intrepidacious

[intrepidacious]

set me free

summary: Once upon a time, a soldier fell from a train. Thankfully, this time, he is found by gentle hands, and a beautiful voice keeps him safe from the cold.

pairing: bucky barnes x nymph!reader

word count: 6.4k

warnings: bucky dealing with the loss of his arm; a pinch of angst for flavour; reader is perceived as female by men in the forties, but what does that really tell us?

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

a/n: hi. i really like this one. it combines two of my favourite things, fairy tales and 40s!bucky 😌 title is from the song her voice from the little mermaid musical <3

masterlist | read on ao3

“There was a girl.”

It’s the first thing he says when he wakes up, head wrapped in bandages and his arm … shit, his arm.

He doesn’t react when they break it to him, as gently as you can when you’re tearing someone’s life apart. What could he say?

Steve’s face speaks loud enough for the both of them.

He waits until everyone else has left, until he can drop the act and look at Steve, desperately trying to make him understand that there’s a voice singing inside of him that’s not his, that he feels like he lost two very precious things in a single day. “There was a girl.”

And Steve’s eyes go soft when he tells him, “I know.”

***

There was a story up north, where the waters turned grey with city slick and got forced through ever tightening brick holes, of the nymph that wanted to appeal to reason and got trapped in a barrel where he shrank, shrank until there was nothing left of him but water and vengeance, and who no one ever heard from again after in his last moments, he drowned dozens of them.

Humans.

You hadn’t seen one up close in years, not since they built their stinking railroad and stopped taking the time to walk through the lands adjoining your river. Your life got quiet when theirs got fast. You weren’t used to them anymore, and the constant buzzing in the camp gave you a headache.

Coming here was the most treacherous thing you’d ever done.

You just wanted to make sure he was alright after you’d pulled him from your waters and dragged him to where his friends would find him, down the river where the remnants of the train still burned. You watched the flames from a distance, the fire throwing eerie shadows across the snow for hours, leaving nothing but vapour.

He’d finally stopped bleeding, then.

You weren’t supposed to leave your river for any long period of time, but you couldn’t resist. The thought of the strange soldier with the beautiful face and hair the colour of muddy riverbanks occupied your every waking thought. As if he were calling to you.

You’re treading dangerous waters, your mother would have warned you, and you probably should’ve listened. But you’d never felt this way before.

So you left your voice behind to keep your legs for longer and went in search of your soldier.

The camp was dirty, haphazard, stank of human. None of them even seemed to notice. You almost wished for one of their primitive noses that couldn’t pick a trout from a pickerel.

You found the blond man first. Eyes like the darkest part of a waterfall and built like the rocks that kept the earth standing. His cries had sounded garbled from where you’d hid just below the surface, but now his voice was calmer, like rain.

“Are you lost?” he asked. It sounded peculiar to you, then, English, but you got used to it quickly.

You shook your head, already starting to move past him when he stepped into your path.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said with a frown.

Yes, you were.

“How did you even find us?”

It wasn’t hard. Nature was screaming their presence. If anyone wasn’t supposed to be here, it was them. But that wasn’t why you’d come.

“What’s your name?”

You were starting to wonder if humans ever got anything done or if they were spending all of their precious few days just standing around asking meaningless questions. Thankfully, one of the others started shouting at that moment, not even bothering to come closer. You cringed at the loud noise.

“Steve! It’s happening again!”

The blond man cursed under his breath, giving you another appraising look. “Stay here,” he ordered sternly, and then he took off.

You followed more slowly, moving past soldiers and nurses who were all in such a hurry to disguise how utterly useless they felt. None of them stopped you, even though you attracted some curious glances; you looked like them, now, but you didn’t move like them.

The ice cracked underneath your bare feet, but your steps were silent. The winter air did not chill you, even though your breath came up in small clouds of mist, just like it did for the rest of them, and you watched it evaporate into the grey sky.

A strange thing, they must have thought you. Similar enough, but not the same, somehow.

You found him easily, even though you couldn’t see him; it was like he pulled you in with invisible strings. His tug had already started to feel deceivingly familiar.

Another man stood in front of the entrance, holding a flask in his hand. He saw you approach, and he tipped his hat back to stare at you openly. He murmured something in a tongue clearly different from the first, and then he tapped his head and torso in several places, an instinctive, protective gesture.

You smiled at him.

“C’était vous?” he asked, and you nodded.

He looked over his shoulder quickly, and then he held the flaps of the tent open to let you in.

The air inside was heavy with the damp smell of sweat and blood. The blond man’s back almost kept him from your view, but you knew immediately that the convulsing body on the cot belonged to your soldier. They were holding him down, trying to keep him still as he was struggling.

He hadn’t woken yet.

You took another step closer, and then you saw him again. There he lay, still partially covered by your cloak, and the sight of it made you shiver. The obscenity of it all.

It’d seemed such a natural thing to do at the time, to shield him from certain death, but now, surrounded by all these other … humans? You could barely keep yourself from gagging.

You’d sung it into existence to keep him warm, and then you’d kept singing until the bleeding finally slowed.

You were almost done when you heard the others approach, calling out for him, and your head whipped around in shock. So much had you been preoccupied with your work, you hadn’t even noticed them until it was almost too late.

Careful, your mother’s voice warned softly in your head. A moment of weakness is how they catch you, pearl.

Your song hadn’t been completed, and when you melted back into your waters in haste, keen to get out of their view, you could feel something tear inside you as it got left behind.

It made you feel raw.

