in the way he says your name that makes your stomach tumble over itself. And your cheeks are on fire. Frozen still and on fire at the same time.

“Why don’t you close your coat?” Bucky asks after you pull it closer around you for what must be the hundredth time.

“Zipper’s broken,” you mumble, tucking your chin into the collar. “It’s fine, the wind is just a bit annoying.”

“Mhm.” Bucky looks at you from the side and you press your tongue between your teeth to keep them from actually chattering, mouth firmly shut. “Hey, let’s go in there for a sec.”

You look up as Bucky’s already marching across the street, heading towards the coffee shop at the corner. Its windows are almost aggressively festive, but the lights inside look cozy and you’re too exhausted from the cold to question much.

Bucky holds the door for you and you sigh as the first gust of warm, sweet air hits your face. It smells like coffee and cinnamon. The cheery Christmas playlist playing on speakers overhead mixes with the sound of the coffee machines and the pleasant chatter of the patrons occupying most of the tables close to the windows. The barista behind the register smiles at you briefly before she busies herself with the drip coffee maker.

“If anyone was following us, we'd have lost them a couple of blocks back,” Bucky quietly answers your question before you can speak up.

He could have said that a couple of blocks back, you think, but bite it back.

“What can I get you guys?” the barista calls over as you follow Bucky to the counter.

“Could I use your restroom?” he asks. You blink in surprise.

“Only if you buy something, I’m afraid,” the barista answers apologetically, glancing at who you assume is her manager behind the pastry case. “Company policy.”

“That’s alright,” you say, stepping up next to him and pulling the loose change out of your coat pocket. “My treat.” It’s the least you can do.

“Oh.” For some reason, Bucky’s ears go slightly pink. “Thank you. I’ll have whatever you’re having, then.”

The barista nods towards the far end of the store. “Upstairs and to the left, code’s A-616.”

“Thanks.” He turns back to you for just a moment, giving you a reassuring little smile. “Back in a minute.”

You nod and watch him walk to the stairs, keeping one arm in his pocket to make the cat-shaped outline of his jacket at least a little more inconspicuous. You only avert your eyes when the barista quietly clears her throat to get your attention, grinning when she does.

“Your boyfriend’s cute,” she remarks lightly as she rings up your order.

“Ah. No, yeah, he’s—”

“What name do you want me to put on the cups?” she asks, oblivious to your embarrassment.

Well, shit. You should’ve thought about this. Do you give her your real name when there’s people out there possibly still looking for you? Probably not. A fake one, then, but which one? The barista’s name, according to the writing next to a little red-nosed reindeer on her name tag, is Lucy, so you suddenly find yourself unable to think of any other name on the planet.

Wow, you really aren’t cut out for this whole being on the run thing. Terrible Liar: Local Reporter Blanks on Basic Question. More on her move to the moon on page 3.

By the time Bucky returns, you’re tucked into a corner farthest from the window, two red paper cups sat in front of you, almost done with destroying the paper sleeve around one of them. You feel yourself slowly defrosting as you sip your hot coffee.

“Here,” he says, shoving something blue over the table as he sits down. “Put this on.”

It takes you half a second to realize he’s not wearing his navy sweater anymore. Instead, you can make out the outline of maybe the tightest black t-shirt you’ve ever seen on anyone, no longer hidden underneath the additional layer. You swallow heavily.

“I can tell you’re freezing, you know,” Bucky says, clearly amused at your flustered reaction. “Don’t make me beg.”

You’re starting to wonder why he even saved you earlier if his intention, evidently, is to kill you. Real life or a movie? The lines are weirdly starting to blur. “If you’re sick of my beautiful dinosaur sweater, you could just admit it,” you say, voice slightly straining as you slip out of your coat sleeves.

“Never,” he smiles, picking up his drink and looking at Lucy’s pretty cursive with a frown. “Why does this say Steve?”

“I panicked,” you groan as you pull his sweater over your head inelegantly. It’s still warm from Bucky wearing it, and it already smells like a mix of him and your cat. You could get used to this scent, you think with another stutter of your heart.

You emerge to an even deeper frown on Bucky’s face.

“What’s in this?” he asks, looking down at his cup.

“Christmassy goodness,” you answer, taking another sip from your own drink.

“It tastes like liquid sugar.” There’s the tiniest wrinkle in his nose.

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he says, taking another sip as if to prove his point. “I just expected coffee.”

“It is coffee. Well, underneath the syrup.”

“If you say so.”

You shake your head in fake outrage at the blatant disrespect for your favorite holiday drink.

“How’s your head?” Bucky asks in a low voice, and the feeling of contentment vanishes again. For a few moments you almost forgot why you’re here, living in the fantasy Lucy the barista has provided you with, winking in your direction behind her register.

“It’s fine, really. I’m just tired.” You sigh. “And I wish I could talk to Kate.”

“Have you tried calling her?”

You grin mirthlessly. “Phone’s dead, remember?”

“You can use mine,” he offers, hand already reaching into his pocket.

“That’s sweet,” you say hastily, “but I don’t know her number.”

“You don’t know her number?”

You snort at his slightly incredulous tone. “No one knows anyone’s number these days, sarge. Last time I had to remember one I was still in middle school.”

Bucky shakes his head, but doesn’t comment further. He keeps the fingers of his left hand tucked into a loose fist on the table, you notice, still not taking off the gloves even though it is blessedly warm in here. You’re even starting to feel the tip of your nose again.

“Does your friend get into this sorta trouble a lot, then?”

You laugh. “Trouble? Yes. Trouble that involves Avengers and strange men with guns? That’s a first, even for Kate.” Fact or Folly: Fury Hires Young Crack Shot for Avengers Initiative. If true, it would be a fun article to break except for the fact either way, your best friend is in danger. “I just don’t get it. I talked to her just a few hours ago and she was fine, I mean she was a bit wound up because of college, but everything was normal and now …” You sigh. “I just wish everything could be normal again.”

Bucky nods slowly. “I can’t help with that. But nothing’s gonna happen to you again, alright? I’ll make sure of it.”

“Why are you doing all this? You don’t have to.”

“No, but I want to.”

You don’t know what to say to that so you just stare at your empty cup of coffee and wait for Bucky to finish his.

“What about you, then?” he asks instead.

“What about me?”

“Do you get into trouble a lot?” His voice is light, clearly trying to get you out of your own head again, and it works like a charm.

“Not apart from pissing people off. I work for the Examiner.”

“Ah.”

You stop ripping the paper sleeve into even smaller shreds. “What do you mean, ah?”

“Nothing. You’re a journalist.” Technically, you’re an underperforming columnist who gets most of her salary through writing the obituaries on the side, but you’re not about to correct him. “It just explains a few things.”

“Like what, exactly?” You cross your arms in fake offence.

“The amount of sugar in your supposed coffee. The newspapers on your dining table.” Right. He was in your apartment. “The fact that you look at everyone around you like you’re trying to find a story.”

Your heart drops at the same time as your grin. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“That wasn’t an insult. Just an observation.” You raise your eyebrows, unconvinced. “I’ve met a few crazy reporters in my time, you don’t strike me as the type.”

“Maybe my crazy’s just more subtle,” you say.

“Your subtle is throwing your shopping at an armed guy’s face, doll,” he retorts with a lazy grin. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“Point taken.” You groan. “Do you think people are gonna believe ‘sorry but your presents were lost at a crime scene’ or will I have to buy all of that stuff again?”

“Tough call.” Bucky finishes the dregs of his coffee and you grin at the way his face twitches at the amount of syrup that has accumulated near the bottom. “Some of it might’ve survived, you should take a look first before you spend more money. I just dropped ‘em in the hall though.”

You stare at him incredulously. “You are a hero in every sense of the word, Sergeant Barnes, you know that, right?”

“And you’re very dramatic.” It doesn’t escape you that despite his dismissive words, his ears flush a deeper shade of pink again. “Bucky’s fine, by the way.”

“Well, thank you, Bucky. Seriously.” He doesn’t look away this time, either. Just keeps looking at you until you feel that pleasant warm tingling in your stomach again. You ignore it. “I guess I should head back home again, anyway.”

You grimace slightly at the thought. Maybe the cops are still there. You probably can’t escape answering their questions forever even if they aren’t. Examiner Pen-Pusher Questioned for Battery. Wonderful.

“You don’t have to go back yet,” Bucky says, once again nonchalantly reading you like a book.

“No, it’s fine,” you lie. “I can’t stay here all night, and Alpine needs food, and, you know …”

“You can take my couch for the night, if you want.”

“I don’t wanna impose.”

“You ain’t. I’m offering.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, “Besides, I’d feel more comfortable not leaving you alone quite yet.”

The thought of not having to return to your dark apartment for the time being eases your anxiety somewhat. “Okay,” you whisper.

Bucky smiles at your admission and pulls his chair back, moving gently as to not stir Alpine too much. “Shall we?”

You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the fogged up windows of the coffee shop as you’re leaving. With your own sweater underneath, his makes you look like a giant blue potato. Not to mention it clashes horribly with your coat. Another point for the not-a-movie list.

“I look ridiculous,” you snicker as you try and fail to pull your coat at least somewhat closed around you again. “Aren’t you gonna be freezing?”

“Not at all,” Bucky answers. There’s something in his voice that makes a shiver run down your spine, and when you look up, the warmth in his eyes heats up your cheeks until you step back outside into the snow, always one step behind him.

Eyes like that should be illegal, you decide.

***

You’re not sure what you expected Bucky Barnes’ apartment to look like before you got invited inside one long subway journey later, but even after the day you’ve had, he still manages to surprise you. Though, maybe you should’ve expected his space to be simple, neat, straightforward. It makes sense for the version of him you’ve started to get to know.

There’s not a lot of furniture. There’s not a lot of space. It’s barely larger than your college dorms were, if you’re really honest, but unlike those, Bucky’s walls are empty and there’s barely anything to suggest anyone is actually moved in, apart from a small stack of books on a table next to the couch. The kitchen looks a lot nicer, though. A single glass door leads onto a Juliet balcony.

Alpine has woken up again and starts talking loudly until Bucky lets her out of his jacket. She jumps to the floor gracefully and marches off to inspect the singular pillow on the floor.

“I’d offer you a tour, but … what you see’s what you get,” Bucky says with a shrug.

You’re not so sure about that. “It’s nice,” you tell him instead. You turn around slowly, taking it all in. “You don’t spend a lot of time here, do you?”

“Why?” Bucky asks, leaning against the kitchen counter with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s just …” You gesture at the bare counter space. “Not very lived in.” Nothing that seems precious enough to come back for.

“I don’t like clutter.”

You feel like that’s not entirely true either, but decide to drop it. In the meantime, Alpine is eyeing the couch as if contemplating which leg to gnaw at first. You quickly bend to pick her up before that, but she makes a run for it, surprisingly fast for her size, and hides behind Bucky’s legs, meowing dismally.

“Alright, I see how it is,” you say, sitting down on the floor in shock of the open betrayal.

“I’m sure it’s nothing personal,” Bucky says, barely able to hide his grin. Alpine glowers at you. “D’you mind if I turn on the TV?”

You shake your head. It’s late enough for the two of you to have missed the 10 p.m. news, so the first thing flickering across the monitor is a weather report about the “unexpected blizzard hitting Manhattan earlier today” that quickly cuts to commercials. The volume is set quite low, more background noise than anything else.

“Are you hungry?” Bucky asks after a somewhat awkward pause, clearing his throat.

You feel strangely reassured in the fact that you’re not the only one who doesn’t really know what to do now that you’re not actively running from anything. “Maybe a little.”

“That’s good, because I’m afraid I only have leftovers.”

Another commercial with an annoying jingle comes on and suddenly, you’re very awake as a memory flashes past your inner eye. You couldn’t have been older than ten or twelve, and you and Kate had been begging your parents to let you stay with Kate’s aunt for the holidays because her place was close to the ice rink you’d go to. Your parents finally agreed under the condition that the two of you report back at a certain time each afternoon. And for emergencies, they had you remember her phone number.

You’ve always been shit with numbers, struggling to memorize the stupid thing until you put it to a melody like you saw the car commercials on TV do. Specifically, this very melody that a local convenience store apparently still uses for their holiday sale.

“Hey, could I borrow your phone for a second, please?” Bucky doesn’t question your mood swing, just hands you a kind of flip phone you haven’t seen since 2013. “Thanks.”

You lock yourself in the tiny bathroom and sit down on the closed toilet seat, contemplating the number pad. She might have changed her number, and even if she hasn’t, she might not be home. In fact, she probably isn't. You’re pretty certain she usually spends Christmas down in Florida.

So yeah, it’s a slim chance, but it’s your only idea for the time being. And maybe it gets you somewhere.

Continuing to hum the jingle, you enter the number and press the call button. A few seconds pass as you drum your fingers on your leg. Then—

“Brandon residence,” a suspiciously cheery voice singsongs on the other end. It almost makes you drop the phone.

“Why would you pick up the phone?” someone you don’t recognize asks in the background.

“Kate!” you hiss, releasing the breath you were holding in relief.

“Because technically, I’m house sitting, that’s literally what I’m supposed to do! Sorry, what?”

“Kate, what on earth is going on?!”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Y/N?”

“Yes, it’s me!” You drag your hand across your face. “There were people at my apartment asking about you. Waving their guns in my face.”

“Shit.” There’s a bumping sound and a distant crash, followed by a string of curses, and you’re positive Kate just jumped up and into a table. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I got away.” You glance at the mirror. Your temple is a bit swollen from where you hit the Dumpster and your lips are basically bitten raw, but overall, you’ve looked worse. “I’m safe. Are you okay?”

“Of course I am, I’m—do you mind?” There’s some quiet bickering and the sound of a door slamming closed before Kate speaks again, her voice echoing like she’s sat down in the bathroom as well. “How did you even know I was at my aunt’s place?”

You sigh. “I didn’t. My phone broke and her landline was the only number I remembered.”

“Your phone broke—where are you right now? Do you want me to come get you?”

“No!” You stand up again. There’s not enough room to properly pace, so you basically just keep turning around. “Definitely not, you’re in a lot more danger than I am. And you’re going to tell me why.”

So she does, filling you in properly on the past couple of days while you walk in small circles around Bucky’s bathroom until you’re dizzy. “Your turn,” she finally says when your head is spinning with Hawkeye and the suit and the actual mob. “Whose phone are you calling from, exactly?”

“Right. Uhm.” You close your eyes. “I’m actually at Bucky Barnes’ apartment right now?”

There’s a prolonged silence on the other end.

“Kate?”

“I’m sorry,” she says slowly. “I was just processing. What?!”

“Geez,” you say at the unexpectedly loud exclamation and quickly summarize your strange afternoon. “In other words,” you finish, “I think i retain the privilege of processing time.”

Kate ignores you. “Wait a second, hold on, you had coffee with him?”

“Because I was freezing.”

“And now you’re gonna spend the night.”

“On his couch,” you gasp.

“Right, of course. Mhm.” You can almost see her shit-eating grin.

“Don’t mhm me! Get your mind out of the gutter, Bishop.”

“My mind’s fine where it is, thank you.”

“Come on,” you laugh. “I am severely worried about the thing you’re taking away from this whole situation.”

“You sound like you’re fine. And I really needed something to take my mind off this whole situation, so thank you. From the bottom of my heart.” The background noises at her end are getting louder again.

You bite your lip. “Stay safe, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You know me.”

“That’s exactly why I’m telling you,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Kate snorts. “I promise. I’ll see you next week, right?”

“Right.” You smile. “Bring the dog!”

“Love you, too.”

You end the call with a fond shake of your head, though not before you hear Kate sing teasingly, “have fuun”.

She knows you well, of course, you think, staring at yourself in the mirror again. She’s more than long familiar with your horrible tendency of being a hopeless romantic in any situation, let alone the one you’re currently in. Well, it ends now, you tell your reflection.

The look in her eyes doesn’t convince you.

When you leave the bathroom, you find Bucky sitting on the floor in front of his couch, entertaining Alpine with a piece of string he produced from somewhere in your absence. It’s such an unexpectedly domestic sight it almost stops you in your tracks. Your resolve quietly vanishes off the face of the earth.

“Is your friend okay, then?” The surprise must be visible on your face, because he grimaces apologetically and adds, “thin walls.”

Great. Just great.

“She’s fine.” You lean against the kitchen counter, still twisting his phone around in your hands. “She’s with Hawkeye, apparently. At her aunt’s place.”

Bucky frowns. “I thought Barton retired.”

“Maybe there’s no retirement for heroes.”

“Yeah.” A shadow seems to fall over his eyes, but it passes quickly. “Can Alpine have sushi?”

“She’s been buttering you up, hasn’t she?” Alpine meows loudly, as if protesting such an accusation. You feel yourself relaxing at the change of topic.

Bucky grins boyishly. “Only a little.”

“Any shrimp or avocado’s fine, but don’t give her raw fish.”

“Gotcha.” He picks Alpine up in one hand as he stands, placing her next to you on the counter. He’s pulled off his gloves, you notice. “Sorry, I haven’t had a cat in … ninety years?”

He has really nice hands. You wonder if his metal fingers are cool to the touch or if they run hot like the rest of him. No. “You’re forgiven as long as you don’t spoil her.”

“Now who would want that?”

“You say that now. She’s not serenading you at 3 a.m. Little devil,” you add more quietly while Bucky rummages through the fridge. Alpine mews indignantly as you scratch her between the ears. “Heartbreaking: Local Cat Has Never Been Fed in Entire Life, Claims Local Cat. Read full quote on page 10.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” To Alpine’s dismay, you drop your hand immediately, evading his amused gaze. “Do you need help with that?”

You really need to get a grip on yourself, you think miserably as you eat your dinner on the couch, Alpine stretched out between the two of you, paws basically attached to Bucky’s arm as she keeps begging for food. You literally just met the guy.

Even though it already feels longer, somehow. There’s something about Bucky that makes you feel strangely at home, even in an apartment as empty as this one. Something that makes it almost impossible to look away from him.

“What are you staring at me like that for, doll?”

Unless you are reminded once again that subtlety is not your strong suit. Quit It, Dumbass: Still Not A Movie. “No reason.”

But there’s a certain spark in his eye you find yourself missing as soon as you turn your head.

“Alright,” Bucky says, pulling up one leg on the couch to face you properly. Alpine crawls onto his lap and settles there, purring in content. You bite your tongue. “Let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“The story.”

You blink. “What story?”

“You have that look again.” He leans back, still watching you. “Humor me. What are you gettin’?”

It strikes you, then, that he’s waiting for you to elaborate on your perception of him. Which is a horrible idea for numerous obvious reasons, starting with the fact you haven’t had a single clear thought since he handed you your phone back.

Not that you’re complaining.

“Well,” you say to buy time, letting your gaze wander over the empty walls again. “You’re not keen on letting just anyone see what’s going on inside your head, which makes sense. And yet you invite me in, after knowing me for less than a day, to eat leftovers on your couch. So that’s an interesting juxtaposition.”

The TV is still quietly rambling on in the background. You catch a glimpse of the trailer for It’s A Wonderful Life, “the classic holiday tale on Christmas Day, 8/7 central”. It makes you think of something else.

“It’s also only a couple of days til the holidays and everybody I know is invited to some party a friend of a friend is throwing or buying last-minute presents.” You gesture at yourself. “But you’re doing neither. You’re not celebrating at all, are you?”

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. “Not exactly religious these days.”

“I don’t mean that,” you say, swallowing heavily. “I think you might be isolating yourself because all of this Christmas spirit stuff is a bit much, but that also means you’re alone during this time. And lonely.”

There’s a heavy pause. Bucky’s jaw is clenched slightly, but he doesn’t meet your eye.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, “I had no right to say any of that, I—that was stupid, I don’t—”

“It wasn’t,” he interrupts you. “I asked you, and you were honest. Nothing wrong with that.” He turns his head towards you, and the grin tugging at the corner of his lips is almost genuine. “You must be a pretty good journalist.”

You laugh. “Not really.”

“Why not? You’re observant.”

“Believe it or not, people don’t tend to wanna read that. Or any of the stuff I wanna write.” You tilt your head back until you’re leaning against the back of the couch.

“They should,” Bucky says.

Your mouth opens to tell him that he doesn’t even know your writing, so how could he possibly know that, but the expression on his face makes you lose your point. He looks raw, like you’ve stripped him bare of the mask you weren’t even sure he was wearing a few minutes ago, and yet he’s composed in a strange way that borders on contentment.

Yeah, you don’t want to look at anything but his eyes ever again, his beautiful, heavy, midnight blue eyes that seem lighter than they have before. Almost azure. For a moment, almost imperceptibly short, they flicker to your lips.

The air shifts with it.

“I’m not lonely right now,” he says lowly, and your head is whirring.

“Guess not,” you say. His face is even lovelier up close. You barely notice yourself moving.

Then of course, Alpine decides she’s had enough of all this and loudly starts commanding the attention be redirected to her again. The buzzing in your ears stops.

Bucky tickles her between the ears with a low chuckle. “I’m starting to see what you mean.”

“Mhm.” You hide your face between your hands, your heart still going a mile a minute. “She usually settles down around now, but she was asleep all evening, so you’re really gonna love having us for the next couple hours.”

“I’ll survive.” You can feel him get up, followed by the noise of your plates being cleared away. “What about you?” he asks. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” you realize. The past few hours are starting to catch up with you.

There’s a spare toothbrush in Bucky’s cabinet, and once you return from the bathroom, he has the sofa set up for you, ignoring your weak protests about taking it from him.

“I don’t sleep much, anyway,” he says. Finally, you give in.

Your eyes fall shut as soon as you lie down, but you find that your thoughts are still too loud to shut down quite yet. For some reason, you keep going back to your first meeting.

“Bucky?” you say, and he hums. “Do you think we’d have met again? You know, without those tracksuits following me?”

Bucky doesn’t answer for a whole minute and you’re lying there, quietly panicking. “I hope so,” he finally says, barely audible over the sound of your heartbeat.

You listen to his slow breaths until you fall asleep.

***

A crashing sound wakes you only a few hours later.

For a moment you’re confused about the crick in your neck and the way your back presses against the sofa cushions. Reality comes back with the next crash and Alpine’s paw in your face.

“Bucky?” you whisper, clutching the blanket more tightly in your fist.

“I’m here.” The relief his low voice brings you is instant, but your heart still races.

Slowly you raise your head. Bucky is standing next to the window, looking down at the street.

“What’s happening?”

“I’m not sure.” His frown is visible even in the pale light of the street lamps outside. “I’ll go downstairs and check. You stay here.”

He’s in his shoes before you can even react, throwing on his leather jacket. You stumble to your feet, clutching Alpine to your chest. For once, she doesn’t protest.

“But Bucky—”

He catches you by the shoulders. “Hey. I’ll take care of it, alright? It’s probably nothing.” You nod slowly, because what else can you do? Bucky gives you a tiny reassuring smile that doesn’t make the frown disappear.

You follow him to the door, swallowing down the bad feeling in your stomach. “Be careful,” you whisper as he makes his way to the staircase. There’s no way he could have heard you, even though it almost seems like he’s about to turn his head back towards you.

He doesn’t, though. You close the door, leaning your forehead against it and taking another deep breath. In. Out. It’s probably just a stray dog or something.

“Geez, I thought he’d never leave.”

You don’t scream. Not a single sound leaves your lips as you turn, slowly, your head throbbing with dread.

A figure steps out of the shadows next to the glass door, which definitely wasn’t ajar a minute ago. Her voice had you expect someone taller than the young woman in front of you. In the moonlight, her blonde hair looks almost white.

“What a day, ah?” She crosses her arms, sizing you up, smiling. “Don’t worry, I will not hurt you. Or your cat. I am just here to talk, okay.”

“About what?” You’re almost surprised your voice doesn’t waver. She doesn’t seem to be armed, which is something, you suppose.

She smirks. “Kate Bishop.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh, I know who you are, Y/N Y/L/N. You are a writer, yes?” It seems to be a rhetorical question, because she throws her hands up and keeps talking. “Your column, it’s,” she makes a gesture that indicates her head exploding, “very good writing. Very funny!”

“Thank you?” you say tonelessly. The door is just behind you.

“Look, I’ll be brief,” she sighs. “Where—”

The sound of a car alarm blaring directly under the window outside interrupts her mid sentence, and she’s distracted for a short moment, clearly affronted. You don’t need more.

Throwing the door open, you start towards the elevator, sliding down the corridor in nothing but your socks. You just have to make it downstairs. Your grip on Alpine tightens. Too much.

“Please don’t make me run!” the woman shouts behind you, exasperated. “Did you hear the part about me not going to hurt you also?”

You yelp as Alpine extends all her claws at the same time, leaving tiny, but surprisingly painful scratches all over your hand. With a wail, she wriggles out of your clutch and starts clambering up the stairs, surprisingly fast for her size.

“Come on!” you cry, running after her. You can hear the woman already following behind you, so you swoop the protesting cat back into your arms and continue rushing upstairs, breathing heavily.

“You Americans are very distrustful, you know that?” you hear one level down.

The door to the roof is unlocked. You tumble outside and the icy wind starts tearing into you immediately. The snow has stopped, but there’s a thin layer of white covering the city.

You throw your head around, looking for the fire escape or any other means back to the ground floor. There appears to be none. Panting and shivering, you reach the edge of the roof and confirm what you already feared; you’re trapped up here.

“What did you do that for?” You turn back around to see the woman approach you once again, looking slightly annoyed now. “You had me run in my—it’s my evening off, these are new shoes. They are not comfortable for running.”

“Should have thought that through before you go around threatening people,” you say before you can stop herself. Her nonchalant demeanor unsettles you.

“I did no such thing!” she exclaims in fake offence. At least you think it’s fake. “I know you are not involved in this, those guys down there did some really sloppy work.” She blows a strand of hair out of her face. “Anyway, I took care of it. They should leave you alone now. I just hate it when things get messy for no reason, you know? Don’t you hate that?”

You’re shivering violently now, enough for Alpine to jump out of your arms again and run back towards the still open door. You watch her helplessly.

“Sure,” you reply weakly, not really understanding what’s going on. “But why would you do that?”

“Like I said, I like your writing,” the young woman says, unexpectedly somber for a moment. You can’t quite figure her out. “That was what I was going to tell you. And, ehh …” There’s a pause, as if she’s trying to think of the other thing. “Where is Clint Barton?”

“I don’t know that,” you say. It’s not even a lie, Kate had only told you they were continuing their “investigations”.

The woman only shrugs, not particularly shocked by your answer. “Ah, worth a try. I will find him tomorrow. You can tell Kate Bishop you’re fine, yes? I took care of you.”

“I don’t even know who you are.”

She smiles again. “Good!”

There’s a crashing sound that makes both of you turn.Bucky appears in the doorway, aiming a gun straight at the woman’s head. “Get away from her, now.”

“Oh, that is so annoying.” She rolls her eyes and then glances back at you with a little pout as if looking for your sympathy. “And we were just starting to get along.”

“I said now!”

She sighs, completely unperturbed be the weapon in her back. “It really was nice meeting you. This is nothing personal.”

And before you can open your mouth to ask what, she kicks your feet out from under you. You land on your funny bone with a sharp cry at the same time Bucky fires. He misses, the woman sidestepping the shot easily before she kicks him in the arm, trying to get him to let go of the gun.

You struggle back up to your feet as Bucky keeps a deathgrip on the weapon, pointing it at her arm instead. “Don’t!” you shout.

His gaze shifts to you for a millisecond, but it’s enough of a distraction. The weapon lands on the ground and you flinch backwards automatically, slipping on the icy ground and losing your balance. You shriek as you fall, hands catching the edge of the roof at the last second. You’re barely holding on by your fingertips, your eyes watering as you try to get a better grip.

There’s another shot, and Bucky shouts your name, but your blood is rushing so loudly in your ears, you barely hear him over the sound of the wind. Maybe if you can just stretch your arm a little more, you can hold onto a different—

You lose your grasp.

Time seems to slow down as you’re falling between the whirling flakes of snow you take down with you. What a stupid way to die, you think, with everything else going on.

And then, at the very last second, he catches you. You stumble, your knees weak as Bucky hoists you back over the ledge and you collapse in his arms, shaking. He picks you up with ease, hugging you tightly, all inhibitions lost.

“You’re okay, doll,” he says into your ear. “It’s over, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Over his shoulder, you can see the woman still standing there, her stoic façade not quite wavering. She nods at you shortly before turning her back.

You press closer into Bucky, burying your nose in his warm neck. He smells even nicer than his sweater did, and you inhale the scent in shaky gulps until you feel your breathing slowing again.

“Hey Bucky?” you whisper. “I think I just almost died.”

He sighs heavily. “I’m so sorry, doll, I never should have left you alone, I—”

“I just almost died because my cat ran up the stairs.” It stops him in his apologetic ramblings long enough for you to suppress a hysterical giggle. You just almost died. Suddenly, with the adrenaline still rushing through your system, the next question doesn’t seem that big of a deal anymore. “Do you wanna get coffee again sometime?”

Bucky laughs, then, a low, relieved laugh you feel vibrate against your chest. It’s beautiful. “How about dinner?”

You hum. “Maybe a really boring movie afterwards.”

His lips move against your ear. “Sounds perfect.”

No, you truly didn’t see your day going like this. But right now, safely wrapped up in Bucky’s embrace, even after everything else you don’t mind it that much.

please leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this, it's the best way to support writers on here 💛

i also just had to include this, i'm not even sorry.

[intrepidacious]

a million summers

summary: Something shifts between you and Bucky when he comes back home from college.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3k

warnings: modern AU; childhood friends to lovers; alcohol consumption; making out; the rare occurence of me writing something that's almost exclusively fluff. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

prompt: @allcapsbingo O1: "You've changed."

a/n: i didn't plan on posting anything today but something came over me. happy valentine's day, everyone!! this one's for @jesterstrange – remember when you sent me two songs for my sleepover and i completely ignored one of them? this is why 💛

masterlist | read on ao3

The air in the car is buzzing with late night heat and the crackling of the radio rapidly switching between stations, but you can’t seem to mind. Your heart is pounding in tune because less than two hours ago, you were kissing Bucky Barnes.

The Bucky Barnes, whose hand is currently gripping the steering wheel just a little too tightly. Valedictorian, baseball legend, first boy you ever fell in love with, prodigal third of your trio, Bucky Barnes.

Shit, if Steve found out about this, you’re not sure if he would laugh or kill both of you.

You wonder if the same thing is currently going through Bucky’s mind, because when you steal a sideways glance at him, he’s biting the inside of his lip, like he always does when he’s wrapped in thought.

It’s funny, in a way. You’ve noticed these little things about him since you were eleven years old, innocently collecting tiny facts about James Buchanan Barnes in your mind like other children kept pebbles or leaves they found on a walk. Like how his hair would stick up and begin to curl in his neck when it was about to rain. Or how he always got the first splatter of freckles in May, after months and months of them hiding away from the cold.

They’re there now, dancing across his cheekbones and down the bridge of his nose, and when the sunrise hits them at the right angle, they point out all the places you want to kiss; underneath his eye and on the tip of his nose, and, most importantly, right at the corner of his mouth, where his smile starts.

Your heart still can’t believe he’d actually let you do just that.

(He would, he would. He has.)

Your phone vibrates again and you ignore it. Reality might be on the other end, and you’re not ready for that quite yet.

There’s a slight tick in Bucky’s jaw when you peek at him again, barely noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know him quite as well as you do, and it sets your cheeks on fire. You roll the window down to feel the wind in your hair. Maybe it’ll cool your face a little.

You haven’t talked to each other at all ever since you got in the car, Bucky concentrating on the road, you counting the cars you pass. There’s not a lot of them, not at this hour, so the activity doesn’t exactly help to calm your mind, but you don’t trust your voice enough to start a conversation quite yet.

(Still, he hasn’t let go of your hand since you got in the car, either.)

It’s strange, this silence between you, not uncomfortable but unusual, because even though you’ve filled countless hours just quietly doing your own thing next to one another, it’s never been with this tension that’s making the air between you thick enough to cut.

The radio finally settles on a station, and there’s a spark of recognition at the song that manifests in Bucky squeezing your hand a little more tightly, and you finally break the silence with a quiet laugh and a warning, "Don’t."

"I didn’t say anything," Bucky says with a smile in his voice.

"Your thoughts are very loud."

"My thoughts are none of your business." He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a small kiss to your knuckles. Your breath hitches. "Besides, you were very cute."

"Slow down," you say, "I want to throw myself out of the car."

Bucky has the audacity to laugh. "Come on. Everyone had a phase in middle school."

"Everyone who knew me in middle school needs to die," you groan.

"Is that a threat, Y/L/N?"

You take in his cocky grin, tapping a finger against your chin in fake contemplation. "Maybe."

"Oh yeah?" he says, and you swear his smile grows even more crooked as you echo his words back at him.

(You want to trace it with your fingers and then taste it again.)

"So this is what we’ve come to," he says, his face exaggeratedly appalled as he shakes his head. "You’ve changed."

"I’m afraid there can’t be any exceptions," you say, squeezing his hand. "Especially not if this 'short drive over' takes much longer," you say, turning to the window again. The clouds look heavy with the reminder of rain.

Bucky rubs soft circles into the back of your hand with his thumb, and the gentleness of the action makes you press your lips together to hide the giddyness threatening to spill over. "Almost there," he says, and continues driving.

A little faster than before, maybe.

***

You’d seen this look in Bucky’s eyes before, but it’d never been directed at you. Pupils blown wide, hair sticking to his forehead, gaze unwavering and so intense you felt like you were being stripped naked in the middle of the crowd.

(And during his own homecoming party, no less.)

You forced your gaze away, trying to focus on whatever story Wanda was telling intently, but it was impossible to do anything other than nodding and humming and taking another sip of your drink whenever there was a breath for you to do so.

When you dared another glimpse in his direction, Bucky was still watching you, even though he was doing a much better job at pretending to listen, one of Steve’s arms still slung around his shoulders, his lips widening into a smile at the same time the rest of the group started to laugh while you were just out of sync with everyone else.

Not that you were staring at his lips.

It’d been so long since you’d last seen him in person. He was supposed to go off to college with Steve, but instead ended up going to an entirely different part of the country, and despite the fact that the three of you once shared every spare minute, there was only so many lagging phone calls at odd hours a friendship like the one you used to have with Bucky could take.

It broke your heart, of course, but maybe it was for the better. After all, your feelings for him had been drifting towards something different to friendship for a while at that point, something softer and more precious, something hidden away in stolen glances and late night journal entries.

Him literally being out of reach had made it easier, in a way, even though you’d never quite managed to move on from the color of his eyes.

(How could you have?)

Now, seeing him right in front of you again, they seemed so much brighter than they did in your memories; like someone had broken off two pieces of a clear summer sky and put them in the center of his face. It was honestly unfair.

You managed to steal away to the upstairs bathroom for a few minutes, not bothering to turn the light on, splashing your face with cold water to try and get a grip on. You weren’t quite drunk, but tipsy enough to recognize the light haze in your eyes as you stared at your reflection in the mirror, angling yourself in the thin strip of moonlight falling in through the window, trying to see if there was anything different about you.

Anything that Bucky might have picked up on tonight, of all nights.

There was a knock at the door, so you quickly fixed your hair with a small sigh and mentally prepared to continue the night with a smile, determined to enjoy yourself, weird and totally not heart palpitation inducing looks from former best friends be damned.

As soon as you swung the door open, though, your confidence was immediately shattered when you almost barreled into someone standing right on the other side, leaning against the frame, hands in his pockets, smile blinding.

Like he’d been waiting for you.

"Y/L/N."

(Your name still sounded like honey on his tongue.)

"Barnes." You raised your eyebrows when he didn’t move to let you pass. "Can I help you with something?"

"Maybe," he said, and then he pulled you back into the room with him, locking the door behind the two of you.

You leaned against it, arms crossed in front of your chest, swallowing heavily. Bucky hovered very close by for a moment before he retreated, pushing both hands through his hair and then hiding them in the pockets of his leather jacket.

"Right," you said, your head spinning slightly. "This isn’t ominous at all."

Bucky chuckled quietly, his eyes searching for something. "You look great," he finally said.

With a snort, you tilted your head and looked at his feet, not really believing his compliment. Your fingers were itching to unlock the door and just slip back into the party on the other side, but at the same time, you found you couldn’t move.

(You’d never been able to move away from him.)

"Look at that," you said, nudging your shoe against his. "You haven’t changed."

"Not really."

There was a strange edge to the smile in his voice, like he was trying to swallow something down. Maybe it was more clear on his face, but you couldn’t look up at him.

It was strange, the small details you remembered from years ago. Even when you and Bucky had begun to drift apart (because bottling up your feelings all the time could only ever have gone well for a short while), you would still spend most lunch breaks with him and Steve. How many times had you joined them on the tiny, dried up shrivel of lawn next to the library, being silly together and trying to stretch those thirty minutes into infinity, your sneakers always, always untied.

Steve had sprained his ankle in college when he tripped over his own feet, and so he’d started to tie them like the proper adult he pretended to be, and because the two of them had a habit of always copying the other, you’d just assumed that Bucky would have eventually grown out of the whole thing as well.

(Unlike you.)

Seemed like some things had stayed the same, after all.

And as if that stupid little observation had returned both of you back to the days that were, talking was suddenly so easy. You drifted closer to each other and apart again, like you were moving to a song much slower than the one still audible through the bathroom walls.

Later, you wouldn’t even be able to recall what you’d said. Some teasing remark, probably, a snarky comment like the ones you used to hide your feelings behind when you were fifteen and he was the prettiest boy you’d ever seen.

Whatever it was you’d said, Bucky chuckled again. As if he thought you funny. "I can’t believe I …" He trailed off, shaking his head, dragging a hand through his hair again.

Your eyes tracked the movement. A single curl kept sticking up near the top of his head, like it always had when you both were younger. "You what?" you said, almost entranced by it.

"Nothing," he said, looking over his shoulder like he expected someone to come up to him. There was no one there, but he kept moving like he was struggling against some unseen force.

"You what?" you laughed, thoroughly intrigued now.

He shook his head, but it spilled out anyway, like some tidal wave he couldn’t keep contained. "I used to have a crush on you in high school, alright?"

A pause, a break, a screeching record halt.

"No, you didn’t."

(He didn’t.)

"Uhm, yeah I did." He sighed heavily. "Look, you were never supposed to find out."

Your heart was pounding so loudly you could feel it in your ears. "Why not?"

"Because you’re …. You were my best friend. That was more important." The past tense really shouldn’t have broken your heart the way it did, because you’d known. Of course you’d known.

"And what about now?" you said, your hands clutched tightly around yourself." We’re not best friends anymore, are we? So … what are we now?"

He stared at you very intently, and his voice broke a little when he said, "I’m not sure what you want me to be."

There was a pause, and you realized Bucky’s face had turned even redder. You could barely look away from his eyes, though. It was almost impossible to make out their color in the semi-darkness of the bathroom, but there was a softness to them that made your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"Are you drunk or something?" you asked, feeling very, very sober yourself.

"What?" he said, almost offended by your suggestion. "Of course not."

"Good."

You stared at him for a moment longer, and then you kissed him.

You’d imagined kissing Bucky Barnes so many times before, but the real thing was so much better than even your wildest dreams could have predicted. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world and still didn’t want to waste a single second. Your hands circled around his waist to press him ever closer to you, and he made a noise at the back of his throat that made your brain short-circuit.

His hands trailed across your shoulder blades, gently pulling you with him as he took a step backwards and his back hit the wall with a low thud, his mouth never once leaving yours. He tasted like coffee and salt and something that was so distinctly him it took your breath away.

When you finally came up gasping for air, Bucky whined in disapproval, peppering smaller kisses along your cheeks, your jawbone, your neck. You grabbed his shoulder for support as your knees threatened to buckle, the fingers of your other hand grabbing a fistful of his hair.

"Shit, Y/N," he mumbled against your pulse, and the low timbre of his voice was enough to make your eyes flutter shut again. "You’ve got no idea how long …"

He didn’t finish talking, his lips finding yours again with a hum that made your grip on him tighten involuntarily, his hands large and solid around your middle. There was no telling how much time you lost to that kiss. Hours, maybe, an eternity of both of you trying to get as close to each other as possible.

At one point, Bucky tapped your thigh, as if he was trying to get you to jump and wrap your legs around his waist, and you were about to, honestly, but just then you were interrupted by a sudden and incessant knock at the door.

"Whoever’s in there, can you hurry up? There’s a line out here!"

You broke apart with an embarrassed snort. "Just a minute!" you called, somehow managing not to sound quite as short-winded as you felt. You steadied yourself against Bucky’s chest, feeling his heartbeat drum a mad rhythm underneath the thin fabric of his shirt. "I do not wanna go out there," you mumbled.

"Neither do I," he said, and his voice sounded so low and so wrecked you had to kiss him again. Just a small peck on the lips, this time, but you still came up light-headed. "Wanna get out of here?"

(More than anything.)