You were safe beneath your waters, but you’d left part of yourself with the handsome stranger with the mud-coloured hair, and as they picked him up and carried him back through the woods, the missing thing settled like a pebble in his pocket.

And now …

He was lying right in front of you, so close you might have just reached out and touched his damp forehead, but you didn’t quite dare, not with everyone else starting to notice your presence.

“You can't be in here!”

Oh, but you had to be.

You didn’t know what they must have seen in your eyes, but something changed on the blond man’s face, and he did not move when you did. Gently, you leaned over the man on the cot, noticing every shiver and flinch and moan, brushing a strand of hair from his brow. You pulled at the corner of your cloak and wrapped it around his shoulder again, careful not to touch the spattered bandages.

Your soldier sighed, and then his sleep grew dreamless.

The man called Steve let you stay.

***

It took several days before he woke up, and they’d moved him a few dozen metres uphill, where the trees formed more of a clearing and the air was crisp. You’d kept to the fringes of the camp, making yourself useful enough so they wouldn’t dismiss you, carrying hot water and sweeping snow off tarpaulin.

The sun was setting when you felt the pull again, but different this time, more tentative. You dropped your empty bucket and gathered your skirt, hurrying to see what had happened, what had changed.

“There was a girl.”

You came to a halt right outside the entrance to the med tent, hands pressed to your chest because suddenly, you felt ill, as if your heart was trying to burst out of your chest. You couldn’t make sense of the sudden wetness on your cheeks. Had it started to rain without your notice?

“There was a girl.”

You’re not a girl, but it was fine. Humans are so limited, your mother always used to say.

And he remembered your song.

***

The first time your soldier met you, met you properly, they’d wrapped him in blankets and carried him outside to sit in the sun. Like a wildcat, you thought, but his eyes were glazed over, not really taking in his surroundings.

It was a pity, you thought as you watched him, because the woods were beautiful that time of year, when the sun made the white mountain tops glitter like diamonds.

You only dared to move closer once the others gave up on trying to get him to talk. One slow step closer, than another. Finally, you sat down in the grass next to him, your feet crossing easily underneath you because you’d done it several times before at that point. The air was damp with morning dew.

Several minutes passed before he seemed to acknowledge your presence.

“Come to stare?” he croaked quietly. His voice was rough in places it wasn’t supposed to be.

You tilted your head to look at him, shielding your eyes against the sun. He looked magnificent in the light, even though the frown never left his face. You didn’t understand his question.

You didn’t know, then, that humans couldn’t just regrow their limbs like fish could their fins.

But you had no way of asking his meaning, so you just kept sitting next to him in silence, watching life move on in the camp downhill. He didn’t tell you to leave.

His name, you learned, was Bucky, and you wished you could try out the sound on your tongue to see how it tasted. He had eyes the colour of the ocean, but you didn’t know that until later. You’d never seen it before.

He stayed propped up in the med tent most of the time. For observation, Steve explained, worry in his voice, but he didn’t let you disturb Bucky in there. After all, you were just a stranger who didn’t talk or wear shoes, and whose seam was always inexplicably wet, and while you heard the whispers and knew he was smart enough to pick out the kernels of truth, he never told you to leave.

“I saw you that day,” he told you one afternoon, his waterfall eyes keen and focused. “You saved his life.”

A moment of weakness, you thought. You couldn’t help but wish for a lifetime of it.

You snuck in at night, when the nurse had gone to bed, tracing your cool fingertips against Bucky’s burning skin until he sighed in his sleep. In the pale moonlight, he seemed not much older than a boy. Sometimes, he woke up, but he was so delirious he must have mistaken you for an apparition by his bedside.

You silently tucked your cloak closer around him and hoped it was enough.

During the day, you kept close, staying busy by helping the others with the upkeep of the camp or looking for a quiet place to rest for a while. It took a lot out of you, trying to soothe Bucky’s pain, but it was worth it to you.

To him, you were an enigma.

You came out of nowhere into his life, and even though everything he had planned for the rest of it seemed to go up in flames around him and disappear forever, you were determined to stay by his side.

It took a lot of persuasion. You could hear Steve shout at the commanding officers for days, and the wind told you that Bucky heard, too. It spelled out his confusion, and his gratitude. Some part of him sensed your connection to him, even though he couldn’t understand it like you did.

Your boy was only human, after all.

In the beginning, in those early days before you even learned his name, you’d wondered if maybe the simple act of pulling Bucky out of your river had been what had somehow entranced you. If, as time went on, this fondness for him would disappear like the shimmer of light on the surface when the sun was rising; beautiful, but temporary.

It kept you seeking him out whenever you could, silently sitting down next to his chair with a bunch of fabrics to darn as the days kept getting warmer. It smelled of spring. Some colour had returned to his cheeks.

“Steve tells me you’re my guardian angel.” He said it like a reproach.

You merely shrugged and kept sewing. Your fingers were clumsy, not used to the tool, but you’d never been one to give up. When you stole a wayward glance at Bucky, he was watching you. He stirred underneath your gaze, and it made you want to jump up and run, run until you reached your river and could sink back beneath the familiar surface, to stop this racing in your chest, your head.

You tucked your legs underneath you.

It was strange, having legs again. You hadn’t worn them since … When was it, again, that they’d invented those terrible steaming machines that sent angry flares of smoke into the air and made it stink of fire and destruction for miles and miles?

You liked the feeling, though. They stood solid.