"I can’t," you sighed apologetically. "Nat’s not even here yet and I told her I’d help with the cake."

"I don’t give a shit about the cake."

You giggled. "I promised, though"

Bucky groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. The person on the other side of the door started knocking again. "She has an hour," he mumbled and sealed it with a quick kiss before you could say anything else. "Tops."

You left that bathroom with your head held high and an incredulous smile on your face. Outside, a clash of thunder shook the window panes.

***

It crosses your mind, then, when the car slows and the gas gauge finally stops blinking, that your younger self would have killed to be in your shoes. Or rather, bare feet pulled up on the passenger seat, Bucky’s fingers entertwining with yours, feeling tired and wide awake at the same time as nervous excitement curls up in your chest.

How many summer night did you use to lie awake in bed, imagining a scenario just like this?

(A million, at least.)

The summer air carries the smell of the ocean, and if you looked out the windscreen, you could probably see the waves crashing against the shoreline as the sun starts to rise, a picture perfect view like something out of a fucking dream. You’re still not quite convinced you haven’t fallen asleep on Wanda’s shoulder earlier in the evening, your subconscious making all of this up out of some long buried yearning from years ago.

You don’t want to look outside, though. You don’t want to look anywhere but at the boy beside you, whose hair is still tousled from your touch and who looks at you like he’s on cloud nine and absolutely terrified at the very same time.

"Do you feel kinda nervous or is it just me?" Bucky says, and you laugh.

"Yes. What’s up with that?"

It’s like the manic, pent up energy that made your kiss in the bathroom feel like you got struck by lightning has vanished from your bodies, making room for something more quiet. More anxious. A question whispered at the back of your mind that makes your hold on his hand tighten.

What now?

(Reality stopped calling a while ago, but it’s only a matter of time.)

"I guess it’s a good sign." Anticipation makes the blue of his eyes shimmer. "Means neither of us wants to fuck this up."

You smile tentatively. "Is there something we could potentially fuck up?"

Bucky swallows, tilting his head. "I hope there is."

(You want to run away with him. You want to stay with him. You’d wait a million summers more to get here.)

"Me too."

When he leans in this time, it’s sweeter than before, slower, less a declaration and more a promise. Neither of you would have to wait anymore.

thank you for reading!! if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

[intrepidacious]

we ride at dawn !!

time after time [8]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.3k

chapter warnings: Angsty with a capital A; suicidal ideation and attempted suicide (within the context of ending a time loop); finally, some big conversations are being had. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i wasn't sure whether i really wanted to post this one tonight, but you know what? i've missed this story. so here you go.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

eight: edge of tomorrow

On the good days, life at the Compound felt like a dream.

The world was a mess, but you’d found your own little corner in it, and despite the long hours and the high pressure, you felt happy for the first time in ages. Trusting others did wonders for your confidence.

In turn, you felt like you had a good grip on your powers most of the time now.

Natasha was the one who helped you focus them the most. She seemed to understand something about them that you had never considered yourself, and the more you trained together, the more balanced you felt.

Your reaction time shortened. Your reflexes grew more instinctual, your fighting movements smoothened. It was a slow process, arduous and mostly the opposite of fun; learning that you were of no use to anyone when you were through all the resets you could manage had been one of the hardest lessons so far, especially since you could never predict when you’d reach that point.

But despite all that, you felt yourself getting better. Stronger, too. And almost never fainting after overextending yourself anymore.

You’d always had lots of time, but now, you also had people you cared about. It was a new thing again, a strange feeling, but good.

You’d do almost anything to keep it.

Most nights, you went to bed with a smile, but it vanished some time after you fell asleep.

Usually, your nightmares looked like this: You were walking through a bright void, and as you walked on, you realized you were surrounded by mirrors, an endless labyrinth of them. Each of your mirror selfs was turning a different direction as you walked, seemingly aimless, all of them chattering to themselves or each other, words you couldn't quite understand growing louder and louder until you were surrounded by a whirlwind of noise that shook you ever which way until you didn’t know up from down anymore.

None of you seemed to have any idea where you were trying to go, and slowly, your breaths grew more panicked as you realized that you still felt a presence, somewhere above you; something malicious.

And you felt it steering you like you were its lost little puppet on a string, around and around, until you felt the heat of flames licking at your skin and your world set on fire, the mirrors splintering into a million pieces.

You were aware that you should be in pain, but your mind was only set on dread, twisting its icy fingers into your heart and pulling. There was no space to feel hurt; this was a twisted torture chamber crafted from fear and living from fear and allowing nothing else but fear.

When you woke up, you’d be drenched in sweat and hollowed out, your throat sore even though you couldn’t remember screaming. Hell was an endless, empty place, and when you sat up in bed in the middle of the night, you’d have to give yourself a couple of minutes before you got out of bed on shaky legs and snuck outside.

You had been living at the Compound long enough you knew how to slip past super soldier ears and spy instincts unnoticed. The hallway seemed even emptier than usual at this time, almost like it had been crafted from another nightmare.

This one was dark, though, soft and gentle, so maybe it wasn’t as bad.

When the doors finally opened, you gulped down a greedy breath of fresh air, reality finally settling into you again. You sat down on the front stairs, wrapped your arms around your knees and looked at the sky.

It was cloudy, but every now and then, you could see the stars peeking through. It soothed your heart and made it feel sore at the same time.

You heard the door open behind you, but you didn’t turn your head. Light steps approached you, legs crossing next to where you were sitting, and half of a heavy blanket was wrapped around your shoulders.

"You’re like a living ice block," Natasha complained quietly as she bumped into your side.

You chuckled quietly, wriggling your naked toes. "Why are you up?"

"You’re not as sneaky as you think you are."

"Sorry," you said, tilting your head to the side so she could rest her head on your shoulder. "Did I wake you?"

"It’s alright," she yawned. "It was either you or Steve’s snoring."

The man did sleep like a locomotive. Neither of you were going to say anything about it, though. It was nice to hear he finally got some sleep again at all. Even if he might as well have put FRIDAY up to make an announcement.

You were nearing the fourth anniversary of the Snap. That fact alone was hard on all of you, but you felt guilty for another reason.

"Nat?" you said, and she hummed. "You know, my life’s been a lot better since … since I got here."

That wasn’t what you were going to say initially, but the truth felt too selfish. Too unfair. What did your happiness mean in the face of half the universe disappearing?

"You’re sweet," she mumbled, but you didn’t feel that way at all. What you felt was a harsh knot in your stomach at all times, because how was it you had spent the last couple of years? You’d found a new family. You’d laughed more times than you could count, found purpose in your powers again, learned to take up a space you considered your own, free of the burdens of anyone else’s rules or commands.

The only thing still haunting you were your dreams, and even they were easy to forget when you were awake. It didn’t seem right. How come you got to be so lucky in the face of all this tragedy?

"Nightmare again?" Natasha asked quietly.

"Yeah," you answered, staring out at the black lake. "You?"

"Yup." She sighed and stretched out her arms. "Wanna go get donuts for breakfast?"

You turned your head to look at her, grinning. "That’s the best idea you’ve had all week."

"That’s hurtful. It’s Friday."

"I said what I said."

It all felt too good to be true, and you knew it.

When was the second shoe going to drop?

* * * * *

"In other fun news," you tell Bucky as you are sitting cross-legged in the astral plane, on the edge of the bed he isn’t using, "apparently we have been underestimating our delivery guy."

He frowns in his sleep and you chuckle at the timeliness of it. Alpine whines at you.

"I know," you tell her earnestly. "Haven’t I always said that the wizard guys are bad news?"

You roll your eyes, continuing to flick through the pages of one of the ancient tomes that have come to live on the right side of Bucky’s bed. Ever since Strange’s disappearance, you’ve fallen into a new sort of routine, coming in here to conduct your research and feel at least a little less alone.

Even if you’re just fooling yourself.

Despite your best efforts, Alpine has proven not to be much of a conversationalist or particularly interested in magical theory. She’s mostly taken to flopping down on the bed next to you and falling soundly asleep as soon as the pretty green lights twinkling on your fingertips have ceased to be interesting. Honestly, you’re jealous.

"Anyway," you continue, uncapping your pen. "I feel like I’m on the right track, but I still can’t figure out why the last try didn’t do anything."

According to everything you’ve read, it makes no sense for a reaction of that impact not to have made any sort of dent on the loop. It’s possible that it simply is a case of a slower, gradual deterioration of its structure, but you’ve been stuck here far too long already. You are sick of waiting.

The fact that you’re only making tediously slow progress on your reading doesn’t exactly help either; but these grimoires are just so boring. You don’t understand half of the things written in them, and the rest of the time you have to literally catch the sentences before they are trying to slip away from you onto the next page.

Frankly, being a wizard full-time must be exhausting.

You’re not about to pity Strange of all people, though, especially not when a drawing of the time stone catches your eye before the ink has a chance to fade away. Quickly, you snap your fingers and create the tiniest of orbs on the tip of your thumb, leaning over the book.

In the emerald light, the illustration stays where it’s supposed to be, even though the lines blur a little in protest underneath your translucent hands. The words surrounding the stone appear to describe some sort of ritual, requiring all kinds of horrible-sounding ingredients and complicated incantations as well as—

You jerk the book away from you so violently it falls on the floor, missing Bucky’s head by a hair’s breadth. Alpine flinches, hissing miserably at the intrusion.

Bad news might have still been an understatement, you think as you try to breathe calmly again. This was a brush from the past you do not appreciate. Not at all.

"I don’t know how much longer I can do this," you say, hiding your face in your hands. "Maybe this reality is just doomed to collapse and I have to accept that."

Something soft bumps through your elbow and you sigh. Alpine has been uncharacteristically affectionate with you ever since you started seeing her in the astral dimension. Her eyes are somber when you look at her, as if in reaction to your distress.

"I’m quite a mess, huh?" you murmur, and she doesn’t even attempt to scratch you when you pat her head. She purrs quietly.

One glance at the alarm clock tells you it won’t be long until Bucky gets up. Those last couple of minutes before he wakes are the worst for him, muscles twitching with the visions his nightmares are putting him through. You wish you could make it any easier on him, but there’s nothing you can do.

"I think your dad was tagging the other day," you tell the cat.

Of all the recent tiny changes in the loop, the absolute worst ones are what you’ve dubbed the TAGs—temporary awareness glitches.

They never last more than a couple of minutes, but that doesn’t make them any less painful. Hearing the words, "Haven’t we done this before?" from a random stranger at a crossing made you almost topple over the first time. Then, there are the murmured "I think I’m going crazy"s and "It’s just a dream"s when you pass people in the street; not every day, and never the same person twice, but still more often than you’d like.

The whole part with a certain Peter Parker telling you that he knows all of you and you’ve simply forgotten him because of sorcery—only for him to not recall any of it the next time he delivers food to your doorstep—doesn’t exactly help this maddening situation, especially not when Sam squints at you in the ring one morning and says, "Something’s weird."

He’s forgotten about it all again by the time he gets out of the shower, and fuck, you think you might be going green with envy.

It’s the TAGs that make you double down on your studies, because even more than unexplained celestial phenomena and little time skips here and there, they seem like a pretty tell-tale sign that your universe isn’t holding up so well.

You keep scratching Alpine’s head with one hand while picking up the book from the floor with the other, suppressing a shudder going up your spine as you flip the page over.

You manage to scrape together a couple of measly notes on energy flow and general power recovery, which you then copy to your own sleeping body’s naked arms before bringing yourself back into the present. The notes are still there in this reality, and if you touched your skin, the ink would smear. It’s a mystery to you how the timing of it all works out, but it’s not one you’re going to waste your time and focus on.

Especially not because it’s already way later than you usually wake up.

Cursing, you stumble to your feet, slipping out of your loungewear and pulling on your combat suit. This is usually how it goes these days, with you telling Sam through the door that you need "just a couple more minutes" while already being fully dressed, letting yourself catch your breath and shut off your mind for the mission to come.

You’ve been doing this too damn long.

With a last tug at your gloves to make sure that your rings aren’t getting stuck, you flop down on the edge of your unmade bed, ready for the knock to come.

Except … it doesn’t.

You keep looking at the clock with a frown, as if that would change the fact that it’s almost five now and the hallway stays silent. At 5:04, you risk a look outside despite your get-up. Everything is dead quiet, even though you normally leave in precisely seven minutes and Bucky is notoriously noisy when doing his final weapons check.

"Guys?" you call out hesitantly. No one answers.

When you make your way downstairs, the shield is no longer leaning against the kitchen cabinets, and there’s an empty spot on the shelf where Bucky keeps his combat boots.

You have a terrible feeling about this.

Your hands are starting to get clammy, so you pull the gloves off impatiently, dropping them on the couch table. This time, when you look at your phone, there’s a new message.

Cap 🫡: New lead re lab. Taking J and the grump, u rest up!

You turn and run back upstairs.

At the end of the top floor hallway, there’s a narrow metal staircase leading to the private roof. It’s not very interesting; the space is cramped due to the solar panels that power the last remaining quinjet in the small hangar. Most plants you’ve tried growing up there have long since died, the wind relentlessly tearing at hair and vines alike. The latch is kept closed at all times unless someone is up there.

It’s open now.

When you burst outside, you’re still hoping against all odds. Expecting the jet gearing up for take-off, or Bucky and Sam loading the supplies into the back, looking at you oddly, the exhausted "did you jump again" look on their faces.

But there’s nothing there, not even a dark spec of the craft in sight against the beautiful sunset.

They’re long gone.

* * *

You don’t know what to do.

You can feel yourself spiraling, your heart racing as you stumble back down the narrow stairs, but you don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to fix this.

This isn’t just a small, inconsequential glitch like all the others have been; this is a shift in the narrative of the entire day. If you’re not with them during that mission, all kinds of things could happen. Maybe the white jacket from that very first time gets him again, or maybe Riff finds a new target for their knives, or maybe …

Or maybe it means Bucky will live.

Maybe that’s the possibility you’ve never dared to consider; that you might have to take yourself out of the picture entirely for him to have a fighting chance. Give up what little control over the situation you have left and let them try to get through this without you.

It’s not like we haven’t done this sort of thing before.

Your feet find their way to Bucky’s room faster than you can consciously catch up with them, and even though you expect it to be locked, the door swings open easily.

The astral plane couldn’t have prepared you for this: it smells like him in here. Warm and safe, just like you remember his embrace. The way the room feels to you is a vast contrast to the way it looks; the walls are even paler when they’re not warping around the edge of your vision, Bucky’s absence emphasized by the fact that he hasn’t put his mark on anything in here at all.

There’s a cat-shaped indent on the right side of the bed, and a couple of white hairs on the carpet. Even Alpine is gone, though. The whole apartment is uncannily quiet, in a way it’s never been on this particular Friday.

It’s almost like it used to be before anyone but you lived here, and you hate it.

You sit down on the floor next to the bed and lean your head back until it touches the bedding, hands twitching for your phone. There’s never been a reason for you to call him before; you’ve mostly had one-sided text conversations about picking up dinner and taking out the trash. You’re not even sure what you’d want to tell him. Don’t die without me?

This is ridiculous. You shouldn’t even try.

There’s a clicking sound when he picks up, and then more silence. Breathing. You can hear your own heartbeat rushing through your head.

Five seconds pass, ten, maybe more. Neither of you says anything, as if both of you have run out of things to say long ago. Maybe there’s nothing left to say today.

"Please come home."

The word seems unfamiliar on your tongue, but it’s never sounded more true. Despite time repeating endlessly, despite the empty walls and untold truths. Home.

There’s an admission hidden inside its four letters that feels, to you at least, a little like removing the mask you’ve been wearing, even though there’s no one here to see, even though he won’t get it.

You can hear Bucky exhale slowly, almost like a sigh, and then he hangs up. You throw your phone across the room, watch it break as it skitters across the floor, and then you cover your eyes and you hope.

What an ill-placed sentiment.

Your head is jolted forward and you sit up in bed with the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and you don’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. Minutes pass, days, weeks. It’s still July 4th. The green band of symbols is still slowly winding across your wrist.

Not going with them didn’t change a damn thing about his situation, and now you’re going to have to pretend all over agai—

There’s a pounding at the door, but before you can call out to Sam like you always do, you hear a different voice from the hall. "Open up."

You stumble out of bed, more falling over than walking to open the door. Bucky is standing on the other side, his chest heaving, blue eyes refusing to meet yours but narrowing at the sight of you. Alive.

Again.

The shock of it is enough to make you huff. It makes something flicker in his eye, but you can’t make any sense of it. Your heartbeat is way too loud to focus on anything at all, anything but the sweat on his brow and the harsh tick in his jaw, his teeth grinding so hard it must hurt.

"What the fuck," he says quietly, and your hand flies to your arm. It’s still covered in smudged pen markings, barely hidden by the shirt you wake up in.

"What?" you say, trying to sound normal. You miss normal.

Bucky’s hand tightens around your doorframe.

"I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I want you to stop." His voice is low, dangerously low. You can’t tell whether he’s furious or sad or disgusted or in pain; the wall has closed up over his emotions and he is as unreadable as ever.

Tell me.

"What do you mean?" you ask, your voice cracking a little.

"For fuck’s sake, Y/N, you know exactly that I keep dying," Bucky says, finally looking at you. You stop breathing. "You know it shouldn’t be Friday anymore, but it is, over and over again, and I know it’s because of you. You’re the one doing this."

You can’t move.

You can’t speak.

You’ve really thought it couldn’t get any worse than the short glimpses of awareness you’ve seen people go through recently; it couldn’t possibly get any worse than being witness to Bucky’s death every single day for weeks. But this—this is different.

That look in his eyes is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, and it doesn’t feel like a glitch.

He moves towards you and you involuntarily take a half-step back, your fingers twitching uselessly at your sides. For a moment, something vulnerable flashes on his face, but it’s quickly replaced by that unreadable wall.

You barely even notice yourself shaking your head. "It wasn’t—Bucky, I didn’t mean to—"

"Then what is that?"

He’s staring at your wrist now—no. At the green symbols dancing around your wrist.

Only now does it occur to you that you haven’t done anything to camouflage them.

"Nothing," you say reflexively.

"Bullshit." He catches your arm before you can hide it behind your back, his fingers closing tightly around it. The emerald runes reflect dimly in his eyes, giving them an odd shine. "What is that?"

"It’s a time loop," you say quietly. "The one we’re both stuck in."

Neither of you moves, the truth hanging between you as sharp and painful as a knife. You want to reach out, cup his face in your hands and tell him that everything was going to be alright.

But you’re frozen to the spot in your doorway, and you can’t lie to Bucky Barnes.

"What did it?"

Of all the questions you’ve come to expect from previous times you’ve told him, this isn’t one of them. "What do you mean, what did it?"

"Well, something must’ve set you off. Or do you regularly decide to kill people repeatedly and you’ve only just gotten to me?" He drags a hand across his face. "God, I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid."

You’re sure Bucky must feel your blood boiling through your pulse point. "Is that what you think of me? Do you think this is—what, this is fun for me? This is my idea of a holiday special?"

"If you asked me on Thursday, I’d’ve said no, but weirdly enough, I’m not so sure anymore now."

He might as well have cut you in two.

"Wow." You snatch your arm out of his grasp, ignoring how your wrist gives a painful throb. "You know, Barnes, I know you hated me when we first met but I thought we’d moved past that in the last few months. Good to see that you still think so little of me you’d have me be capable of being that cruel."

"Then tell me I’m wrong." You hate the way he yells it, almost like a plea. Almost like a prayer. It makes you want to curl up into a ball and scream. "Tell me you don’t have any clue what’s happening here or why, and that this has nothing to do with you and me."

You want to lie. You want to lie, you want to take it all back, you want to get out of this day.

Useless.

"I can’t," you whisper, and you try conveying all the things you’re not saying through your eyes, because there’s too much to say and you don’t know where to start. It’s not enough.

A slow nod washes his features with ice. "I thought so."

You feel a bout of panic rising up. "No, Bucky, please let me explain—"

"No, I am done with this. Do you hear me? I want you to make it stop. Now. Today. And until then …" He drags a hand through his hair, his jaw locking again. "Just—stay away from me."

Your throat is constricting, his name barely making its way over your lips before he’s gone, his fists still clenched tightly. There’s a hand-shaped dent in the metal frame of your doorway.

"Okay, would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

You manage to shut the door in Sam’s face and lock it before your knees give in.

* * *

It’s impossible to tell how much time passes. Everything is so quiet around you that at first, you think the world must have stopped around you, blissfully holding its breath just for you.

Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe your powers are finally returning.

But when you open your eyes, there’s no mistaking the warped shapes and colors around you, and despite everything else, the letdown still tugs at your heart.

Still not good enough.

These past couple of times, with Strange gone, you’ve almost started to appreciate the weird quietude of this place; the blurred colors and washed out edges that distinguished this reality so much from your own started to look almost beautiful. It’s a space nearly out of time, just as much caught in liminality as yourself, but in a slower, much more refined way.

There’s something calming about existing somewhere far, far removed from your actual life with nothing and no one but a cat to disturb you.

It doesn’t feel like this today.

Today, everything has been heightened to look too sharp, too kaleidoscopically technicolor. The air feels thinner without your physical lungs processing it first, and you gasp so much you send yourself into a coughing fit.

Your sleeping body’s eyebrow twitches. She doesn’t know shit yet.

But Bucky does.

There’s no way this is the same as some of the TAGs you’ve encountered before. None of those lasted longer than a few moments, as far as you could tell, and absolutely none of those people came to any logical conclusions about your involvement with the creation of the loop itself. No, this is something different, something huge, something …

Shit.

It must’ve happened when you tried to change the loop. It must have reset it in a way, made him aware like you, except he’s the one who’s actually dying every day and—

For fuck’s sake, it’s been days. Days, and he’s only coming to you now.

I am sick of you pretending to fix stuff.

He doesn’t look any different in his sleep, and yet you don’t feel any of the usual calm looking at him. Something cold and sharp has taken a hold of your insides, gripping them tight.

You swallow down your nausea and grab the first book from the pile, blindly thumbing through it as you recall exactly where you went wrong during your attempt to dissolve the loop. Your mother always used to tell you to be careful what you wished for; clearly, the lesson still hasn’t sunk in.

This isn’t what you wanted.

You blink through the blurriness and catch part of an illustration just before it bleeds through to the other side; something green and gold and repulsively familiar. You quickly turn the page before the drawing evades you completely.

The Eye of Agamotto stares at you menacingly, and something in your stomach churns.

The remainder of the page is covered in the same small, slanted handwriting you’re already familiar with, spiraling around the Eye in its center at a leisurely pace that speeds up when it notices your attention; you hate spell books so much.

Part of the passage stands out to you, anyway, like something big and ugly and exactly what you’ve been looking for.

"… deliberately loop segments of time through the formation of a literal energy loop over the wielder’s wrist. Upon the wielder’s death, the timeline will …"

The words drip off the edge of the page before you can take in the rest of the sentence, and when you flip it over, they’re gone. They refuse to reappear, no matter how many times you flip back and forth.

The timeline will what? Move on? Repeat anyway? Disintegrate?

You groan frustratedly, throwing the book across the room as a rush of power floods through you, making your hands flare up. You push the useless green light away from you, and a ball of it forms in the center of the room, bathing everything in an eerie emerald shine.

Something very heavy settles in your chest; the knowledge of what might well be the only way out of this loop, after all. The one possibility you haven’t really allowed yourself to consider because you promised not to do anything stupid and this would be stupid, probably.

And you’re afraid.

It’s ironic, really; you’ve been trying to find a solution for so long at this point, and now you don’t like the one you’re presented with. You’re selfish, after all, and you don’t want to die. You’re terrified of it, just like you are of all the things that you have no control over.

But is it worth more than Bucky’s life?

If there’s a chance, even the slightest chance that he’ll make it out of this, that he won’t have to go through this anymore once you’ve left the picture, shouldn’t you do it anyway?

I want you to make it stop.

"Bucky …" you start, trailing off just as soon as you take a closer look of his face again. That familiar frown, and that light smattering of freckles on his cheekbones.

There’s nothing you could tell him here, anyway. This reality doesn’t help anyone; it’s as inconsequential as your actions so far.

You wake on the floor of your bedroom on the last July 4th and for once, there’s no blood on the bed. Your skin is sticky with cold sweat.

For a moment, you don’t know what to do next. You don’t know how to do it. Your gun is kept in the safe, and you’re not sure your hands wouldn’t be shaking too much, anyway; plus, you don’t want to leave any more of a mess than you already have.

You sit up slowly, staring out of the window. "FRIDAY?" you say hoarsely. The A.I. jingles to life pleasantly. "How high up would you say we are?"

"You are on the 92nd floor, or about one thousand, one hundred and twelve feet above ground."

"That should do it," you mumble. You’re feeling very light-headed somehow.

This would either work to end the loop, or you’ll wake up on Friday the same way you always do. Either way, Bucky doesn’t have to die again. The more you think about it, the more sense it makes. Why on earth you haven’t thought about this for longer than two seconds before is beyond you, really.

It has to work. You’re the one who inadvertently created the loop, and you’re the one maintaining it. Take out the head, and the whole thing goes down. Right?

It feels strange to pull your door closed behind you, not knowing if you’ll be back after this. You wonder if you should leave something behind, just in case. For Sam, maybe. Bucky will put it together, anyway.

Don’t do anything stupid.

You push the memory of his voice away. That was a different, long-gone version of him, one that didn’t really understand what was going on in the first place. One that was wrong.

Something whines at your feet. Alpine tilts her head at you when you bend down to pet her behind the ears, letting out a little sigh. Her fur is so soft.

She indulges you for a moment longer, and then she sinks her claws into your shin.

You yelp, staggering a half-step back and instinctively pressing a hand to the scratches, eyes stinging at the burn. Alpine looks at you haughtily.

"You really are a hellcat," you mumble. "And here I thought you were starting to like me."

You’ve never seen a cat stare at anyone so disapprovingly, but somehow, she manages.

* * *

One thousand-odd feet looks even higher than it sounds. You can barely see the people on the streets all the way down, barely hear the sound of traffic over the wind and your own rushing pulse.

There’s a certain kind of calm that comes with the clarity you’re experiencing.

You don’t want to do it; of course you don’t. But even apart from your determination to save Bucky, the thought of it is somehow … tempting. You’re so tired. Everything stays unchanged, no matter what you do, and you just want it all to stop.

Your hands are clammy around the railing. The midday sun is absolutely merciless, and for a moment you wish you’d changed out of your sleep things into something else. What would be the point of that, though?

It would just take a couple of seconds, at most. If you’re lucky, you’ll pass out from fright before you hit the ground.

Your naked toes inch closer to the ledge.

You’ve never been scared of heights, but usually you’re not planning to fall. You lean over a little more, forcing your fingers to let go, one by one.

Right hand. You tuck your necklace under your collar. Maybe you should’ve taken it off. Slowly, carefully, your grip loosens completely.

"What in the—"

You flinch, and you let go.

This is it, you think, closing your eyes shut as you lose your balance, it’s actually happening.

Things slow down again; there’s a split second of regret panging through your heart, followed by a surge of something through your lungs, something you haven’t felt in this reality for quite some time, and then—

A painful jolt goes through your entire body and you yelp as someone grabs your hand and you are hauled back onto the roof, your hip slamming into the railing.

You stumble into him, making a desperate sobbing sound as your knees buckle for the second time today.

"Are you out of your mind?!"

There’s a raw edge to Bucky’s voice that only your fucked-up brain could come up with. He’s still pulling you into him tightly, his arms like a life raft around you.

"Let go of me."

"I can’t."

"Bucky, if I die before we go on that mission then you won’t have to. Either it’ll reset or the loop will be over."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'? You said it yourself, you know—you know this is my fault. I have to fix this."

"Not like this." You can feel his heart thundering in his chest as he pulls you impossibly closer. "Never—not like this."

So you cry.

You both sink to the floor of the roof and you cry and you sob and you curse in Bucky’s arms for the second time because it simply isn’t fair.

"I don’t know what else to do." You take a shuddering breath. "Maybe they were right. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here. Maybe I’m just doomed to make everything worse forever. Maybe the only way to get out of this mess is to take me out of the equation."

"You’re wrong." Bucky exhales onto your neck.

"How can you possibly know that?"

"I just do. We’ll find another way." He swallows heavily. You can feel it, just like you can feel his thunderous heartbeat. "I—I’m so sorry."

"Why the hell would you be sorry?" you say quietly.

"Because this isn’t what I meant."

"I know. Do you think I haven’t tried? To stop this?" You hiccup. "I’ve been trying to do that for weeks."

He stiffens. "How long have you been stuck here?"

Wordlessly, you pull up the leg of your pants a little to reveal the tally marks you’ve been making; one for each loop.

Bucky just stares for a very long time, long enough for you to start squirming under his gaze. When he finally does speak again, his voice cracks at the seams. "Please tell me you’re joking."

"Why, are you going to laugh?" You miss his laugh. But how could you tell him that?

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his thumb ghosts over your skin as if he’s trying to count the days he’s missed. His other arm tightens slightly around you when he finally averts his eyes.

"I know, right?" you almost laugh, but it’s so nice not to pretend anymore, even though everything hurts and you hate him seeing you like this, but you don’t hate it as much as you used to. And you just can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

You still can’t bring yourself to move away from his touch, either. He might have to pry you off him at some point, as soon as he’s done feeling bad for and indulging you.

"Why did you come up here, anyway?" you ask at some point when your breaths have finally calmed again under his fingers soothingly rubbing circles into your back. Your thigh.

Bucky’s hum is like goosebumps down your spine. "I was on my way to find you. Alpine sat on the top stair and kept screaming her lungs out."

"Oh," you exhale. You rub your cheeks, slowly, contemplatively. "I’m sorry, Buck."

"You don’t have to apologize—"

"Not just for …" You nod your head at the ledge, cringing. "I mean, I am—I didn’t think you’d be …" There? Shocked? Giving a damn?

"You scared the shit out of me," Bucky says quietly.

And you don’t know how to respond to that. You can’t look at him, can’t find the right words because suddenly they all taste wrong in your mouth, too overwhelming or and too small at the same time.

I’m scared for you all the time, you think.

Finally, you settle on, "I’m sorry I got you stuck in here." It doesn’t even begin to cover what you’re trying to say, but it’ll have to do for now.

He shifts in front of you, and you realize that his shirt is basically soaked through. Between the sun burning down on the roof and you sitting so close to him you’re basically in his lap, he must be unbearably uncomfortable.

So you swallow heavily, and you retreat a little, your eyes downcast. "I’m okay now," you mumble. "You don’t have to keep touching me."

It seems like Bucky hesitates for a moment before he pulls back completely. "Right."

He gets to his feet again and your heart tugs uncomfortably, but then he reaches out his hand to you. You stare at it for a second before taking it. The metal has warmed slightly, but it’s still cool to the touch. Cool and familiar.

He lets go of you almost immediately to glance at his watch. "We should probably get downstairs. Sam’s gonna start looking for us."

"Stay," you whisper, before you think about it, before you can try not to sound so damn desperate. "Stay here, just this once. Please."

You meet his gaze again. There’s something different in his eyes now, something other than the pain and the pent up anger you’ve seen earlier, softer and more focused at the same time.

There’s a pause.

"Let’s go downstairs," Bucky says, that determined tick in his jaw returning. It makes your heart sink.

"Bucky—"

"If I’m not going, you’re not going," he interrupts before you can finish your protest. "But Sam’s gotta know. And you have to come downstairs with me."

You blink at him as something unfolds in your chest. "Okay."

* * *

By the time the sun starts to set, your head is aching almost as badly as the bruises on your side.

Honesty, as it turns out, is surprisingly exhausting, especially after you’ve spent all this time keeping your cards to yourself. It takes a long time to untangle the web of near-identical days that you’ve accumulated, to explain the mess of notes and references scattered on your skin. All the things that have happened, the research you’ve conducted, the different attempts you’ve tried to stop this day from ending how it always does, it all comes out in a blurt and terrible diagrams.

It’s familiar, in a way. You’ve done this dozens of times, after all, with Sam pacing and Bucky staring and your coffee getting cold on the living room table.

Only now, there’s a kernel of hope mixed into the same old sense of underlying dread. Perhaps, it whispers, this could be the last time you’re recounting all of this. Perhaps there is a way out for both of you, now that someone else remembers this whole shitshow happening in the first place. Perhaps, if you don’t lose time to explanations every single day—

"So, just to recap," Sam says, pinching his nose. "You’re both stuck in a time loop."

You nod.

"Like Groundhog Day," you and Sam confirm.

"Or Doubled and Redoubled," you and Bucky offer.

"What the hell’s that?" you and Sam ask.

"It’s a good story," you and Bucky say.

"Still isn’t, by the way," you tell him. "And don’t ever make me say that again."

His gaze hasn’t left you once, swooping over you repeatedly, like you’re a flight risk. It lingers, sometimes, on the scratches across your arm, or the smeared ink on your legs.

"No one’s forced you," he replies and you roll your eyes.

Even though you’re already starting to fall back into your usual patterns, something has irrevocably shifted, that small glimmer of hope being overshadowed by a vulnerability you’re not used to.

Awful or not, in a way, the loop has given you the same sense of relief your resets usually provide. Now that you know Bucky is just as aware as you are, you can no longer hide in the knowledge that he won’t remember a thing as soon as the day starts again.

Of course that means you no longer have to carry everything that happened on your own anymore, but you won’t be able to predict his reactions to the things you say or do either. And while that’s been the case for every day that wasn’t this damn Friday before, there’s one last thing that he doesn’t know has changed since today’s started. One last memory you haven’t shared, sitting in a park with the sunlight catching his smile, your heart pounding wildly.

I take calculated risks.

Now’s not the time.

"Alright, that was upsetting," Sam says, bringing you back to the present. "What I don’t get is why we’ve all been doing the same sorta stuff every day, mission and all, when that’s clearly not working."

You bite the inside of your cheek, but when you glance at Sam, he’s frowning at Bucky. Not for the first time, an entire conversation appears to happen between them in complete silence, one that ends with Bucky almost imperceptibly shaking his head.

Sam’s jaw clenches. "Fine," he says. "Have it your way, but you gotta sort your shit out at some point." He looks back at you. "What happens if we don’t go on that mission at all today?"

"I don’t know," you reply. "We only managed that once, and Bucky died anyway. And earlier than usual."

You don’t mention the roof. Neither of you has, even though you feel like it still clings your skin, making every inch of you sticky with shame.

"Alright," Sam says, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. "I’mma call backup and try to buy us some time. You two stay here and don’t invent any new dumb ways to die."

"You sure about this?" you ask warily. "We’ve never tried this before."

"Neither have I," he says, a tired grin flitting across his face as he grabs his jacket. "It’ll be just like old times."

Can’t say that, bud.

"Sam," Bucky says and he halts for a moment, hovering, "be careful."

You cross your arms in front of your chest as you watch Sam’s shoulders square up. He doesn’t turn back around, so it’s impossible to tell whether the sound he makes in his throat is a laugh or a sigh.

"What’s the worst that could happen?" he asks.

Thankfully, he doesn’t wait for a reply.

"Now what?" Bucky asks when you sit down on the couch opposite him, leaning your head back  and wrinkling your nose when the motion pulls some of your strained muscles.

"You heard the man," you say. "We’re gonna sit here and not move and hope the ceiling doesn’t drop on your head." You blink one of your eyes open. "Thinking about it, maybe you should move away from underneath that lamp."

"Very funny."

"Oh, I’m not joking."

With an exasperated sigh, he crosses over and flings himself down next to you. His thigh brushes your knee, and your stomach makes an annoying little swoop at the contact.

You force yourself to lean back again, like you don’t even notice. Like you can’t feel his gaze on you.

"Are you planning on ignoring me now?"

As if that was ever an option. Your heart gives a painful tug.

"Oh," you say, ignoring it, "did you want to pretend that we’re good at having a normal conversation?"

"What’re you reading?"

You do open your eyes, then, and find him already thumbing through your book; you must’ve left it on the couch table this morning. It feels like that was lifetimes ago.

"No worries, be my guest," you say dryly. "You’re not the kind of person who dog-ears other people’s books, are you?"

One of Bucky’s eyebrows lifts with a crooked grin. "Wouldn’t you like to know."

"Give it here right now," you say, trying to grab it from his hands; he holds it out of your reach so quickly you can barely see him move, and you huff exasperatedly. "Bucky, I swear—"

"What, you gonna learn me?"

It’s more than the tone of his voice that makes you sit back on your heels; it’s the faint glimmer of a smile as he gently flicks through the pages, like someone who’s very familiar with their contents. "Have you read it?"

"Only several hundred times when my sisters wouldn’t fall asleep. They liked the part about it being 'not the sorta night for bed'."

"I can’t imagine why," you say quietly as Bucky continues to skim through the book, lost in his memory. It makes you ache a little. "Three sisters, huh?"

"Yup." He absent-mindedly traces the frame of an illustration with his right thumb. "I’m the oldest. Was."

There’s a dull sort of grief in that single word, one that makes your fingers twitch. Not because you want to reach out for time, but you want to reach out for him.

Instead, you let out a light laugh. "I don’t see it."

He puts the book down. "What, me growing up with a bunch of little pests?"

"You being nice enough to read them the same story every single night."

"Because I’m not nice?" There’s no venom in his voice, just vague amusement.

"You’re not patient," you answer.

Bucky raises a single eyebrow. "I can be very patient if I want to."

"So you just don’t want to, usually?"

His jaw ticks. "I really don’t."

Something hums in the air between you with unexpected ferocity, making your head swim with the confusing mixture of feelings you’ve gone through today. This loop in particular has left you hollow, too bone-tired to examine what this new, different tension might mean. At least it’s no longer pure animosity.

You think.

You clear your throat. "We’re both gonna have to be for a couple more hours. If we make it to July 5th, it might finally get us out of the loop."

"What, we’ve never tried just sitting around before?"

"Oh, I did. But you wouldn’t, whether I told you about the loop or not." This is the first time you’re both on the same page; at least the first time you’re both aware of it.

The gears are turning in Bucky’s head as he lowers it, frowning at the floor as he’s putting something together. You put your book to the side again and pull one knee up on the couch, waiting for a moment.

"Say it," you prompt him gently.

He lets out a slow, measured breath. "Do you think there’s a reason why we’re stuck in here?"

An involuntary laugh comes out of your throat, joyless and sudden. "You’re talking to it."

"You’ve reset things before, though. What makes it different now?"

"You died," you say quietly.

"Exactly." An angry flush washes over his cheeks. "So what if this isn’t about you and your powers at all? What if there’s something that I still need to do?"

"You think your unfinished business made the time loop? Like the universe intervening or something?"

"No, but … I don’t know. It feels like this is happening on purpose. Not because of you," he adds hastily. "More like, because of everything I did."

His voice catches on the last word, and the urge to reach for his hand becomes near overwhelming. The one closer to you is the vibranium one, though, and you’re sure he doesn’t need that reminder right now.

So instead, you let him sit in the silence for a moment. His head is probably loud enough.

"How long are you going to try punishing yourself for things you had no control over?" you finally ask.

Bucky scoffs. "You’re one to talk."

It’s not really a fair comparison, but it still makes you want to roll your eyes. Then, you remember something.

With a triumphant hum, you reach between the couch cushions. Every day, Sam loses his sharpie in there, and most of the time you’re too tired to remind him.

"Give me your arm," you say, gesturing over his lap.

He frowns. Of course he does. "Why?"

"Just trust me for a second."

Apparently, that works. His muscles flex involuntarily at your touch and you bite the inside of your cheek.

"How are your hands so cold?" he mumbles.

I just run cold. "Hold still."

"What’s that supposed to be?" He cranes his head. "I swear, if you draw a penis on me—”

"No. Self. Deprication," you interrupt him, underlining the words on his arm before capping the pen. "You got it? This was your idea originally, so you should like it."

Bucky stares at you, and you realize your heads are very close together. His eyes are sparkling with something like wonder and hope, and for once, you don’t feel like it’s suffocating you. It makes your insides flutter.

You move out of his space so hastily you startle Alpine, who hisses at both of you before jumping off the couch.

"I’m sorry," you say. "About earlier. I didn’t want …" For him to see you like that.

Bucky nods, finally looking away and closing his mouth again. You can’t help but follow the movement with your eyes.

"No, I’m sorry. I never wanted you to think that—that that was what I meant when I asked you to end this."

"I know that," you say, frowning. "I found something in Strange’s books about time loops—did you think I would just throw myself off the building because you were angry with me?"

"Of course not." It comes out a little too fast.

"Well, for the record, I wasn’t. So stop that." When he continues twisting his fingers, you slap at his hands, immediately regretting it when you hit the metal with a little too much force.

"What did you do that for?"

"I don’t know!"

"Idiot," he mumbles, catching your hand and frowning at it.

Just then, there’s the sound of an explosion outside, and you both flinch, heads whipping around to the window.

It’s the fireworks.

Crimson red, cobalt blue and bright white sparkles illuminate the night sky. You’d both missed it for the past todays. You’ve never made it this far.