You were particularly fond of your toes, curiously burying them in the half-frozen ground until they changed colour, and then rubbing them between your stubby humanlike fingers so that the dirt fell off and they were warm once more.

Still, your soldier barely spoke to you.

You could feel his eyes set on you, though, whenever you walked by or sat at his feet. The cloak around his shoulders was drawing him to you, even if he didn’t know it. There was nothing else to it but ancient spells and unintentional offers.

You tried not to worry about it too much. The spell would fall off him as soon as he was healed enough, anyway, you knew as much.

But you couldn’t help yourself.

You heard his call to you at night, desperate, lonely, searching for some great unknown that he was missing. You felt the tug.

The ache became almost too much for you to bear.

The breeze whispered his name for you, a gentle kiss on his temple, as you lay rolled up in the cot they’d given you, waiting for dawn to bring an end to his nightmares and your untetheredness.

In the daylight, things were difficult in a different way. Oh, you wanted to talk to him, tell him all the stories you’d picked up over the decades. They all seemed so unreal when you were sitting next to him, as if they’d happened to someone else entirely.

The wind lashed out at you in moments like this, clashing fallen leaves into your face and pulling at your hair like a petulant child. Nature wasn’t angry with you, exactly, but she was mourning. She knew long before you did, and did everything in her power to soften the blow.

“How come you’re never cold?” Bucky asked when you rubbed your naked feet across the stone.

You laughed, silently, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“Right. Yes or no only, correct?”

You smiled and nodded. A light blush spread on his cheeks.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work out.” Your heart dropped, but he looked at you assessingly, his head slightly tilted to the side. “You don’t happen to know how to write, do you?”

You shook your head slowly. You were able to read human alphabets as well as understand the words, but it’d never seemed useful to you to put something in writing yourself. Whoever would you have addressed it to?

“I can teach you. Still got my working arm left, don’t I?”

He didn’t tell you that he needed this, that he needed to feel like he was still useful in some way, not just a nervous, hollow wreck of a man; he didn’t need to. You could read it in his eyes, and the resignation that was starting to fester at the bottom of his ocean eyes terrified you so much, you barely felt the needle slip before it pricked your finger. You flinched.

One, two, three drops of blood fell onto the fabric, staining the gleaming white. You stared at them, but the swirling thoughts in your head came to stop when he moved next to you and touched your hand.

“Are you alright?” Bucky asked, his fingers curling around your wrist. They were so warm. “You gotta be more careful, angel.”

It was the second time he called you an angel, and though you knew this couldn’t be further from the truth, you felt a strange heat rush through you, to your cheeks and every inch of skin he touched. The blankets around his shoulders had slipped down, and you could make out the silvery-blue edge of your cloak underneath. You bit your lip, and dropped your head.

Bucky let go of you, and the wind couldn’t quite soothe the loss of his warmth.

“I mean it,” he said after a while. “I’d like to teach you, if you want.”

So you went through your chores quickly the next day, and then headed for his tent with a spring in your step. You only stopped in front of the entrance when you heard voices inside.

“The notion came with the mail today,” Steve said. “They’ve made you a captain, Buck. To honour everything you’ve done in the line of duty.”

“Well, look at us, Stevie.” Bucky laughed hollowly. “We’ve both got empty titles to match now.”

You could hear Steve sigh. “Anger doesn’t suit you, pal.”

“It was always good enough for you.”

“I was a kid.”

“And I lost my arm!”

You couldn’t be sure if the cup fell by accident or if it was thrown by design, but it shattered with a spectacular crash, and then there was silence.

It was Steve who left, hands still buried in his hair. He took a moment to notice you, rubbing a palm across his face quickly. “Sorry about that,” he said. “You’re here for your lesson, right?”

You nodded.

“Right.” He coughed uncomfortably. “Well, he’s probably happier to see you than me, so …” He nodded, as if he was hearing an answer you didn’t give, and then he turned, stopping himself again to reach into his coat pocket. “You might need this,” he said, pressing something into your hand before he left.

It was a little red notebook, not much larger than your hand. You stood there, unsure whether you should enter or leave Bucky alone with the churning wave of his grief. In the end, he made the decision for you.

“Are you gonna come in?”

He didn’t sound angry anymore, only tired. You put the tiny notebook into your pocket.

When you pulled the tent open, he was sitting on his cot, and the blurry light falling in from the tiny window cast his face in deep shadows. He blinked against the sun in your back, and some weight seemed to fall off him. You took it for yourself.

It hurt, not being able to tell him everything you wanted to.

You set up outside, using some empty crates as a makeshift table as Bucky pulled out a pen and stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. Its edges were flapping in the wind.

He put the tip of the pen down and made a line, almost ripping a hole into the page. His jaw clenched even more. The paper bunched up underneath his hand, and even you could tell he was gripping the pen too tightly.

Carefully, you reached out and held the edge of the paper down for him.

Bucky closed his eyes for a long second and took a breath. Then, he started again.

***

It took another couple of weeks, but as spring grew into an early summer, Bucky began moving around on his own again. He was still weak from his prolonged bed rest, and his walk was off-balance, but more often than not, he picked you up for a round through the camp before settling down for your writing lesson.

You’d assumed that once you’d made your way through the entire alphabet, he’d teach you simple sentences, the ones children started with. Your letters didn’t look much better than theirs, anyway; they lacked the confidence of years of practice.

Soon, however, he was telling you stories.

Stories of places you’d never heard of, of machinery and grand ideas you could scarcely even imagine. Some of them he surely must have made up; they seemed too fantastical to be real. You were supposed to take notes, but found yourself too enthralled by his words time and time again. Trying to focus on your spelling was like swimming upstream; his tide worked against you.

“It’s fine,” he laughed when he’d deciphered your scribblings while you grimaced. “‘Sergeant’ is a hard one. You did great, angel.”

He might have made a wonderful teacher, you thought as you watched him write it down correctly. In a different life, or maybe even in this one.

“Have you ever been able to speak?” Bucky asked one day, in a way that told you he’d been thinking about wording this for so long it finally just fell out as bluntly as this.

Your hesitation, to him, seemed answer enough, because he cleared his throat.

“What happened? If you don’t mind my askin’.”

This was a new habit of his, one that had developed quickly once your spelling got legible. He kept asking you personal questions, and you never quite knew how to answer.

It’s complicated, you wrote slowly.

“Did it hurt?”

You met his gaze, again unsure of your response. You underlined your words. Then, you put up a hand before he could say anything else. The tip of your pen was shaking slightly.

I like this. With you.

He blushed so beautifully, like a sunset lowering its head between the treetops, and he stayed silent for a very long while before he spoke again.

“Could you tell me your name?”

You thought about it. You’d never seen it written down, of course, not in human letters anyway. You weren’t even sure it was proper to tell him.

But his eyes, his rainwater eyes focused on you with that gentle spark of curiosity burning brightly, and you put your pen down again.

You tried several ways of how you supposed it might be spelled before you settled on one that you liked.

Bucky read your name, and you huffed a breath of air. You weren’t one to still believe in gods, but it sounded almost like a prayer on his lips.

The smile that followed it sealed your fate.

You knew, then, that you’d go anywhere with him, if ever he asked. You’d stay by his side as long as he allowed you to, no matter how stormy the waters.

You’d saved his life, but he pulled you to shore.

No nymph was meant to appear a mortal for as long as you had, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave his side, not once you’d heard his laugh and read his thoughts and felt his heartbeat underneath your fingertips. You no longer wondered what your name would sound like on his tongue; you wanted to taste it.

What a strange feeling, desire.

How very human of your transformed body to wish for things your nature would never allow, how flawed a concept. But then, why did your heart feel so … heavy?

You noticed details in Bucky you never thought a human capable of, like the way his eyes would grow soft when he watched his friends, or how determination did not just make him harden but also tremble with sheltered trepidation.

Trains did not go by often during your stay in the camp, but when they did, he was the first to notice. You couldn’t take those terrors from him, no matter how much you wished for it.

You tried, anyway.

***

Falling in love with Bucky was easy, but falling in love with the human world happened all on its own, and you only caught up when they took you upstream. It was strange to realise; their way of living was so fast, so dirty and hurried and grand. It terrified you, and fascinated you all the same. The city was large, and the people seemed so small against its high buildings and neverending cobbled streets. Tiny, countless pebbles in a river.

You kept tight hold of Bucky’s hand as you made your way through the crowd, your nose twitching. There was an air of excitement amongst soldiers and city people alike, and it only got more jubilant once you’d reached your destination.

You swallowed down your beating heart as you tried to take everything in.

The colours, the smells, so strong you thought you might taste them, the feel of dresses brushing against your skin and the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. And the music. You’d never heard anything like it, loud and happy and right in front of you.

You were nudged onto a stool in the corner, watching wide-eyed as the musicians’ fingers moved so fast you could barely keep track, their beat leaving goosebumps all over your skin. All the while, people were dancing in mad circles around them.

You didn’t know whether you’d sat there for minutes or hours by the time Steve emerged from the cluster of people that had formed around the bar. “There you are!” he called over, and even without looking at him, you could feel Bucky smile next to you.

“You’re saying that like it wasn’t you who got side-tracked,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.

“You should be celebrating, Buck, that’s the whole point.”

“I like this,” Bucky said, looking at you, but Steve ignored him.

“What are you doing at the side of the dance floor, anyway?” he said as if he were settling an old score. He turned to you with a conspiratorial look. “Your man is the best dancer around, and don’t let him pretend otherwise.”

Even though he wasn’t drunk, the alcohol had left mischief in Steve’s eyes. With his dishevelled hair and reddened cheeks, he looked rather boyish, and it suited him, you thought. You wondered what Bucky would look like with that much ease running through his veins.

“She doesn’t wanna dance with me, knucklehead,” Bucky groaned. “Now piss off and bother someone else.”

Steve winked at you, but did leave you to it. You watched Bucky watch him walk away. His face puzzled you; it looked almost pained.

“What?” he said quietly when he caught your stare. You gestured for his hand.

I do, you traced into his palm. His fingers twitched. You didn’t let go.

“You do what?” he asked, carefully.

Your eyes flitted to the dance floor, then back to him. The band still played at a fast pace, something that sent feet stamping and skirts twirling. It looked fun.

Bucky lingered in the same realisation for a moment before he grimaced. “I don’t wanna make you look a fool, angel, I don’t.”

You pulled him to his feet.

Standing on the dance floor, you quickly realised that watching the other dancers had made the steps and turns look a lot easier than they actually turned out to be in practice. Your limbs didn’t want to seem to move in that same weightless, flowing fashion; at least not at that speed.

A tiny smirk formed on Bucky’s lips as he tried guiding your feet with his own, his hand loosely holding your waist. The ever-shifting directions confused you; every time you felt like you’d figured it out, it seemed like the movements changed mid-stream and suddenly went the opposite way. You threw your head back in frustration as you stepped on his foot for the tenth time.