Your look returns to Bucky again, because he hasn’t let go of his hand yet. He’s staring outside, his shoulders rigid, his fingers softly twitching around yours when the next pyrotechnic round cracks thunderously through the night.

"FRIDAY," you say, looking up. "Could you turn on the soundproofing?"

A blinking light around the windows indicates your command is being executed. The next colorful explosion outside is no louder than raindrops on the window.

Slowly, you tug your hand out of Bucky’s only to reach for him again properly. Your fingers slot between his, and he sighs quietly. You’re not looking at each other at all; you’re just watching the lights.

You know there’ll be music outside, parties going on all over the country, but in here there’s only the view of the night sky and the silenced cracking of the fireworks.

An unexpected wave of sadness hits you as another shower of light explodes outside. You think of your last New Year’s Eve at the Compound, of sharing a bottle of champagne with your friends as you watched a soundless firework display much like this one. Nat kissed you on the cheek when the clock hit midnight, and Steve stared outside with a look of apprehensive wonder on his face.

None of you were in a particularly cheerful mood, not after five years of not knowing how to bring everyone back, but still, there was a sense of calm that washed over everyone. The serenity of new beginnings, you supposed. With the familiar sight of Nat demolishing a bowl of leftover Christmas chocolates and Bruce humming Auld Lang Syne. You could only ever remember the chorus.

"We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne …"

"I have a good feeling about this year," Natasha said, leaning her head back against the couch with a tired smile.

Steve nodded, thumb continuously rubbing his old compass like he always did when he had that lost look in his eyes. "Yeah, me too," he said.

Not for the first time, you wonder whether they’d already known it would be your last New Year’s together. Whether they’d felt it in their bones somehow. You certainly hadn’t.

You would have tried to change it if you had.

Bucky exhales deeply when the wave of fireworks dies down. His thumb is absent-mindedly tracing light patterns on the back of your hand and you try your best to suppress a shudder, rubbing the tears from your eyes with your other hand.

"You okay?" he asks softly, not turning his head. Neither of you are ready to break this spell quite yet, caught up in the moment after resurfacing from the past.

"Sometimes, I miss the Blip," you answer.

Immediately, there’s the familiar ache of shame and longing. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but the patterns continue.

"I know it’s stupid, and terrible," you continue. "I know I shouldn’t. But I—that was the first time I felt like I had a proper purpose. I had people I cared about and who cared about me. I could just disappear from my old life, and no one would even think to look for me. They’d just assume I’d turned to dust, like all the others."

He knows the broad strokes of this, of course, but it’s not something you’d usually talk about. You don’t like thinking about your brush with genuine power all that much; it still makes you sick to your stomach.

"I was always told that I didn’t deserve my powers. That I was useless, that someone like me shouldn’t even exist. And that’s true, in a way, but it’s not like it’s my fault. I didn’t ask for them. But this … the only thing that I can do is trying to use them to help others, and now I can’t even do that anymore."

"I know what you mean," Bucky says. "But you’re wrong. You’re not useless, you never were. You were still the one in control, even though you didn’t feel like it, then. Your powers knew."

"I don’t feel like I’m in control right now."

You’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about your powers. He still hasn’t let go of your hand.

"You know what else is stupid?" you say. "They keep promising rain. On the radio. They say it’s 'a blessing we’re stayin' dry on Independence Day, but on the weekend, it’ll start pouring down," you imitate the woman from your local station. "Sometimes it feels like it’ll never rain again and it’s my fault."

"You hate the rain," he says, and you hiccup a laugh.

"Do I? I can’t even remember."

Bucky hums. "Were you ever going to tell me about the loop if I hadn’t confronted you?"

"I told you so many times," you reply. "You always forgot."

He sweeps a finger across your knuckles. "I’m not forgetting anymore."

"I know that now." You’re not breathing. You should breathe.

"Why did you stop?"

You pull your hand away and a shudder runs down your spine. "Because it fucking hurt."

He turns to face you, then, his eyes molten. "Twelve …"

"I don’t mean to interrupt," FRIDAY says with a tinkle. You flinch as the television flickers on all by itself. "But there’s news coverage coming in from the last pinged location of Captain Wilson."

They might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water over the both of you. All the softness on Bucky’s face freezes over, showing something else entirely.

Fear.

"Turn the volume up, FRIDAY."

"—yet unclear as to whether these explosions were also set by the organization. There are eye witnesses placing Captain America still inside the building, as well as at least thirteen civilians that have been trapped by the flames."

The footage from the scene isn’t anywhere close to the lab, but you recognize the building, anyway. You pass it about halfway through your daily mission flight, a highrise with an interestingly shaped roof. On screen, flames are licking out the windows.

This has never happened before. Then again, you’ve never made it far enough through the day. Was this always bound to happen or did something glitch again? Your heart is thundering wildly as the reporter continues.

"First Lieutenant Joaquín Torres, better known as the Falcon, has been transferred to Elmhurst Medical Center. His condition is still unclear."

"No," you whisper.

Bucky has gone white as a sheet next to you, his fingers gripped around the edge of the couch. "Is this …"

"This is new," you confirm shakily. "Fuck, Sam—"

"This won’t be it," Bucky says, standing up with a jolt.

"What?"

Alpine chooses that moment to jump onto your lap, and you struggle to pick her up to hurry after Bucky.

"This can’t be the one that sticks, alright? I won’t have it."

He’s taking the steps two at a time. At first you foolishly think he’s headed for his room to get changed; to try and make it there, help out, come up with a plan. Instead, he reaches under his pillow and your heart drops.

"Let’s talk about this for a second," you blurt out, plea, shriek, you’re not entirely sure. You’ve come so close. The magazine clicks into place. "Bucky!"

"Sam might not have a second," Bucky says, not turning around. It comes out pressed, like he’s forcing himself not to shout. "We don’t know what happens if he dies before I do, do we?"

"Well, no, but—"

"No but. I’ve lost too many people, I’m not going to lose Sam, too, alright? Not if we both know I can prevent—"

Alpine jumps onto his shoulder.

You stagger backwards with the force of it, and so it takes you a moment to realize that her claws are fully extended and she’s hissing into his ear.

To see him caught off-guard is still such a surreal occurrence, but not more so than his cat acting anything but affectionate towards Bucky. He’s cursing, arms flailing as he tries to push her off him, and within a split second, you have his gun in your hands.

"Damn it, Y/N!"

"Listen to me." It feels strange to point his own weapon at him, especially considering what he was just attempting. "We’re the closest we’ve ever been to midnight, which means this day is nearly over. I’ll get my powers back and we can fix whatever is going on with Sam, I promise you. It’s going to be fine."

"You don’t know that. Even with your powers, we might be too slow." Doubt churns heavily in your stomach as Bucky takes a step closer. His hands close around yours, pointing the gun straight at his heart. "Just do it."

You shake your head without looking away from his eyes. "I can’t."

His fingers press down on your knuckles. "We’re running out of time, Twelve."

Old anger bubbles up at the very core of you, and just before you’re forced to squeeze the trigger, you twist around in his hold. The shots go through the window instead, smashing the glass into a million pieces as the thunderous clash of the fireworks returns. You squeeze your eyes shut as the shards slice into your skin. Your ears are ringing with the sudden noise of it all by the time the gun drops to the floor, the magazine emptied.

For a moment, you both just stand there, breathing heavily. Somewhere behind you, you hear a disdainful meow.

"Geez, I hate you," Bucky murmurs, his voice vaguely pained. Your eyes fly open right as he leans in.

It all happens so fast.

He presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead before he lets go of you and leaps towards the ruined window.

And then he’s gone.

Too late, a startled cry falls from your lips.

You’ve seen him die so many deaths, but somehow, the intentionality of this one feels worse, much worse. You feel sick with it, the feeling spreading through you like poison, a quick thunderous rush of pain.

Then, you jerk forward and sit up in bed, the sun in your face, FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

* * *

"Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass ki—ooff!"

You slam into Sam’s chest before he can even finish his sentence, wrapping your arms around him tightly. After a moment or so, he hums and settles into it.

Sam gives really nice hugs. It’s not something you’ve consciously noticed before, but then again, it’s not something you usually do. This time, though, he seems to feel that you need it; or maybe some part of him does as well.

Apart from you clinging to Bucky on the roof and in some other bygone version of today, it might be the longest time someone’s hugged you in years, and it makes your heart ache just a little.

"Maybe I should tell FRIDAY to wake you up more often."

"Don’t even think about it, birdbrain," you mumble, squeezing him one more time for good measure. "I’m just glad you’re okay."

"I’m fine," Sam grins, still slightly perplexed as he steps back. "Did you have a bad dream or something?"

"Something," you say. "Have you seen Bucky?"

"Not yet, why?" He falls into step next to you. Easily, no tension in his shoulders. Same as always.

Your heart twists a little when you glance at him. For dozens of loops now, you’ve tried so hard to forget that your situation has any impact on anyone else; like you’re really just stuck in a game, the only real person that gets to make decisions, that gets to leave an imprint, however temporary.

Finding out that Bucky’s started to remember as well makes you remember that you’re not, though. This is just as real for everyone else, maybe more so, because it’s always their first run-through. It’s not the TAGs that show you glimpses of who they are; it’s moments like these. Seemingly inconsequential ones that never are, that no one who hasn’t seen them a hundred times would pay attention to.

Like the fact that Sam’s humming that odious song when you slow down, not bothered at all by your silence. He holds the door open for you and meets your gaze with a merry look in his eyes that makes another flood of relief rush through you.

He’s alright. And he has no clue that if this were any regular kind of universe, it would be Saturday and he’d be dead.

"Just wondering."

After all this is over, maybe you’ll make him another pie. Doesn’t matter that he won’t remember he deserves it.

Doubt creeps in again during training, though.

Yester-today was different. Even if Bucky says he’s been aware for a while, who’s to say that wasn’t a fluke as well? What if, despite everything, that was your one and only chance not to have to go through this alone? What if—

"Jesus, shit."

Pain sears through you as you drop to the mat, something warm and wet dripping down your chin. That’s what you get for being distracted, apparently: more blood.

"I’m so sorry," Sam says when he comes back into focus. "I didn’t mean to hit you that hard."

"S’okay," you mumble, your eyes stinging as you feel for your nose. At least it doesn’t appear broken this time around. "I jus’ … I gotta lie down for a secon’, I thing."

"You sure you’re fine?"

"So fine," you say, giving him a slightly shaky thumbs-up. "Honestly, I needed that."

"You are such a weirdo," he says, still not looking entirely convinced. "Get some ice on that soon, okay? I don’t want Buck to scalp me."

"Yup," you say, your head still swimming enough for the words not to make any sense. Maybe you should close your eyes and just wait here for a little while, you think as the gym door shuts with a click. You’re fairly sure the bleeding has stopped.

"You know, I hate to say it, but you look like shit."

At this point, you should have gotten used to the instant comfort the sound of his voice brings every day. You haven’t.

"You’re a damn bad liar, Barnes," you say, sitting up. "I’m a fucking treat and you know it."

He’s not sitting with his back to you, like he usually would, instead leaning against the side of the ring with his arms crossed. His hair is still damp and curling up at the front; his cheeks are stained pink from his run.

"So," Bucky says, tapping his nose. "Wanted to convince yourself that it worked?"

Another weight falls off your chest. He remembers.

"I know you," you say lightly. "You’re big on physical proof of timefoolery."

Your gaze flits to his arm. The writing has disappeared. Pity. Would’ve been a nice confirmation of your point.

He rolls his eyes. "Come here."

Gentle hands hold up your chin to wipe your face with a cloth he produces from … wait a second.

"That’s not your dirty arm rag, is it?"

"It’s clean."

"You’ve not done laundry."

"Neither have you."

"Please get that thing away from me."

You put your hands on his chest to shove him away, but you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, and your usual instinct to antagonize him vanishes. There it is again, right there, against all odds. Steady and strong.

Alive.

"Hey. Look at me."

You do, and for some reason, he’s grinning. Tiredly, but still grinning. Like he’s onto something and you’re not.

"What?" you say breathlessly, and his smile widens like he wants to rub it in, too.

He takes your wrists in his hands and pulls them away from his chest, and maybe you’re still a little dizzy, and then he says, "I never hit the ground."

* * * * *

On the bad days, you often found yourself sitting alone in the darkened briefing room, having FRIDAY show you the pictures of the Vanished over and over and over again.

If you had been there, a nagging little voice in your head kept telling you, Thanos might never have gotten the stones. If you hadn’t taken yourself out of the equation …

Might not. Should have. A lifetime of them.

Echoes of memories had started invading your sleep again, too.

"Where are you, impossible child?"

You didn’t appreciate being reminded of that part of your past and so, when your dreams insisted on it, you tortured yourself with all the things you did, theoretically, have control over; even if it was too late for that now. It had been storming all night, raindrops still drumming against the windows.

You reached for the pendant around your neck, absently tapping it against your lips as the photos flashed across the wall opposite you.

The light switch flipped on and you found yourself blinking in the sudden brightness of it all. When the stars cleared from your vision, you recognized Steve in the doorway.

"Long night?" he asked.

When you didn’t answer, he pulled up a chair, for once not commenting on your feet on the table. Instead, he threw something into your lap.

You almost fell out of your chair.

"I had to fix up the pages a little," he said. "Took longer to dry than expected."

You stared at the cover of the old, well-loved edition of The Wind in the Willows that you thought you’d lost forever over a week ago. The colors had been touched up, the smallest details carved out anew with skilled hands and precise memory.

It looked better than the day you got it, and it still smelled the same when you opened it up.

"How," you whispered, your voice thick with wonder.

"It looked like something special."

"It is." You looked over at him, gratitude welling up in your eyes. "Thank you."

Steve didn’t comment on your uncharacteristically emotional outbreak, didn’t ask any questions, but you felt like you needed to explain it nevertheless.

"When I was younger, my powers used to be a lot more unpredictable than they are now, if you can believe it." You rubbed your cheek with one hand. "I used to get stuck between moments for hours on end, usually when I was somewhere new. Unfamiliar."

It had been the scariest part of your powers, then, before you’d learned to live with the unexpected silences.

"I always say I got it from the library, but really, I just picked it out of a donation box and started carrying it around with me. Then at least when it happened again, I’d have something to read."

It felt strange, now, to try to put it into words, how much comfort this little book had brought you in those long, dark hours.

There seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worse of all, no way out.

But there was a way out, in the end. There was a way, and a door, and a warm, safe space waiting at the end of it, and no matter what happened, things turned out alright by the time you reached the last page.

It was pure coincidence that had brought this story to you at the right time, but it had always felt a little like destiny, looking back. And the fact that Steve had brought it back to you?

To say you owed him a favor would’ve been an understatement.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," you said.

"There’s a date stamped on the first page. I think it’s from when the library accepted the donation?"

You blinked. Nodded. You knew it well, even though you hadn’t stopped to look at it for years, usually preferring to skip the front matter and diving right into the story.

His next question came out softer. "How old are you?"

You’d always aged weirdly. Probably part of your powers, you’d supposed. Time had never passed for you like it did for everyone else, and it had been a living nightmare to try to keep up with it.

"I’m not sure," you said, your thumb playing with the edge of the pages. "I was ten when I got it, I think. It’s been a while."

You knew your birthday, but you’d been skipping through the timeline since you were in diapers, and so there was no way of knowing how long you’d actually been alive. How much did people age when they were stuck in limbo? How much did they age when time reversed, or sped up? Your body didn’t change when your powers activated, it never did, but that just made any clear answer that much more impossible.

Maybe you’d always been a little out of time, too, in your very own way.

You sat in silence for a while, staring at the ever-changing pictures on the wall. You were so sick of them, but you could never stop watching; you’d made yourself remember their names and faces, even though you weren’t sure what kind of penance you were getting out of that.

Nick Fury. King T’Challa. Maria Hill. Sam Wilson. Scott Lang. You glanced at Steve when Bucky Barnes’ photograph appeared, but the sadness in his eyes had hardened to a constant layer of ice by then, and his face didn’t change anymore. You had a feeling that the two of you had similar pastimes when sleep wasn’t restful.

"What about your family?"

"Don’t have anyone left," you said.

"Me neither," Steve said. "Not apart from everyone here."

You almost smiled at that, but he didn’t. "How do you bear it?" you asked instead. "Again?"

He shrugged, his eyes closing in grim resolution. "We try to fix it. That’s all we can ever do."

You couldn’t help but silently agree. It was the most hopeful you’d felt in a while, that night, surrounded by pictures of the past you were still trying to save.

That was a few weeks before Thanos happened again, and everything good in your life disappeared into thin air.

chapter nine

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

[intrepidacious]

HAPPY 4TH!!! ITS BEEN A MONTH AAGGHHH

i can't believe it 😭💚💚

[intrepidacious]

time after time [1]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 6.0k

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, accidentally starting a time loop, banter, pretty angsty to start us off with ngl, reminder to read the fic premise. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: happy groundhog day and welcome to the first instalment of the series i’ve been sitting on since july. i’ve always loved time loop storylines, so i thought, why not indulge myself and put my own twist on it?

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

one: turn back the clock

Your mother used to call it a gift, but for most of your life, your powers had felt more like a curse.

It began when you were a toddler; small hops backwards through time barely noticeable to anyone but yourself, or an afternoon lost to everything speeding up around you. Sometimes, the world would just stop spinning for an hour or two and you would wander between the frozen people, crying and confused, until things finally picked up speed again and your parents would shout your name because you’d simply disappeared before their very eyes.

When you got older, you found out that this little quirk of yours could be useful every now and then. If a teacher asked a question you didn’t know the answer to, you learned to will yourself back just enough to keep up your participation score. It didn’t particularly feel right, but it was one of the few benefits your strange powers provided, then.

For the most part, you couldn’t control it, though. For the most part, it meant having to relive painful moments and rush through the good ones. It meant screaming into people’s unmoving faces until your voice got hoarse because you couldn’t figure out how to get time to move again.

You assumed what you were going through was what everyone was talking about when they spoke of déjà-vu, until you mentioned it to your mother one day and she sighed deeply and said, “oh honey, I thought it had stopped.”

Maybe your family had more secrets than you’d given them credit for.

“You’re such a special girl,” they would tell you later. Such a special, clever girl. This is a great thing, you know. It’s your talent to make things right, make them the way they should be.

It was your own mistake that you started to believe their lies.

* * * * *

“Something is very, very wrong here,” you say quietly.

“You always say that,” Sam says, securing the room ahead and then nodding for you to follow him.

“Yeah, and I’m usually right.” Your fingers are itching for you to flick them and speed up this terrible silence so that you can at least know what’s going on. You ignore the urge, but keep one hand held out in front of you, your thumb and first two fingers pointing upwards. The other hand grips tightly around your automatic.

The hallway doesn’t stretch out very far, but what little of the low sunlight makes it in through the dirty windows gives it a strange, eerie atmosphere. Maybe that’s what you’re picking up on, you try to tell yourself. The air is thick with a stench you can’t identify.

“Lovely interior design,” Sam mumbles. You follow his gaze to a pile of bones that lie scattered in one of the rudimentary holding cells you’re walking past. A spider runs from his flashlight and you grimace.

“Sam,” you say, focusing on the half-extended wings on his back again. “Did you invent this mission to get us to go to a haunted house with you?”

He snorts lightly as he pulls the cloth off the crates that are stacked alongside the wall. There’s a single red handprint near the bottom right of each of them. You almost sigh.

“Do you think I’d pass up the opportunity to hear the two of you scream in terror when the vampire puppets creep up on you?”

“Gotta disappoint you, cap,” you grin and wait for him to check the map. “I only scream when there’s good reason.”

“I don’t wanna interrupt,” Bucky interrupts over the intercom, “but they’re heading your way now, so get a move on.”

“You’re no fun, Bucky.” Still, your eyes flick to your rings. Almost all of them have turned a deep black, with specks of emerald few and far between. Useless. “I probably only have one reset left. Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again.”

“I prefer heroic,” Sam says and turns back to you, a concerned look on his face. “You alright?”

You nod. “Just haven’t gotten a lot of sleep since London.” Between Sam’s snoring on the plane ride back and the early mornings, you are currently running mostly on strong coffee and lots of sugar. “It’s gonna be fine. Just try not to get killed.”

“Good old-fashioned survival. Reminds me of old times.” Sam’s voice might be light, but you know him well enough by now to tell he’s still worried. Your stomach twists with it.

“Can’t say that, bud,” Bucky says. “Twenty seconds.”

“You need to repair Redwing,” you tell Sam. “Being the lookout makes Barnes cranky.”

“You forget that he’s always cranky.”

While you’re still bantering, you place the explosives you’ve brought next to the wall Sam has pointed out. It’s not the most elegant way, but there hasn’t been time to research key codes or break in quietly, so you’re going in with a bang.

Sam and you take cover behind the shield. The little timer starts counting down from ten.

“Any time, Buck,” Sam says. “Five. Four.”

Two shots find their marks outside. You turn your head to see one of the people in white fall through the far entrance of the hallway, holding their knee in pain.

“One.”

You shut your eyes just in time before the door gets blasted off its hidden hinges. A cloud of dust hits your face and you start coughing violently.

“Everyone alright?” Bucky shouts and you grimace at the volume of his voice in your ear.

“Yeah,” Sam answers. “Our wrinkle in time here just decided to inhale some metal.” He claps you on the back a few times until the grime has finally cleared from your lungs. “You good?”

“All good,” you rasp, roughly drying your eyes with your sleeve.

It’s times like this, you think, that your powers are truly the most useless. There’s no way for you to go back and unclog your lungs of whatever atrocities you just inhaled. You’re cursed to always stay exactly as you are.

“Are you guys waiting for a formal invite?” Bucky asks, walking past you without a single glance in your direction.

“Any more comin’?” Sam looks down the now opened entryway. Just like you expected, the lab on the other side seems empty.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Bucky answers, “but I’d rather not stick around to find out.”

You take a look over your shoulder back down the hall at where the white jacket is still lying, unconscious. In the gloomy light, there are strange reflections moving across their goggles, and you can’t help but frown as the uneasy feeling sinks deeper into your bones. Like a tingle that claws its way down your spine to settle in your fingertips. You pull your gun out of the holster.

“Don’t you feel like this is way too easy?” you say quietly, reassuming your position between the two of them.

“Yup,” Sam says, shield still held up in front of him. He keeps moving forward.

The lab is smaller than you expected, crammed with tables that are overflowing with strangely colored concoctions and stacks upon stacks of papers. You take a step closer, trying to make sense of the strange chemical formulas scribbled next to a bunch of tables and graphs. It’s not exactly your strong subject, though, and you can’t really concentrate with someone else breathing down your neck.

“You’re hovering again, Barnes,” you say without looking up, and feel his gaze move away from you. Even after all this time, he still doesn’t trust you one bit.

“This isn’t it,” Sam says, closing the last of the filing cabinets with a bang. “They must’ve cleared out before we got—here. Alright.”

Bucky makes him take a step to the side before hooking his metal arm into the cabinet and pulling. With a screech of protest, the entire thing slowly moves open to reveal a broad winding staircase leading downwards. Another wave of the horrid smell hits you, even stronger now, like something metallic that’s being set on fire.

“Show-off,” you mumble as you slip past Bucky and his smugly raised eyebrow.

The stairs go down deeper and deeper for a lot longer than you'd expected, lit by motion detector lights that turn your shadows into overly large figures on the opposite wall. It doesn’t ease your premonition in the slightest. Finally, everything opens up and you look down into a large, almost cave-like room. It extends pretty far backwards before it splits into several tunnels that remind you of the one you spotted when you got out of the quinjet earlier.

But despite the stone walls and your being several feet underground, it is surprisingly warm down here, probably due to the several giant containers placed along one of the walls that seem to be the source of the atrocious smell. They are also faintly glowing.

“Are we gonna get radiation poisoning?” you ask. “Because you definitely don’t pay me enough for that.”

“I doubt they’d send their own people ‘round the perimeter with nothing more than a face mask if those things were radioactive,” Sam says. “And you’re here voluntarily.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” you mumble, but you follow him anyway.

Unlike the lab upstairs, everything here looks orderly, almost pristine. Not a single sheet of paper is unfiled, the metal tables are empty and wiped clean. There’s a gentle whirring sound that leads your gaze to several monitors, some of which are showing different maps and security camera footage while others seem to be tracking the progress of some sort of test.

“Look at that,” Sam says, stepping closer to the containers. “What is that?”

A dark blue liquid is slowly dropping out of a hole near the bottom of one of the containers. Bucky kneels down next to it.

“Don’t touch that!” you say quickly and he rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to.” Sam hands him a little glass vial and Bucky carefully scoops up some of the liquid with his left hand.

“Maybe we can send that to Banner, have him take a look.” Sam walks over to the computers and plugs in a drive. “We’ll make a copy of that for Torres and then get out of here.”

“What do you think that is?” you wonder, crossing your arms in front of your chest. Once again, this mission has you feeling unbelievably superfluous.

“Not the serum. Wrong color,” Bucky answers as if he could read your thoughts. He pockets the vial in his jacket and stands up. “You’re hovering again, Y/L/N.”

You’d roll your eyes, too, if you didn’t know that’d only make that stupid smirk reappear. “Can we leave before I do something he’ll regret?” you shout at Sam.

“That’s sweet,” Bucky smirks anyway.

“I think we have another problem right now,” Sam says, looking up from the monitors. “We’re getting company.”

Only a moment later there’s a thunderous crash and the table to your far left bursts into flames. You stumble backwards. Right overhead, there’s a large round hole where the floor of the small lab on the first floor used to be.

All of a sudden, dozens of people descend upon you from all directions, swarming the lab and surrounding you within seconds. They’re all dressed exactly the same, white jackets over their black overalls, identical white face masks and goggles, and matching black berets.

“Oh, this is like a nightmare flash mob,” you shout as you avoid the first kick to your face. “They must’ve sounded a silent alarm!”

“D’you think?” Bucky huffs, punching another white jacket in the jaw.

You aim your gun just as Sam flings his wings out, swishing your target off their feet. Behind them, another group closes in. You fire without a second thought, and three of them drop to the ground.

Just as you try to reload your weapon, someone rips it out of your hand and hits you across the face with it. You stumble, eyes welling up, as they grab you around the neck, dragging you backwards with such strength you are forced to the tips of your toes. Your heart is thundering with panic, unbidden mental images threatening to come back to the surface as you try to pry their hands loose to no avail. Black dots are starting to dance across your vision.

Then, there’s a sickening cracking noise, and the pressure is gone from your throat. You stumble forwards, coughing, before you’re pulled back to your feet, fast but not roughly. Blue eyes find yours, a look almost like concern in them.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you gasp. “Thanks.”

“You tryin’ to suffocate today?” He hands you your gun back and you shrug, pressing the memories all the way back down again.

“Sam might give me a day off if I faint.”

Another explosion has both of you turn your heads up. A shower of glass splinters and burning pieces of paper rains down through the hole on the first floor, taking bits of the ceiling down with it.

“We better get moving,” Sam shouts. “If you take care of the drive and these idiots, I’ll clear the tunnels for a way out of here!”

Wordlessly, Bucky holds up his arm. Sam throws the shield, hitting two more white jackets in the face before Bucky catches it with ease. You kick another one of them in the groin, wrangling the weapon out of their grasp.

“Who the fuck brings a knife to a fight like this?” you shout.

“And what’s that thing on your thigh, you planning a picnic?” Bucky replies, holding up the shield to protect both of you from hailing gunshots.

“Well—it’s—tradition!” Each of your words is punctuated by a punch. “And why are you looking at my thigh, Bucky?”

Before he can answer, there’s a string of curses and the sound of breaking metal directly in your ear. You let go of your weapon as your hands move up, and it stops its fall in mid air as time screeches to a stop.

The sudden silence in the middle of everything that’s been going on would be disconcerting if you weren’t so used to it by now. Everyone is frozen around you as you turn and take a step from behind the shield to see what’s happening on the other side of the room.

Sam is still up in the air, and even from a distance you can see the grimace on his face and the splotches of red on his stomach. One of his wings is at a strange angle, and you look around quickly to find the white jacket still aiming the blaster that must’ve hit him.

You take a deep breath and reach backwards until you feel the old familiar tingling between your fingers. It’s fickle, like it always is, and all the more unpredictable because you’re tired. Still, you force it to wind back, if only a little.

Time resets with a start.

“—on your thigh, you planning a picnic?”

“Two o’clock,” you gasp.

Bucky reacts almost on instinct, taking out the shooter before they can do any harm while you punch your opponent in the face again. It takes you two more blows than last time to take them down. When you look at your hands, they’re shaking. There’s nothing but the slightest wisp of green left swimming in the black of your rings.

“I’m really gonna need you to not be stupid from now on,” you shout as soon as you catch your breath again.

Bucky curses. “Sam, we’re coming now. There’s too many of ‘em to wait ‘round for this stupid thing to copy.”

“Do you need me to come get you?”

“No.” He bashes a white jacket on the head with the shield and throws it against the last one that’s still standing. It doesn’t fly quite in the same elegant way as when Sam does it, toppling over itself and landing on the ground next to the unconscious guard. “Just get the jet started. Can you walk?” he asks you.

“‘Course I can walk,” you say, slightly annoyed, but your eyes are fixed on the monitors on the far side of the room. “I think it’s done.”

“Just get out of there,” Sam says through the comms. “I can see at least another dozen heading in up here.”

You look at Bucky and his eyes narrow at the resolute look on your face. It’s your fault you’re even here in the first place, though. You might as well fix it. It’s only going to take a second, anyway.

“No—” Time glitches. “—thing—” Time stumbles over itself. “—stupid, damnit!” Time moves at an unsteady pace and then moves again as you almost trip over your own feet, pulling the drive out of the computer and holding it up triumphantly just as Bucky reaches you.

“See?” you grin. “All good.”

And then the computer explodes.

You’re thrown against Bucky, who catches your fall somewhat, rolling both of you over and out of harm’s way. Your ears are ringing, and you can tell by the buzzing that your intercom is probably broken. Surprisingly, you both seem unharmed apart from that.

Bucky stares at you, face only a few inches from yours and fury still blazing in his eyes. It almost makes you want to laugh. In fact, it’s exhilarating.

“Do you wanna get out of here or what?”

He looks like he’s going to kill you himself. “Geez, I hate you.”

You get to your feet with a low snort, the adrenaline making you strangely giddy as you catch up with Bucky, who is already stomping back in the direction of the tunnels. “I think this was a great success,” you say lightly, stepping over another body. “If Sam hurries up, we might even make it in time for the fireworks—”

He catches you by the elbows and shoves you to the side in one fluid motion the same moment another shot sounds.

Your head whips around and you throw your knife without hesitation. The assailant slumps backwards. There’s still steam coming out of the blaster that never hit Sam, but you barely notice it. You fall to your knees next to Bucky, frantically pressing your hands on the wound in his chest. There’s so much blood. How is there so much blood?

“No, no no no, this isn’t happening. Bucky!” Your head is empty of coherent thought. There’s just panic. “Sam!”

“Ther—half a—”

You tear the broken intercom out of your ear. “Buck, you have to stay with me. We’re, we’re going to get you home, okay?”

His blue eyes find yours. They’re impossibly wide. “So—so stupid,” he pants and his face distorts in pain.

You feel sick to your stomach. “I know. I know, I’m so—I’m so sorry, I’m gonna fix this.”

You flick your fingers, again and again, but there’s nothing. There’s absolutely nothing. You don’t feel the pull, not even the tiniest bit of a quiver. You’re just grasping at air, your powers betraying you once again. A curse.

Bucky starts blurring in front of you and you blink the tears away, refusing to let him out of focus. “Please.”

With concerted effort, he raises his hand to lie on top of yours. “S’okay, doll,” he gets out, his mouth contorting a little. “Y/N. S’okay.”

And then his eyes glaze over.

You scream.

You scream because nothing is okay, because you’re useless, because none of this should have happened and it’s all your fault, and you’re clutching Bucky’s hand in yours because maybe if you hold onto him tightly enough, he’ll come back and all of this will seem like a bad dream. Maybe if you try again, and again, and again, you can make this go away, make it actually okay again, because you don’t know how you’re going to live with yourself if you can’t do the one fucking thing you were supposed to do.

Useless.

You don’t let go of his hand as you press your eyes shut and try to grasp at the edges of your power, try to feel the ridges and flickers in the fabric of everything, reaching out for something, anything, any point in time or space that they can connect to and drag you out of here.

And then they do.

It’s tiny at first, a miniscule spec of something, and you cry out again as you reach out. You feel like your soul is being stripped bare by the effort alone.

Then, it crashes over you like a tidal wave, knocking you forward into Bucky once again. You feel yourself covering his head, cradling it as if that would make a difference. It’s an almost automatic reaction.

Your self seems to expand further and further and shrink at the same time, way worse than it ever has when you’re using your powers, and you feel almost seasick. You press your forehead against Bucky’s.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “It’s going to be okay.”

There is an explosion of green light all around you that lifts you up into the air, and then nothing but darkness as you fade out of consciousness.

* * *

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

For a moment, you’re completely disoriented, staring at your surroundings in confusion. You’re in your own bedroom back at the Tower, your feet tangled in the sheets and eyes still bleary. You almost let yourself believe that it was all just a nightmare, another horrible dream conjured up by some subconscious remnants of the past, although even the worst of your dreams haven’t felt as real as what you just went through.

The idea is short-lived, anyway.

Your hands are still shaking when you lift them to your face. There’s blood all over your palms and stuck under your fingernails, leaving crimson stains on your bedding. Bucky’s blood.

You swallow down the bile that rises in your stomach and carefully twist your rings around on your fingers, one after the other. All of them are completely pitch black, darker than you’ve ever seen them.

Then again, you’ve never tried anything like this.

You clear your throat and take a deep breath. “FRIDAY?” you say cautiously. The music quietens as the A.I. comes to attention with a gentle tinkle. “What day is it?”

“Today is Friday, July 4th,” FRIDAY tells you.

You huff incredulously, your heart still pounding wildly. Somehow, you did it. It’s yesterday morning again. You actually did it.

Stumbling, you reach your tiny bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror. There’s a tiny nick on your left cheek from where the white jacket hit you with your gun last night, but you couldn’t care less because you’re back. It worked.

You scrub your hands under the hot water until it runs clear again, still stunned. You can’t remember ever jumping backwards that far, not without feeling completely exhausted anyway, but right now, you’re strangely alright, even though the adrenaline is still rushing through your veins.

The mix of emotions running through your head is so confusing that you don’t notice the band around your wrist until you’re drying off your hands.

It’s so close to your skin it almost looks like a tattoo, partially translucent and glowing dimly emerald. Instinctively, you try to rub at it, but your fingers go straight through it and you feel a tiny spark of electricity. When you hold out your hand at the right angle, you can see it’s made up of tiny symbols forming geometric shapes, moving around your arm in a slow, seamless circle. The longer you stare at it, the more hairs stand up on the back of your neck.

There’s a pounding at your door, followed immediately by Sam’s voice. “Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!”

You look at the clock on your bedroom wall. It’s shortly before 8 a.m., which gives you almost the entire day before you’re called on that mission. More than enough time to recuperate your powers and figure out a plan to make sure everything goes smoothly this time.

Until then, you just have to act normally.

“Not gonna happen, birdbrain!” you shout back, just like you did yesterday, and go through the pile of semi-clean gym clothes by the foot of your bed. As you get changed, you take another second to look at the strange emerald band around your wrist. Then, you pull a sweatband over it to camouflage it. You’ll deal with this later. For now, it’s training with Sam, a shower and breakfast.

And discreetly checking up on Bucky in a normal, non I Just Watched You Die kind of way. You can totally manage that.

“Don’t ever wake me up like that again!” you call out to Sam, closing the door to your room behind you.

He pushes away from the wall and falls into step next to you, grinning. “Sweet white teenage angst not your style?”

“You’re the worst.” The song is stuck in your head now, too, just like yesterday, but unlike then, you can’t find it in you to be mad about that fact. You did it.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sam remarks as you’re climbing up the stairs and you look at him in surprise. This is new.

Yester-today you didn’t talk at all on your way to the gym, what with you being both tired and annoyed at him. You’re usually wary about changing details during your redos, because the tiniest things can make the outcome of a situation unpredictable.

Still, you’ve never gone this far back. And isn’t this about making today a better day, really?

So you smile. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Not bad,” Sam says, eyebrow still raised. “Suspicious, maybe. Are you gonna salt someone’s coffee again?”

“I did that one time.” You roll your eyes as you push open the door to the gym. It’s a lot smaller than the one at the Compound was, and you particularly miss the swimming pool, but the view from the Tower is without compare. Midtown looks magnificent in the early sunlight.

You drop your rings into the little metal dish you keep next to the window and climb into the boxing ring after Sam, stretching your back.

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

Before Sam and Bucky found you, you hadn’t sparred for months and not exactly missed it. Training with soldiers and former assassins who held back every single punch and still managed to drop you on the mat with infuriating ease had never been very fun for you, and what with the universe saved and all, you hadn’t really seen the point in keeping up the practice once the dust blew over. Now that you’re regularly going on missions again, though, you have to stay in shape.

And although you hate to admit it even to yourself, there is something calming about being back in a routine like this. It keeps your head from getting stuck in the fuzzy grayness of it all. Damn those dopamines your therapist keeps telling you about.

Today, though, this today, your eyes are continually drawn to the door while you’re dodging and blocking Sam. It makes you sloppy even by your standards, which are mediocre at best thanks to your impatience. Of course it doesn’t escape his notice.

“What is up with you today?” he asks when he helps you get back to your feet for the third time this morning.

You dab the sweat off your face, hissing when you accidentally rub the cut on your cheek. At least Sam hasn’t said anything about that. “Slept weird,” you say evasively.

“Nightmare?” he offers with a compassionate look.

“Sort of,” you answer. “Feels a little … déjà-vu-y.”

“I know the type,” Sam says. “Wanna talk about it?”

You do. But the time stuff is your problem to deal with, and so you shake your head.

“Alright,” he says, rolling his shoulders back and raising an eyebrow. “Come on, then. You gotta get one kick in, at least, and hurry up, because I’m starving.”

“You could stop moving, then we’re done faster,” you grin. Your stomach is growling, too.

“Nice try, McFly.”

“You used that one earlier,” you say, shaking your head in faux disappointment. “Are you running out of nicknames, Sammy?”

“I’m not gonna be creative for someone who can’t kick above their waistline.”

“How dare you!”

You lose that round, too, but Sam deems you motivated enough to call it a day. He throws his towel over his shoulder and heads to the showers while you lay your head down on the mat and close your eyes for a moment. Waiting.

Yester-today, you didn’t hear Bucky come in, either. He was just sitting next to the ring when you looked to your side, hair sticking to his forehead and shirt clinging to his muscles, still a little damp after his shower. Then, you felt a slight rush of embarrassment at how much of a sweaty mess you were.

Now, you couldn’t care less.

“You look like shit.”

You turn your head and there he is. Living, breathing proof that you actually did do it. And for the first time in a long while, you feel nothing but gratitude for your powers.

Oh, fuck you, Barnes. If you’re sticking to the rules you’ve set for yourself long ago, that’s what you’re supposed to say, because that’s what you said the first time. Change as little as possible.

But even if you hadn’t broken them earlier, you couldn’t do it now. Not when you’re feeling this happy to see Bucky alive again. Alive and well, and slightly grumpy as ever.

So what falls out of your mouth instead is, “You’re looking good.”

Bucky squints at you and you smile at the way his cheeks are still slightly pink from his morning run, proof of his heart still beating. “Did Sam hit you in the head?”

You laugh. “Why, can’t I say that you look good and mean it?”

Bucky tilts his head slightly, but then shakes it. “Nah. You’re messin’ with me.”

“No, I’m not,” you tell him earnestly, sitting up to look at him properly. At his chest, solid and whole and moving calmly. “I’m just … glad you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he frowns.

“I don’t know,” you say, tugging at your sweatband. “It’s been a weird couple of days.”

“Yeah.” He looks at you for another beat, then he shakes his head again and gets up. “Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one.”

“Thanks, Bucky.” You smile at him again, but he averts his eyes.

* * *

“I probably only have one reset left,” you say, trying to ignore the chill that goes down your spine. “Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again.”

“I prefer heroic. You alright?”

And for a moment, you hesitate. Because even though the rest of the day has passed pretty much exactly the same as it did the first time up until this point, you’ve felt the doubts creeping in ever since you laid down for a nap in the early afternoon, tossing and turning for the better part of an hour, only to find your rings hadn’t regained even the slightest speck of green.

You’re terrified of the moment you’re going to have to use your powers, because what if with this large jump, you overdid it? What if this time, there won’t be any redos?

No. You’re made of stronger stuff than your doubts, you know that. Things are going to be okay.

You nod with newfound determination. “‘Course I am. It’s gonna be fine.” You flex your fingers to reassure yourself. “Just try not to get killed.”