Bucky just chuckled. “Hold on,” he told you quietly.

Before you could give him a questioning look, he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you off the ground. With a silent gasp, your hands tightened around his neck, your body pressed closer to his than you’d ever been as he spun you around to the rhythm of the music, your hearts beating in time.

You’d been floating your entire life, but you’d never felt as weightless and carefree as you did right then, his laugh such a beautiful melody you forgot about the rest of the world around you.

Only when he put you back down did you realise that the song must have changed; indeed, the crowd had dispersed, only a few other couples were still dancing to the slow tune the band was playing now. You brushed a strand of hair out of Bucky’s face and smiled, trying to convey every bit of the happiness you felt on your face.

He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to yours, gently swaying you from side to side. You felt your chest expand with it.

It all seemed so impossible.

For you to be here now, with human legs, in the embrace of this man, this brave, handsome, courteous soldier that you adored more than anyone or anything else; how many drops had to have fallen in the right place at the right time to set your path in stone the way it was supposed to be.

“I like you, you know, I really do,” Bucky said quietly. “If things’d been different, I’da asked you to be my girl.”

You stopped breathing.

“I mean it,” he said, tugging your chin up. “You’re beautiful, and kind, and smart, and you saved my life back in that river.”

You shook with his confession, your thoughts swirling. The temptation to give in was almost unbearable when he looked at you like that, like he wanted to explore every last corner of your soul. But he had no idea how deep you ran.

“What is it, angel?”

You wanted to tell him that this was everything you wanted, and that that was the problem. You didn’t know whether this was him asking, or whether your magic had sunk so deep it confused the very core of him.

On the other hand, if you refused him now and ripped it out all at once, wouldn’t that be even worse? What if it took all the good you’d been trying to do away with it as well? No, you couldn’t risk that. You had to stay with him until he didn’t need you anymore; and whether that took forever or just three more days, you’d have to be fine with it.

Bucky sighed and dragged his hand through his hair, taking half a step back. “I’m being selfish, I know. I just can’t help but feel like there’s something …”

He trailed off, and you put a hand over his heart to urge him on. You could feel it racing underneath his layers. He swallowed heavily.

“I’m being shipped back to the States next week.”

Again, you held your breath, even though this time, his confession was like a bucket of ice water down your spine. You didn’t even hear the next couple of sentences, only listening again when he said your name.

“—I can’t ask you to come with me, it’d be—I’m not even—”

You frowned in question. Why not?

He sighed again. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Like what?

“Like I’m worth your pity.”

Your fingers held tightly to the material of his jacket. Bucky didn’t meet your eye. You both must have stopped moving at some point, but suddenly, you felt dizzy.

Slowly, you reached for his hand. You weren’t sure which one of you was shaking more.

Ask me, you traced into his palm. Bucky shook his head. Ask me, you wrote again, more quickly this time.

“I can’t,” he said, wanting. “I shouldn’t.”

Let me, you wrote onto his skin, and you could see the moment his doubts, for now, washed away.

“Come home with me.”

***

The evening before you were set to leave, you returned to the river one last time to say goodbye. Your legs melted together as soon as you immersed yourself in the water, its familiar touch caressing your cheeks.

“I’m here to tell you I’m leaving,” you called out to the fish, but they already knew. You were all part of these waters, and there were no secrets kept.

No matter how much you would miss it, you were sure about your decision. You’d follow him  across the sea, over any mountain, to the ends of the world, if need be, where the waters were raining into the sky; if only he’d permit it.

You settled down at the bottom of the river for a final time, letting its slick brush over you and stick to your hair, committing every stone and plant to memory. It was then you realised you’d been searching for the sea your entire life only to find it in a human’s eyes.

You were ready to see what else you would find out there.

When you emerged from the water, it was raining, warm and heavy on your skin after the coolness of the river that was no longer yours. You put your head in your neck, your eyes closed as your lungs readjusted to breathing the sweet spring air.

Bucky was waiting for you underneath the shield of your favourite willow tree, his eyes heavy as he watched you. Your neatly folded cloak was hanging over his shoulder.

“I’ve heard stories, you know,” he said, his hand slowly following the seam of it, pulling it closer to his frame. You bit the inside of your cheek. “They’re not just made up, are they?”

You shook your head slowly.

“Why did you save me?”

The question surprised you in its desperation. Still, you didn’t reach out to him. Even if you had dared, you couldn’t; you seemed frozen to the spot. Instead, your hand found its way to your throat.

Waters or not, you were still incomplete.

But your soldier was as smart as he was brave.

He nodded for you to take the last few steps ashore towards him, and then wrapped you in your cloak as best as he could with his single arm. You shivered as it sank into your skin once more. At the scent of him melting into yours. You could almost taste it.

You looked at him, expecting to see the terror they would always warn you about. The hatred. Betrayal. Fury. What you found in his eyes instead mirrored what you could feel leaking from your own: awe.

He gave you your gift back.

You weren’t well-versed in the traditions that your kind had upheld for centuries, but this even you knew, even after all these years on your own. After all, you’d dreamed it up so many times, never daring to hope it would become reality.

This meant a proposal.

But he couldn’t mean that. No matter what kind of tales he’d heard, he couldn’t know. And you weren’t about to bind yourself to him without his knowledge.

So you slowly, reluctantly shook your head no.

“Did I get something wrong?” Bucky asked, his voice cracking with concern.

He wasn’t supposed to make it this hard. He wasn’t supposed to figure out who, what you were, not like this, not for a good time yet. You had meant to take care of him, but how were you going to, now?

A droplet of river water fell off your lashes and he caught it with his thumb before he could seem to stop himself. You pulled his hand away gently.

You don’t mean it, you traced onto his arm.

He didn’t. It was just the spell, and it would release him any second now.

You couldn’t help but wish for your notebook, then, the one filled with his stories and laughter and all the things you could never say. Maybe its familiar pages would help dull this pain.

Your lungs had dried up and your skin grew warm beneath his touch, but his ache was woven into him by outside forces. Yours though … yours was winning.

“I’ve said a lot of things in my life that I didn’t mean, angel, but this ain’t one of them.”

You looked up at him and found his eyes the same. It should be impossible, that beautiful, terrible, hopeful shade of blue. It had been haunting your dreams for as long as you could remember, and it had nothing to do with the spell you wove upon him on that snowy riverbank.

I love you, you thought, and maybe he did the same.

When he kissed you, it tasted of saltwater, the kind of oceanic sadness you’d so often seen in his eyes. It took your breath away, reduced you to a fish on dry land and made you human again. Something settled, then, with his hand on your back and yours cupping his face. It had the taste of finality to it, this transformation.

He didn’t seem to want to stop kissing you, as if you were still the only thing breathing life into his lungs. Or maybe he was returning the favour.

“Bucky,” you whispered against his lips, and a shudder went through him. “Bucky.”

Your voice sounded different to your own ears, but you couldn’t tell if it was the air or something else entirely.

He said your name with such reverence your knees almost buckled, mouth seeking out yours again before the echo of your last kiss had left it. His hand trailed up slowly, to your side, your elbow, your cheek, his thumb caressing the soft skin on your temple carefully, adoringly.

There was a gust of wind as the last bit of magic worked its course, but you barely noticed it. Only at the very back of your mind did you come to realise that your toes had gone numb with the cold.

i live for feedback so please don’t leave me hanging 💙 if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

read more about these two in being understood

[intrepidacious]

Clark Kent + bandaging a bleeding wound

just out of reach | c.k.

a/n: you already know this but i am insane about this film and i will make it everyone's problem 🫶🏼

"Shh, hold still."

You let out a sharp breath at the sting of the desinfectant and Clark’s eyes turn apologetic, his touch soothing, careful, as he finishes patching you up.

"I’m sorry," he says, fingers ghosting over the bandage over your knee in a way that makes you shiver. At least you’ve stopped bleeding now, for the most part, even though you still have one hell of a migraine and probably look like you were hit by a truck; it really isn’t fair, you think, that you were both stuck in the same building during the attack and yet he looks completely untouched by the mayhem caused by Superman’s best attempts to protect you all.

"Unless you invited a bunch of aliens to fuck up Metropolis for the third time this month, it’s literally not your fault," you say with a shaky laugh.

Clark grimaces, adjusting his glasses, "Still," he says, straightening, "I don’t like you getting hurt because of … everything."

You blink up at him, framed in the afternoon sunshine falling in through the broken windows, and your head throbs a little, like it’s trying to remind you about something you’ve forgotten; and then another piece of Daily Planet ceiling crumbles just behind him and the moment breaks with your yelp, leaving you with a wildly pounding heart and the vague feeling that in all the chaos, you’ve lost track of something.

[intrepidacious]

Clark Kent + bandaging a bleeding wound

just out of reach | c.k.

a/n: you already know this but i am insane about this film and i will make it everyone's problem 🫶🏼

"Shh, hold still."

You let out a sharp breath at the sting of the desinfectant and Clark’s eyes turn apologetic, his touch soothing, careful, as he finishes patching you up.

"I’m sorry," he says, fingers ghosting over the bandage over your knee in a way that makes you shiver. At least you’ve stopped bleeding now, for the most part, even though you still have one hell of a migraine and probably look like you were hit by a truck; it really isn’t fair, you think, that you were both stuck in the same building during the attack and yet he looks completely untouched by the mayhem caused by Superman’s best attempts to protect you all.

"Unless you invited a bunch of aliens to fuck up Metropolis for the third time this month, it’s literally not your fault," you say with a shaky laugh.

Clark grimaces, adjusting his glasses, "Still," he says, straightening, "I don’t like you getting hurt because of … everything."

You blink up at him, framed in the afternoon sunshine falling in through the broken windows, and your head throbs a little, like it’s trying to remind you about something you’ve forgotten; and then another piece of Daily Planet ceiling crumbles just behind him and the moment breaks with your yelp, leaving you with a wildly pounding heart and the vague feeling that in all the chaos, you’ve lost track of something.

[intrepidacious]

the softest boy 🥺🥰

Clark Kent + bandaging a bleeding wound

just out of reach | c.k.

a/n: you already know this but i am insane about this film and i will make it everyone's problem 🫶🏼

"Shh, hold still."

You let out a sharp breath at the sting of the desinfectant and Clark’s eyes turn apologetic, his touch soothing, careful, as he finishes patching you up.

"I’m sorry," he says, fingers ghosting over the bandage over your knee in a way that makes you shiver. At least you’ve stopped bleeding now, for the most part, even though you still have one hell of a migraine and probably look like you were hit by a truck; it really isn’t fair, you think, that you were both stuck in the same building during the attack and yet he looks completely untouched by the mayhem caused by Superman’s best attempts to protect you all.