It’s a plea more than anything else, but of course Bucky doesn’t respond, not to you. Not to it.

“Can’t say that, bud,” he says instead. “Twenty seconds.”

But who’s counting? You close your eyes and hold your breath, balling your hands into fists so tightly it hurts.

“I don’t wanna complain,” Sam says as the dust settles. “But I did expect this to be more difficult.”

“Don’t jinx it, Sam,” you say wrily.

“You’re such a pessimist.” He still raises his shield a bit higher. “Any more comin’, Bucky?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Your heart twinges slightly, but you bite your lip. Your job is to make sure the mission gets done and everyone stays alive. Both of those things, not just one. “I’m right behind you.”

The lab looks exactly the same as it did the first time, small and crammed and somehow even gloomier today, though that’s probably just your imagination. Now that you know to look for it, you can tell the file cabinet on the far side of the wall doesn’t quite touch the floor, something that Bucky must’ve picked up on immediately.

You feign interest in the papers on the table again, shuffling them to keep your hands occupied. “You’re hovering again, Barnes.”

“You sure you’re alright?”

You turn, surprised at the question, to find Bucky’s gaze lingering on your hands. Not for the first time, you silently curse his perceptiveness. “Yeah,” you say, crossing your arms.

His jaw sets, but he doesn’t comment on your dismissiveness. He just moves to open the cabinet. You don’t find it in you to say anything, and so he doesn’t look quite as happy with himself. It doesn’t give you any pleasure.

When the downstairs lab fills with white jackets, your stomach is still threatening to drop, but you grit your teeth. This is exactly the kind of situation you’ve trained for; the most important thing now is remembering the order of things. Like a dance recital.

Duck to the side. Bucky steps right. Wait for Sam’s move. Shoot. You take another step back before the white jacket can drag you away by the throat again and kick them in the stomach until they stay on the ground, which is a way kinder fate than yesterday’d brought them. You shudder slightly as you turn to look at the hole in the ceiling. Three. Two. One.

The second explosion goes off at the same time as someone shouts your name, and you whip your head around only to be roughly shoved to the side and fall the ground. A large piece of ceiling lands right where you’d just been standing. Which is obviously a different place than yesterday because you knocked that white jacket unconscious. Wow, you’re an idiot.

Bucky seems to agree. “Whatever’s happening right now, you gotta snap out of it.” There’s something about the look on his face that makes your blood boil.

“What’s happening is that I’m trying to fix this,” you say sharply.

“By getting yourself killed?!”

“We need to get moving,” Sam’s voice says on the intercom before you have time to reply. “If you take care of the drive and these idiots, I’ll clear the tunnels for a way out of here!”

Bucky stares at you for another second as if he’s trying to decide on the thing that’s most wrong with you right now. You shove him off you.

He rolls his eyes and gets back on his feet, holding up his arm for Sam to throw the shield his way. By the time you see the white jacket aiming their gun, they’re already pulling the trigger. You throw up your hands.

A surge of emptiness goes through you, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Time seems to still for just the blink of an eye as Bucky’s head is thrown forwards.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume. The room seems to wobble in front of you as you scramble to your hands and knees in bed, trying to get a proper breath of air.

“FRIDAY.” You almost flinch at the panic in your own voice. “FRIDAY, what day is it?”

“Today is Friday, July 4th.”

chapter two

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

[intrepidacious]

Thoughtful, a dog lover, and a gentleman? Clark Kent really was the man of your dreams. 

that's what i've been saying

He drops his head a little more so his forehead and the tip of his nose brush lightly against yours. He nudges you softly, silently telling you to take your time. That he’s here and he’s not going anywhere. 

i have such a thing for a soft nose nudge 😭 it's so so cute!!! ugh this was everything 💛

—THE BLUE

clark kent x gotham!f!reader

summary: clark kent came out of the blue and into your life, proving that there's more to you than what other people see.

wc: 2.3k

warning(s): superman (2025), fem!reader, reader is from gotham city, language, reader is avoidant, self-judgement, a lil angsty but mostly fluff

a/n: i have so much of gotham!reader that i want to expand on... if that's something anyone wants...and even if no one wants it im doing it anyway :)

FEEDBACK, COMMENTS, AND REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED AND APPRECIATED!

»»——————————————————-««

If there was one thing your coworkers knew it was to not talk to you before you’ve had your morning coffee. When you arrived that morning with a tight lipped smile and rounded shoulders, they knew better than to approach you. However, there was only one person who was the exception to this rule. 

You waste no time dropping your things off at your desk and make a beeline towards the coffee station. 

The scent of bitter beans and a hint of something nutty warms you enough to lessen your early morning headache. You’re too busy filling your cup to notice the body that sidled up beside you. 

“Good morning.” You’re greeted by an unmistakably deep timbre. 

Clark Kent, the exception to your rule. 

From the moment you started working at the Daily Planet, Clark Kent always seemed to be somewhere in your orbit. His bright blue eyes, crooked smile, and endless optimism seeped into your life like hints of sunlight escaping through the cracks of your drawn curtains. You hadn’t meant to let Clark in. You were starting over in Metropolis and your plan was to do your job and fly under the radar. Clark Kent threw that plan down the drain. 

He was persistent, but not pushy. Curious, but respectful. Observant, but not creepy (Okay, maybe a little creepy according to Lois but you find his staring quite endearing). 

He can sense when you have a migraine incoming before you even get the first warning sign. He knows when you want him to listen and when he needs to fill in the silence. He knows you chew on the tip of your pen when you’re deep in thought and how you rapidly bounce your knee when you’re inspired. 

Clark Kent is the exception to your rule and he knows it. He wears it like a first prize ribbon, loudly and proudly. 

“Morning,” you greet him back, reaching around him to grab a cup sleeve. 

Sure, he could easily just hand you one to save you the trouble but he loves that it gives him an excuse to feel your arm brushed up against his. 

He’s still pouring creamer into his cup when you cover your own, taking a long sip and letting out a satisfied sigh. 

“I still can’t believe you drink it like that.” Clark’s nose wrinkles. 

You spin on your heel and head back to your desk with an amused smile on your lips. 

Jimmy, your desk mate, doesn’t look up from his screen as you settle in beside him. “No cream or sugar? Shit’s straight up petroleum. That’s hardcore, Gotham.” 

You harshly exhale. You open your mouth to respond but Lois beats you to it. “How many times does she have to tell you not to call her that?” 

“Sorry,” he cringes, sending you an apologetic smile. 

You take another sip of your coffee and brush him off. “Don’t worry about it.” 

An awkward silence settles amongst you, tension evident in the way your shoulders are now all the way up to your ears. It’s been two years since you moved to Metropolis yet the nickname still made you uneasy. 

You know the way Jimmy said it was all in good fun. It was just another way your colleagues showed some workplace camaraderie. Unlike Clark who preened whenever someone in the office called him Kansas or Smallville, you shrunk into yourself. You weren’t proud of where you came from. It was everything you wanted to leave behind, yet it still lingered. 

Clark saunters back to his desk, watching how you bury yourself further into the collar of your shirt. He clears his throat, spinning in his chair to get a better view of you despite your back being turned to him. “I heard Superman had quite the night yesterday.” 

You don’t even have to turn around to know Lois is rolling her eyes, but you do anyway. 

“Yeah, because destroying City Hall is such a heroic feat,” Lois snorts. 

Jimmy spun around too, bringing himself closer to Clark and Lois with his feet to drag him forward. “Mind you that was after he saved thirty or more people from that weird monster thing.” 

You shrug. “Still, his recklessness just created a bigger headache for the Metropolis government. They were already struggling to pull the funds for their low-income housing project and now they have to repair City Hall.” 

Clark leans forward, raising a brow as his gaze lands on you. “You’re still forgetting the thirty or so people he saved.” 

“Was he heroic? Sure, but he was also careless.” You mimic Clark’s stance, silently challenging him. “Even Superman’s actions have consequences. Regardless of his intentions.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response which has you second guessing your place in the conversation. Everyone in the office knew about Clark’s adoration of Superman. How could they not with him being the only one to actually score interviews with the hero. Did you overstep? Or perhaps come off too harsh? Being a journalist, of course you were going to be opinionated. Yet the idea that you were being a little too much, too heated in the moment, bounced around in your head like an echo. Your chin falls to your chest like you’re hoping that putting your head down will make you turn invisible. 

Clark, on the other hand, hates when you try to disappear. He’s chalked it up to be some kind of defense mechanism you’ve adapted. The thought makes his chest ache because how dare someone try to dim your spark but more importantly he wishes there could’ve been a way for him to protect you from it all. 

He hums thoughtfully, pushing his own bias and pride aside, just to appease you. “I see your point. Superman probably should be held more accountable for the damage he inflicts on the city.” 

“Wha-Clark!” Jimmy stutters in disbelief. 

Lois looks stunned at how easily he backed down. 

Your gaze flits up to Clark’s and your lips tug upwards ever so slightly at the corners. His comment makes you feel a little more proud of yourself. 

You brush it off like it was nothing, turning back around to start your work for the day. 

The difference in your stature may have been small, but to Clark it was everything. 

—————————————————

It’s nearly 9pm by the time the office is nearly empty. You have a habit of being one of the last people to leave at the end of the day. There’s something about the hum of electricity and clacking of your keyboard that helps the words flow right out of you. When the sun is out, the Daily Planet is all chaos and bustling reporters. When everyone leaves, you allow yourself to breathe. Except tonight, you’re not alone. 

While everyone filed out for the night, Clark still hadn’t left. It wasn’t uncommon for people to stay late at the office. Though, you couldn’t help but notice that more often than not Clark would stay on the same nights you do. You know for a fact that he’s not working because unlike you, who has a million and one open tabs on your browser, the only thing on Clark’s was Dog Training For Dummies. 

“I didn’t know you had a dog.” 

Clark, previously hunched over at his desk, darts up and looks at you like he just caught red-handed. He shrugs lamely. “Oh, no I-I don’t,” he stammers. “I’m just dogsitting for my cousin.” 

You hum, wordlessly packing up your things. Clark follows suit, shutting off his monitor and grabbing his suitcase from under his desk. “You know, you didn’t have to stay here with me.” 

His leather dress shoes come into focus at your feet and you can smell his cologne, light and faintly there, overpowered by the scent of his laundry detergent and something you couldn’t put a name to that you could only describe as something distinctly Clark.  

He doesn’t even let you bring your bag halfway to your shoulder before he’s taking it out of your hands and swinging it onto his. Your heart skips a beat at the action. Thoughtful, a dog lover, and a gentleman? Clark Kent really was the man of your dreams. 

“I wanted to.” He says it with ease, like it was a no-brainer. His smile is all dimples and sparkling blues. “Let me walk you home?” 

The apples of your cheeks start to burn and all you can do is nod. He starts for the elevator and you follow in a trance. 

The walk home is perfect. There’s something about Clark that makes you feel free. He makes you feel like you’re allowed to just be. You’ve never had to put up an act around Clark like you do with everyone else. You smile a little wider, laugh a little louder, and lower your walls just a little more when you’re with him. 

He stays on the side of the street because of course he does, keeping you away from any passing cars. Your bag rests snugly on his shoulders, his hands in his pockets. Every now and then he’ll walk just a little closer, brushing his arm against yours. An action you thoughtlessly return each time he does it. 

You didn’t think the night could get any better. Then, it starts to rain. 

You shriek and grab Clark’s hand. He’s so warm against your cold and wet hand as you run under the nearest awning. You laugh while Clark hastily takes off his jacket. He carefully sets your bag on top of his suitcase so it’s only his things that are on the wet ground. The awning does little to keep you both dry so Clark takes one step closer to you and lifts his jacket above his head to shelter the both of you. 

He looks ridiculous like this–hunched over, his stupidly large glasses covered in water droplets as it slides down the slope of his nose, and his curls matted to his head like a wet dog. Clark’s laughing now too and you look at him and smile. 

The moment you lock eyes, the air between you shifts. Something changes in the way Clark’s looking at you and it makes you feel bare. 

The rain is so loud you have to shout so he can hear you. “What?” 

“You’re beautiful,” he declares. 

It’s then that you truly understand. Clark Kent sees you. He always has. Not just as the girl from Gotham who feels like she has something to prove. You’ve never had to prove anything. Not to him. Not when he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. 

“Clark…” You’re rendered breathless by the man in front of you. 

He drops his head a little more so his forehead and the tip of his nose brush lightly against yours. He nudges you softly, silently telling you to take your time. That he’s here and he’s not going anywhere. 

There’s not enough words in the English language to describe how you feel about Clark, but love is very close. You’re not ready to voice that word aloud, afraid that once you do, he’ll slip away. 

So instead you let your body talk for you. You surge up on your toes, pressing Clark’s lips to yours. You bring your hands up to cup his face, pulling him closer. 

The sound he lets out is one you’ll never forget. It comes from the deepest part of his chest, needy and full of want. 

Clark throws all caution to the wind, dropping his jacket in favor of using his hands to wrap around your waist and hold you. One hand skims the curve of your spine to the back of your neck. He cradles you like you’re something precious. And to him, you are. 

You don’t care that it’s pouring rain or that your shoes are filled with water. Everything is perfect. 

Clark has to practically pry himself off you. He’s wearing the widest grin you’ve ever seen. His eyes are still closed as he rests his forehead against yours. “Wow,” he sighs, almost like he couldn’t believe this was real. “That was… wow.” 

You chuckle. “That good, huh?” 

He exhales shakily. “This isn’t how I wanted our first kiss to go.” 

“You’ve thought of our first kiss?” 

Clark looks down bashfully. Water droplets drip down his lashes and settle on his porcelain skin. “I always think of you.” He opens his eyes fully to get a better look at you. 

You desperately want to kiss him again. It takes all your self control not to. You find that vulnerability comes easy when you’re with Clark. He makes you feel seen. He makes you feel safe. “I always think of you too.” 

You didn’t think that Clark’s smile could get any bigger, but it did. He was glowing in the streetlights. Your hands haven’t dropped from his face. Clark leans further into your touch. “My ma would go crazy if she knew I kissed a girl before our first date.” 

“In your defense, I did kiss you first.” 

“And as much as I want to kiss you again, I want to do this right.” He takes your hands that are resting on his cheeks and holds them to his chest, hoping you can feel how strongly his heart beats for you. “Let me take you out. We’ll get all dressed up, stop by that new art exhibit you’ve been wanting to see, and maybe get some dinner?” 

You’re more confident, more bold now that you know the feelings you’ve harbored for so long are reciprocated. “Clark Kent, you know the way to a woman’s heart.”  

“Darling, your heart’s the only one I need to know.”  

You don’t know how long you stand out in the rain. You’ll probably wake up tomorrow morning with a cold. But being here in Clark’s arms, both of your hearts beating together as one, makes it all worth it. 

[intrepidacious]

six: butterfly effect [1/4]

» time after time series: chapter six

this is a repost of my time loop fic in shorter parts for greater reading convenience. please refer to the series masterlist for more context.

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.1k

chapter warnings: maybe reacquaint yourselves with the story premise, it’s been a hot minute; characters refusing to be honest with themselves and each other; violence against side characters, minor injury descriptions; strange is still annoying. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

Working with Sam and Bucky was different than working with Natasha and Steve had been.

At the Compound, it had felt terrifyingly easy to find your place, to slip into the new role they granted you as if you were always meant to fill it. You’d felt that way before, and it hadn’t turned out quite so well. Maybe that was why you used to dread the end.

Now, however, for the first time in a while, you constantly had to prove yourself in order to not be left back in that dark place they’d found you in, alone and trying to make sense of any of it. And you liked that. The challenge was something you could live with, something you could enjoy more than the ever chilling anxiousness that things were simply too good to be true.

So when Sam called you on for a follow-up mission shortly after the first one, you jumped at the chance.

It didn’t matter that you barely talked about anything but work, even when you were hanging out in your spare time; in fact, you much preferred that to digging up the past. You even learned to find a wicked sort of enjoyment in provoking Bucky’s initial dislike of you to the point of where he would barely speak to you at all unless it was to snap at you.

You weren’t sure what you wanted him to do, but it was fun to watch the time bomb tick.

It wasn’t as easy to get under the new cap’s skin.

“You’re making us sound like we’re partners in a law firm,” Sam said, a smile clearly audible in his voice even though his eyes didn’t betray it. Bucky didn’t even dignify you with a clench of his jaw.

“What?” you said, crossing your legs. “Every newspaper in the city calls you ‘Wilson and Barnes’. Don’t you ever read the articles about yourselves?”

“Unlike some people, I don’t have all the time in the world,” Sam said, leaning back on the couch with his eyes closed.

“Pity. The Bulletin called you the 'nation’s new dynamic duo’ last week.” You looked at Bucky, your eyebrows raised in amusement. “You’ve officially been downgraded to a sidekick, Barnes.”

He answered with an empty glare of his own. “And what does that make you?” he said, but not like a question.

“Nothing at all,” you still grinned. “Everything is right in the universe.”

The reporters had yet to pick up on your addition to the team, which was proof enough that your powers still sufficed to fly under the radar. Combined with the fact that you were actually regularly talking to people again—and people who weren’t your therapist or your customers no less—, things almost felt like they were settling into a new kind of normal. Still somewhat weird, and still a struggle each day, but somewhat hopeful, nevertheless.

You’d almost forgotten what that could feel like.

“Right. You’d prefer people not knowing about your creepy powers.”

“Aww.” You tilted your head to the side happily. “You think I’m creepy.”

Bucky scoffed into his mug, refusing to look at you like he always did, and then he strolled off again.

In truth, you couldn’t blame him all that much. You’d lived with your powers all your life and still found them unsettling sometimes, particularly when they got away from you and left you trapped in a universe that refused to move.

That was none of his business, though.

Besides, Bucky had taken to moving around so quietly you could never tell he was there until he’d cough and you’d flinch, usually dropping whatever you were holding in your hands. You’d already cracked your phone screen twice.

Not that he’d know, or care if he did. It gave you great satisfaction to erase his amused smirk from existence.

“Give it time,” Sam said without moving. “He doesn’t like new people.”

“Neither do I,” you murmured, and he snorted. “What?”

“Pretend with me all you want, but maybe do a bit of introspection there.”

You crossed your arms with a pout. “You sound like my therapist.”

“Mhm,” Sam hummed, opening one eye to look at you. “You owe me fifty bucks for that.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, would you look at that, the price just went up.”

He chuckled as you flipped him off and went to look for the coffee pot.

Of course, your way got blocked. The downsides of not hating having people around.

Bucky was leaning against the counter, considering you. “You go to therapy?”

“You should try it some time,” you said distractedly, reaching around him to get your favorite mug. Bucky recoiled like he was afraid you’d burn him. You shook your head in annoyance. “Helps with the stink eye.”

“Is that what they told you?”

“They told me I needed to process my grief, but I decided to focus on some more achievable goals.” You took a sip of your coffee, sighing in comfort. “We came up with a compromise.”

Bucky scoffed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He still hadn’t taken his gloves off around you.

“Sounds like a way to drag it out,” he said.

You frowned into your cup. “It’s not a race, Barnes. There’s no finish line for this shit.”

Something odd went over his face, but he went back to avoiding your gaze when you tried to make it out. You knew him well enough by then to get the hint, and so you left him alone.

What was it to you if he didn’t want to warm up to you. That had no bearing on the fact that overall, your situation wasn’t all too bad anymore.

It was something, you supposed as you curled up in your spot on the couch with your book later that day, slipping in and out of time to keep your company a little longer because deep down, you knew you were sick of being alone.

It was weird and different, yes, but it was still something anyway. Something to do with your afternoons again.

A reason to get up in the morning.

* * * * *

“What are you talking about?” Bucky asks quietly, carefully, but he makes no attempt to pull back from your embrace. It allows you to take another shuddering breath, inhaling his scent until it makes you dizzy.

The fact that you probably won’t be this close to him again any time soon makes you press into his chest even harder, hard enough to feel his heart flutter against your forehead, the shock of the situation making it pick up speed.

For a split second, you slip into a sort of vacuum, your thoughts quieting as he keeps mumbling to you, and in that blissful moment, your situation doesn’t seem quite so dire anymore, more like a bad dream. You’re safe now, aren’t you? How could you not be?

But then you blink back into reality again when Bucky sits you down on the closed lid of your toilet and slowly makes you let go of his shirt, kneeling down in front of you. The blue of his eyes is devastating, even though you have to keep blinking to keep him in focus.

You don’t want to have to do this, you realize once your gasps for air start calming again. You’re not sure if you can bear it.

But nothing in this loop has been about what you wanted.