"Unless you invited a bunch of aliens to fuck up Metropolis for the third time this month, it’s literally not your fault," you say with a shaky laugh.

Clark grimaces, adjusting his glasses, "Still," he says, straightening, "I don’t like you getting hurt because of … everything."

You blink up at him, framed in the afternoon sunshine falling in through the broken windows, and your head throbs a little, like it’s trying to remind you about something you’ve forgotten; and then another piece of Daily Planet ceiling crumbles just behind him and the moment breaks with your yelp, leaving you with a wildly pounding heart and the vague feeling that in all the chaos, you’ve lost track of something.

[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

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

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 💚

✨ 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 ↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k

part one

part two

part three

epilogue ↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k

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 💚

moodboard by yours truly 💚

[intrepidacious]

thank you so so much for reading and taking the time to comment and reblog, that's all i could ever ask for 🥺💚

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

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

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 💚

✨ 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 ↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k

part one

part two

part three

epilogue ↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k

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 💚

moodboard by yours truly 💚

[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

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

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 💚

✨ 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 ↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k

part one

part two

part three

epilogue ↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k

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 💚

moodboard by yours truly 💚

[intrepidacious]

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]

Seven Sentence Sunday:

Bucky & Ocean 💙 do what you want with it

oceans away | b.b.

a/n: i didn't expect this either but then i remembered the bridgerton musical and i had to go with that. this is knight!bucky, have fun

You could feel his eyes on you all the way from the other side of the room; a look discreet enough to be brushed off easily as overly cautious should anybody else have noticed, but you knew. After all, he’d tasted the expensive perfume on your neck. His hands had refastened the laces of your dress in some dark corner.

There was no way to even begin to imagine the scandal should the two of you ever be found out; you would probably be sent to a convent while James would be stripped of his title as a royal knight at best, hanged at worst. This court wasn’t fit to house a love like yours; it consumed you both whole.

You kept dancing with men who weren’t him because that’s what you were expected to do, but you could feel his eyes on you the entire time, so close and yet oceans away, and that was all that mattered. You were both willing to risk it all over and over again for just a couple of stolen moments that brought you a piece of heaven.

[intrepidacious]

Clark Kent + bandaging a bleeding wound

just out of reach | c.k.

a/n: you already know this but i am insane about this film and i will make it everyone's problem 🫶🏼

"Shh, hold still."

You let out a sharp breath at the sting of the desinfectant and Clark’s eyes turn apologetic, his touch soothing, careful, as he finishes patching you up.

"I’m sorry," he says, fingers ghosting over the bandage over your knee in a way that makes you shiver. At least you’ve stopped bleeding now, for the most part, even though you still have one hell of a migraine and probably look like you were hit by a truck; it really isn’t fair, you think, that you were both stuck in the same building during the attack and yet he looks completely untouched by the mayhem caused by Superman’s best attempts to protect you all.

"Unless you invited a bunch of aliens to fuck up Metropolis for the third time this month, it’s literally not your fault," you say with a shaky laugh.

Clark grimaces, adjusting his glasses, "Still," he says, straightening, "I don’t like you getting hurt because of … everything."

You blink up at him, framed in the afternoon sunshine falling in through the broken windows, and your head throbs a little, like it’s trying to remind you about something you’ve forgotten; and then another piece of Daily Planet ceiling crumbles just behind him and the moment breaks with your yelp, leaving you with a wildly pounding heart and the vague feeling that in all the chaos, you’ve lost track of something.

[intrepidacious]

almost believing

summary: You and Bucky aren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment. That doesn't mean you're getting out of having to pretend to be married for a mission.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 5.4k

warnings: miscommunication dialled up to eleven bc it's me; friends to lovers with lots of seething in between; set around christmas, but not a christmas fic; slight spoiler warning for wakanda forever just to be safe

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

prompt: fake dating, baby 😌 title and initial inspiration for this fic were taken from "so close" from enchanted. yes. that scene.

a/n: this was written for my wonderful tiff's sweet as sugar writing challenge!! @traitorjoelite i'm so proud of you and i hope you enjoy this fic. i really thought this one would be short i swear. big shoutout and thank you to @sweetascanbee for listening to me rant about this for weeks, i appreciate you so much!!

masterlist | read on ao3

Here’s the thing: It’s supposed to be a simple mission. Just gathering intel at the hotel for one single night, the two of you pretending that everything is fine for a couple of hours more.

After all, it’s Bucky’s last mission with you before his reassignment goes through.

Well, it’s not like it’s going to make a difference to how much you’re seeing him, to be honest.

You’re not sure when he started making himself rare or why, but once you noticed it, it was impossible not to.

"Sorry, I’m heading out," when you ask him to grab lunch together seems inconspicuous enough, as does, "Ah, I’m already supposed to meet Sam," when you try asking him about that trip to IKEA you’d been talking about for ages.

But it doesn’t stop there. One excuse follows the next, and suddenly there’s always something more important than the two of you hanging out.

Of course, you try to rationalize it at first. Swallow down your hurt feelings, because Bucky is your friend, and sometimes people just need space. You’re fine. The two of you are fine.

Once he starts scheduling dates for Friday night, though—which has always been movie night, always, every week since you met him—you know that something’s wrong.

"Is he angry with me?" you keep asking Steve, who looks very uncomfortable and definitely knows what's going on.

"Just give him a little space," he suggests timidly. So you do. You let the whole thing go.

For like a week.

"I just don’t know what I did," you tell Sam over drinks, your head held in your hands.

"Nope," he answers, downing his dregs. "I’m not doing this. Nuh-uh."