And so your resolve is made, with your heart sinking until it’s hidden away deep, deep inside of your chest. You ball your hands into fists to keep your fingers from twitching.

Two or three times he watches you inhale, start to say something, halt before you can, almost choking on it. Like your body is refusing to go through with it.

“How do you know when I’m lying?” you finally ask, and your voice sounds oddly clear in your small bathroom.

Bucky’s face goes from concern to confusion, his frown deepening. You want to smoothe it away with your thumb.

You close your eyes so maybe the temptation goes away.

“What?” he asks, and he still sounds so damn gentle.

“I’ve never been able to lie to you,” you say. “What’s my tell?”

You can feel him move away from you and the ache of it makes you look again. His shirt and his hands are covered in his own blood, and you’re sure there’s some fucking metaphor in the way it stains the golden inlets of his vibranium arm crimson but for the most part, you can’t unsee the damn irony of it all.

Because you’ve pissed him off now.

“You scared the shit out of me, Y/N. And Sam, too.” There’s the sharpness in his voice you know all too well. You haven’t heard it in a while. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m trapped in a time loop,” you say, squeezing your fists more tightly. “I’ve been reliving this day for weeks, my powers aren’t working, I’m the only one who can stop time from completely collapsing, I can’t do that without my powers, and you’re gonna die later today. Am I lying?”

It’s maybe the worst way you’ve ever told him, because watching Bucky’s face change is almost too much. This is exactly why you’re doing it, though; as long as you’re going through this loop with a giant guilty knot in your stomach, you’re not going to make any progress. And you need to put an end to all of it.

So you meet his gaze, almost unwavering, and you don’t blink.

His shock bursts free as an incredulous laugh. “What?”

“I’m stuck,” you say again, slower, nodding at his hands, his blood, continuing to push, “and you keep dying.”

Bucky looks down, then, before his gaze falls back onto you and he sits back on his heels. The pause lasts for way too long, heavy and smelling of iron, and you’re pretty sure you’re suffocating. He only says one word, and it sounds so defeated. “How?”

You swallow heavily. “You got shot on a mission,” you say, but he shakes his head, the fire returning to his eyes.

“No. How did you get stuck?”

“I …” You blink, because you’re not prepared for this question, because you can never predict what he’s going to say, because he keeps doing that to you, because somehow, and not like you’ve expected, you feel like you’ve been here before.

How did it happen? That’s not … Okay.

“It was an accident,” you finally say, helplessly, defensively.

There’s a flicker of something in Bucky’s eyes. “What happened?”

“You died. You died that first time and I didn’t—I couldn’t …” You swallow the sob that threatens to shake your voice again. Damnit, you’re supposed to push him away.

He moves his arm, then hesitates, as if he wants to reach out to you but changes his mind at the very last moment.

Right. He doesn’t normally do that.

Except he has.

He has held your hand and pulled you closer and written on your arm and let you lean on him with the full weight of your body, as if to him, you weighed nothing at all. He’s been offering to carry your load so many times, and he doesn’t remember a single one of them.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” you say tonelessly, watching Bucky retreat.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna fall apart at any moment. And yes,” you add when his mouth opens, “I—I know I just did, I’m aware of the irony, but this is exactly why I can’t keep telling you, I don’t—I can’t stand it.” You press your wrists against your temples, ignoring the buzz of the whirling time symbols against your skin, the stinging in your eyes. “You shouldn’t even—I mean, are you even the slightest bit worried about yourself? Because I feel like I’m the only one here, and I should’ve just—”

You stop yourself, shaking your head. Your hands are very clammy all of a sudden, and when you tug at your rings just to do something, one of them slips off your finger and clangs against the tiles as if to punctuate the silence.

When you reach down, you move your wrist in a way that makes you hiss in pain and flinch back. Bucky’s eyes flit between your own and your hand, his frown deepening in a strangely soft way. “Did you break it?” he asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, and he looks at you disapprovingly. “You’d grabbed my hand just before …”

His jaw twitches as the blame settles in again, and you would do fucking anything to finally make him understand that none of this is his fault. That you should be in pain for what you’re putting him through.

“It should’ve been me,” you tell him, because it’s true.

Even earlier in the week, you would’ve taken great delight in seeing Bucky Barnes’ face fall at something you’d said. Hell, you’d have probably enjoyed it on Thursday, because there used to be this easy sort of gratification that came from riling him up, from catching him off guard.

Seeing it now, though?

It makes your fingers twitch.

“Don’t say that. Not even as a joke.”

“I’m not joking.” You can feel your pulse in your ears. “They aimed a shot at me, and you pushed me out of the way, and you died. So by all accounts, if your instincts weren’t so damn noble all the time, it should’ve been me, and if I weren’t such a fucking coward, I’d have gone back and switched places with you weeks ago.”

The thought terrifies you, even though it’s true. No part of you wants to go through the things Bucky is, but if someone gave you the choice between either one of you right now, you wouldn’t even have to think about it.

Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe.

“I’d like to see you try,” Bucky says, and something slams into your chest as an old familiar shiver runs down your spine.

There’s a pained edge to his gaze, contemplative and heartbreaking and …

“You’re doing it again,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“What am I doing?” His hand brushes your knee, and your skin is left searing.

You swallow heavily. “Being noble.”

Bucky chuckles softly, and his eyes leave yours for just a moment. “Don’t exactly feel like that.”

He’s beautiful.

It’s a new thought, despite everything. Even when you’ve noticed it before, you’d roll your eyes at the fact and move on, because this was Bucky. So what if his face was delectably handsome?

But it seems like you haven’t known it at all, because right now, you feel the knowledge of it, of him, surge through you with all its facets. You can’t even begin to put it into words, because where would you start? How do you explain what he makes you feel when he hasn’t been there himself, not in any way that matters or sticks? And if it’s never happened at all, if time keeps unraveling like this, how can it even be real?

So it’s pure instinct that makes you move, like someone would pinch themselves to ensure they’re not asleep, even though you’re very aware that this isn’t just a dream. You need to confirm that Bucky is real, though.

The air stands still when your fingertips trace along his cheekbone, leaving a delicate flush behind in their trail, barely touching and yet …

And yet.

His breath hitches when they dip lower, almost reaching the place you’ve watched dimple when he laughs, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t laugh, either.

There’s a scraping sound at the closed bathroom door, followed by a short knock. You flinch backwards.

“I’m leaving the first aid kit on the bed,” Sam calls from the other side. “Just … holler if you need me.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Bucky says coarsely, and you can hear steps receding. The scratching continues, though. That damn cat.

Finally, he breaks eye contact, clearing his throat.

“Do you want me to help you clean up?”

You shake your head. You’re not sure you could stomach more of this. “I’m good, don’t … Don’t worry about it.”

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, muttering something to himself you can’t quite make out. Slowly, he gets to his feet again.

“We need to come up with a plan,” he says, and you want to cry except … you’re tired. Tired and sick of this.

“I need to come up with a plan,” you correct him. “We have been trying to do this as a team for weeks, and it doesn’t change anything except waste time and …” And hurt. “I can’t do it anymore, Buck.”

There must be something in your voice that thaws his defiant glare a little. “So what’s the plan?”

And with a sigh, you fill him in on everything that’s been going on with Strange and your powers. Again. One last time.

You have to do this alone.

Bucky ignores your insistence that you can manage just fine and sets your wrist while you talk. Alpine, now free to roam wherever she pleases again, has decided the bathroom isn’t quite that interesting after a short look inside, and is now taking a nap in the spot of sunshine next to your bed.

“New deal,” he says once you’re done, once he’s thought about it all, and you raise your eyebrows. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You know me,” you smile, checking the makeshift dressing around your hand. The green symbols are hidden by the layers of gauze.

Bucky doesn’t bite. “I’m serious, just—don’t.”

“How would you know?”

“I wouldn’t,” he says, snapping the first aid kit shut so vehemently Alpine’s tail twitches. “But I trust you.”

Your head whips up at his words, even though his back is still turned to you. He doesn’t see your face as your heart is jostled into a new rhythm, so violently and unexpectedly that you lift your hand without thinking, pinkie outstretched.

“Promise.”

He smiles when he notices, and you wish you could take a picture to carry with you through the rest of this nightmare.

That day, he dies with your stupid nickname on his lips, twisted into something that looks strangely close to that earlier smile. This one doesn’t have time to reach his eyes, though.

series masterlist | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

[intrepidacious]

time after time - masterlist

summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

series word count: 130.7k (136.3k+ including bonus chapters)

warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚

this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness

a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

✨ this series is finished as of 12 july 2025

my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise

one: turn back the clock ↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k

part one

part two

two: twice upon a time ↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k

part one

part two

three: every day’s a holiday ↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k

part one

part two

part three

four: groundhog day ↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k

part one

part two

five: carousel ↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k

part one

part two

part three

six: butterfly effect ↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k

part one

part two

part three

part four

seven: spellbound ↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k

part one

part two

part three

eight: edge of tomorrow ↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k

part one

part two

part three

nine: out of the past ↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k

part one

part two

part three

part four

ten: about time ↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k

part one

part two

part three

eleven: tomorrow we live ↳ How to end a time loop | 9.8k

part one

part two

part three

twelve: serendipity

part one

part two

part three

epilogue

bonus chapters

these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story

frequently asked questions about time travel ↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ↳ One day in Bucky's time loop

57 seconds ↳ How Bucky met Twelve

somewhere in time ↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story

cause and effect ↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

alpine's pov ↳ set during chapter 8

fun stuff

🎵 series playlist

#️⃣ browse the series tag

moodboards by @barnesafterglow 💚

moodboard by @sweetascanbee 💚

moodboards by @idkitsem 💚

moodboards by @treatbuckywkisses 💚

[intrepidacious]

🥺🥺💚💚💚

time after time - masterlist

summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

series word count: 130.7k (136.3k+ including bonus chapters)

warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚

this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness

a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

✨ this series is finished as of 12 july 2025

my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise

one: turn back the clock ↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k

part one

part two

two: twice upon a time ↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k

part one

part two

three: every day’s a holiday ↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k

part one

part two

part three

four: groundhog day ↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k

part one

part two

five: carousel ↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k

part one

part two

part three

six: butterfly effect ↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k

part one

part two

part three

part four

seven: spellbound ↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k

part one

part two

part three

eight: edge of tomorrow ↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k

part one

part two

part three

nine: out of the past ↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k

part one

part two

part three

part four

ten: about time ↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k

part one

part two

part three

eleven: tomorrow we live ↳ How to end a time loop | 9.8k

part one

part two

part three

twelve: serendipity

part one

part two

part three

epilogue

bonus chapters

these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story

frequently asked questions about time travel ↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ↳ One day in Bucky's time loop

57 seconds ↳ How Bucky met Twelve

somewhere in time ↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story

cause and effect ↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

alpine's pov ↳ set during chapter 8

fun stuff

🎵 series playlist

#️⃣ browse the series tag

moodboards by @barnesafterglow 💚

moodboard by @sweetascanbee 💚

moodboards by @idkitsem 💚

moodboards by @treatbuckywkisses 💚

[intrepidacious]

bring your hunger

summary: There is a Witcher in your house.

pairing: geralt of rivia x succubus!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: smut (18+ only!!), light dubcon due to demon magic, penetrative sex (p in v), some biting and choking 😌 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: somehow it's been over a year since i posted a full fic but one ao3 writer's curse later here we are. whole new fandom. i've also never written smut until this show rewired my brain so bon appétit (please be kind). my biggest love to @aphrogeneias and @brandycranby who both let me complain about this story for about three months, i adore you!!

masterlist | read on ao3

There is a Witcher in your house.

You smell him long before you lay your eyes on him, the stench of his magic permeating the forest, harsh and acrid. Somewhere in the woods nearby, something is burning.

For a moment, you hesitate, considering your options. A lesser creature would’ve turned on the spot and run, would’ve stolen a horse in the nearby town and gotten as far away as possible, and maybe you should be doing the same. Forsake your home and this region and try to forget them to save your neck.

But your instincts are never wrong, and right now they are drawing you closer, one cautious step in front of the other, until your door creaks open.

He’s sitting in your chair, turned to the side to have a clear view of the entrance. He is propped up against the dining table, his matted white hair sticking to his forehead. The air is heavy with the smell of blood and sweat. Whatever happened across him managed to get him good; he seems to have bandaged himself up, somehow, but the gashes in his chest look painful.

He stares at you, frown deepening on his face, but he stays very still. There is a dangerous look in his amber eyes, full of fire and fury, and for some reason, that doesn’t scare you. Not at all.

Gods, you’re hungry.

There’s a steady pulse of power coming from him, muted but incessant, like his body’s not ready to drop the fight quite yet. He doesn’t, however, reach for the weapons he’s carelessly dropped on your good carpet.

So instead of fleeing, you draw the door shut behind you and you tilt your head.

It’s stronger now, the smell of your own powers. You don’t think it holds as much sway over Witchers as it would do over mere mortals, but it’s still enough for him to white-knuckle the edge of the table.

"I know what you are," he grits.

The low timbre of his voice makes you grin.

"That makes us even, then." You get closer to him, gingerly stepping over his swords. "Are you going to do something about it?"

His nostrils flare a little, but apart from that his face stays unreadable. Only his eyes betray him, still trained on your lips. He can’t help himself.

"I don’t kill your kind," he says.

"How generous of you." You come to a halt between his legs, reaching out to tilt his chin towards you.

He lets you, and there’s the slightest hint of amusement hidden at the corner of his mouth. From up close, the fire in his eyes burns even brighter.

"Let me show my appreciation," you say lowly.

His scent changes ever so slightly with the first small spike of his arousal. It sends a thrill of anticipation through you.

Your fingers trail down his throat, along his broad shoulders, down the taut muscles of his back, leaning into him even more. His hands fall to your hips, almost involuntarily. Slowly, unhurriedly, you let your nose brush against his and he inhales with a shudder.

This is always your favourite part. The final moments before they give into their desire, your meal prepared and served up on a silver platter, ready to indulge in.

"Don’t," he says, barely a warning.

"Don’t what?" You can feel his breath against your smile.

"Don’t tease."

"No?" He’s got remarkable restraint, this Witcher; but you can hear his racing heart. "Alright then."

And between one moment and the next, you let your clothes disappear.

It’s a simple trick, one that everyone of your kind can do as easily as blinking, but it’s never failed you. His eyes turn even darker as he realizes what you’ve done, as you move back a little to let him take you in. You lick your lips as another waft of his arousal reaches your nose.

Delicious.

"Is that better?" you whisper, tipping your head to the side.

He doesn’t reply. He pulls you towards him sharply, and then his mouth crashes against yours, hard and sudden. One of his hands grabs your ass, hauling you into his lap while the other one cradles the nape of your neck.

It’s a brutal kiss, divinely ferocious. Your naked core brushes over the noticeable bulge in his pants and he groans. You move your hips back and forth, just enough friction to make his fingers curl, nails biting into your skin.

This, you think, this is just what you’ve been craving. This sense of presence, of awareness. Your heartbeats growing faster. Pulling, tasting, wanting. More.

You only break the kiss to undo his belt, and he chases after your lips, hazy, starving.

You can relate.

He is already rock hard when you pull him out of his pants, ready and leaking. He pushes into your touch, raw need taking over.

You let out an appreciative hum, positioning yourself in his lap, careful not to put too much pressure on his chest. You want him to feel good, after all, no: you need him to.

You haven’t been sated in so long.

"Witcher," you chuckle breathlessly as his arms tighten around you, caging you against his body. "Aren’t you supposed to kill wicked, evil things like me?"

He growls, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. You gasp as he drags his tongue over the bite marks immediately; like he’s savouring your taste, too.

When he looks up at you again, his eyes are like molten embers.

Your hand tangles in his hair and you yank his head back to kiss him again, swallowing the sound he makes when you sink down on him, and it’s a pity, really, because you could get your fill from that alone. It’s delectably salty and bitter.

Finally, he’s fully inside you, and he tilts his hips to allow you a better angle as you start moving.

"So good for me," you murmur.

He slaps your hand away when you try to slip it between your bodies, and then his own fingers find your clit, gently teasing at first, but quickly applying more pressure. You gasp, your walls clenching around his cock.

He lets out a breathless huff. "There, huh?"

"That’s it. Just like that."

It’s too much. Your breaths quicken as the air around you starts to hum and crackle with building energy. It’s making your head swim, each precise stroke to your clit bringing you closer to that edge you’re chasing.

His mouth still trails along your neck, nipping there. Your skin already feels sticky with sweat and magic as you’re hurled ever closer to the peak of your arousal.

Just as the tension in your core gets tight enough to snap, he stills completely. His cock is fully sheathed inside you, but he doesn’t move, his arms around you hard and unyielding, not even allowing a single roll of your hips. Something between a whine and a growl escapes your lips as your canines come down hard enough to draw blood.

The Witcher smiles at you hazily. "Do you want to come, little demon?"

You want to bite him. You want to suck out his energy until he’s nothing more than a sad, empty husk.

Your snarl only brings out a dark glint in his eyes, and his hand moves to your neck, forcing you to hold his gaze. His grip tethers you in your denied pleasure.

"Ask nicely," he says lowly, brushing his lips against yours.

Wicked, evil man.

Underneath your skin, your powers are brimming with unease, not yet refilled, not yet repleted; he knows this. You know he knows, and yet you’re unwilling to give in. "Or what?"

His grin widens just a fracture as his chin juts out in unmatched arrogance. You could burn it off his face. You could dig your claws into the gashes in his chest and widen them even more, feast on his blood instead.

"I know you need it," he says. His cock twitches inside you. "Beg."

A shiver goes down your spine, hot and cold at the same time.

You don’t beg. Ever. You don’t yield control, not even for your meal, especially not to someone like him. But then he expertly applies pressure to your throat and your eyes roll back in your head, all thoughts lost to the thick haze of your desire.

"Please," you whimper, clenching around him again. "Please fuck me."

He groans, hips stuttering into yours involuntarily before he moves in earnest, keeping his hand on your throat. It’s almost agonisingly slow at first, one roll of his hips almost letting him slip out of your cunt completely before he pushes back in with one single, firm stroke.

Your startled cry of pleasure gets stifled by his mouth, coaxing, biting, until your claws dig into the thick muscles on his shoulders. The arm around your back guides your movement, pressing you even closer to his body than before as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, each one hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over.

You’re so close. You can already taste the precipice, black stars dancing along the edge of your vision.

Another moan rips out of you when you come apart for air, mouths open. "That’s it," he pants, watching you through half-lidded eyes, "Come for me."

His voice cracks with rapture, and it’s that more than the feeling of his own climax that sends you over the edge.

This part of your nature never gets old: As the orgasm rushes through you, the pent-up energy surrounding you snaps like lightning, funnelling into your body like an invisible current until you shudder blissfully with your appetite sustained. Your magic crackles around you, dancing on your burning skin like sparks of fire.

You hum appreciatively, your eyes still closed as you take a moment to collect yourself. This day has taken a pleasantly surprising turn, after all. It’s been too long since you’ve felt so thoroughly sated.

However, when you try to move out of his lap, the Witcher’s grip on you tightens decisively.

"Is that it?"

Your eyes fly open.

He is breathing heavily, but despite his loss of blood and the energy you’ve pulled from him, there’s not a trace of exhaustion to be found. He still has that same dangerous twinkle in his gaze. Fire and fury. Something lurches in your stomach.

"I thought your kind’s supposed to be insatiable," he says, leaning in to nuzzle at your collarbone. His medallion bumps against your breasts with a sharp vibration as his fingers trail down your side, a slow, torturously delicate touch. "You can give me one more."

It’s not a question. Still, the hands parting your legs even further are almost as gentle as they are relentless. A light press to your overstimulated clit has you keen, spasming around his cock, and he chuckles lowly.

"Eyes on me."

You hadn’t even noticed they’d fallen shut again. You’re leaning heavily into him now, another wave of pleasure starting to build as the smell of his magic envelopes you.

He growls, moving both of you around so you’re spread open on your dining table, him leaning over you with a look that wants to devour you whole. Like you’re the one being served up for him to make a meal out of. Impossibly, he’s growing hard again as his deft hands coax you closer to your next release.

"Just one more."

It’s such an obvious lie, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re brimming with energy, dizzyingly replenished and yet still ravenous. The air is humming with it, the promise of more.

"Don’t lie to me, Witcher," you still gasp.

His smile is positively sinful. "You said it yourself. I’m just so generous."

You’re so full. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his aura flickering with lust, rich and decadent and beautiful.

"In other words," he continues, his lips brushing your ear right as you reach your peak again. "We are just getting started."

this fic was brought to you by horny hyperfixations. reblogs and comments are what keep your local writers sustained!! if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics to get notified whenever i post 💛