"You know, too?" you cry, accusingly pointing at him.

"I don’t know anything," Sam deadpans. And then he puts his scarf on and leaves.

"Maybe try talking to Bucky about it?" Natasha suggests, either incapable of hiding her amused smile or unwilling to try.

"I would if I ever saw him for longer than a 'hi, how are you' at the gym," you mumble. Fact is, you’re getting pissed about him giving you the silent treatment without even knowing what you did wrong.

Because before this, whatever this is, things were fine. Great, even. Free afternoons were spent on each other’s couches, introducing him to your favorite tv shows and letting him teach you that stupid card game he loves so damn much. You’d even been starting to imagine that there might be something …

Clearly, you were wrong.

Now, you can’t even look at him without your throat closing up. It’s like you woke up a few weeks ago and he’s become an entirely different person around you, much more like he was at the beginning of your friendship, distant and cold.

He didn’t even tell you that he’d signed up for a transfer.

The mission call feels like your last chance.

A whole evening of teamwork and espionage, of him basically having no other choice than talking to you and finally telling you why the fuck he would get himself reassigned without even telling you beforehand. You could’ve hugged Fury for the opportunity.

That is, until you’re handed the file containing your fake identities for the op a few hours before you’re supposed to leave.

"You’re joking," you say as soon as you open the door.

"Great, you’re here as well," Steve says dryly. "Again, a) you both gotta learn how to knock, b) the whole thing wasn’t my idea or my decision, but I also think it’s the best directive for what you’re trying to do, and c) no, there’s no one else available for the mission. Anything I missed?"

Bucky deliberately doesn’t meet your eye, his arms still crossed as he stares Steve down with a look you can’t decipher. He doesn’t even acknowledge you standing in the door, but his foot is doing the tapping thing again.

You purse your lips and join the staring.

Steve sighs, rubbing his temples with the palms of his hands. "Listen, you two work well together and I know these past few weeks have been … strained"—you almost laugh at that—"but it’s just one night."

"We need to pretend we’re married," you say. "How’re we going to pull that off if he can’t stand being in the same room as me?"

"I trust that there won’t be any issues." Steve raises an eyebrow at Bucky as he says that, but of course he doesn’t get a reply. That would necessitate talking in your presence.

"One night," Bucky repeats through gritted teeth.

Not for the first time, there seems to be some sort of silent conversation between the two of them that you’re not privy to. You roll your eyes.

"I’ll see you later."

You leave with your back straight and without a glance over your shoulder, the door slamming shut behind you.

For a moment, you’re tempted to barge into Natasha’s office next, but you have a feeling like she’d just give you another one of her looks again, which really won’t better your mood. So instead, you slam another door and flop onto your bed, blankly staring at the ceiling for a while.

Surely, there’s some twisted sort of irony in this whole situation, but you’re not laughing.

Usually, before a mission, you’d get bagels together from the bakery around the corner. You haven’t done that in a while, but you’re still quietly begging your phone to show a new unread message when you look at the time however long later.

Instead, there’s just your lockscreen picture of Bucky’s grinning face that you can’t bear to get rid off, no matter how many times it stings you. It’s almost a year old, now, back when you’d taken him to go do your holiday shopping with you, insisting that "no one’s gonna recognize you, look at that great cap you’re wearing".

It’d started snowing halfway through the afternoon, and he’d kept reaching for your hand in order not to lose you in the crowd. You both gave up halfway through your list and just went to get coffee instead, strolling through Central Park and talking about nothing and everything.

That’s when you’d realized you'd been falling in love with him, laughing and fingers freezing around your paper cup, a strange new warmth spreading throughout your body.

You need to change your lockscreen.

***

Half an hour before pick-up, you leave your room with a duffle bag slung over your shoulder and almost run into Bucky. He’s leaning against the opposite wall like he’s been waiting for you, and it stings because that’s what he always used to do, back when you were still talking. When you could still pretend that maybe, just maybe, your feelings weren’t quite so hopeless.

Now, though, his easy smile is missing. Instead, an ever-present frown is furrowing his brows again, his mouth opened just a little, but nothing comes out.

"Look, I don’t want to do this any more than you do," you sigh. "But it’s a two-person job."

He nods, his tongue poking his cheek. "I know."

"Do you think you’re gonna be alright with us pretending we’re madly in love for a whole evening?"

Bucky’s jaw tightens. "I’ll be fine."

Of course he’s going to be fine.

You grab the strap of your bag more tightly. "I wish you would just tell me what I did."

"You didn’t do anything." If he’s telling the truth, though, why does he look so numb?

For a moment, you want to shout at him, cry, beg, make him tell you when and how this went wrong, but you don’t. You just stare at him in silence, hoping he’ll get it anyway, and he refuses to notice it.

"So," Bucky finally says. "You ready to get hitched?"

There’s the ghost of a grin in his eyes, and even though it’s not enough to mask the uncomfortable tilt of his shoulders, you sigh. At least he’s trying, you suppose.

"Let’s just get fake-married so we can fake-divorce and go our separate ways," you say, walking past him.

"I’ve got something for you."

You turn around again, raising your eyebrows as he holds up a ring between the fingers of his left hand. There’s a giant stone set in its center, striking and sparkling and not subtle in the slightest. Tony really went all out for appearance’s sake. Your fingers involuntarily tighten around the strap of your bag.

Bucky drops the ring in the palm of your hand.

"Quite the present," you chuckle nervously. You don’t even want to know how much this thing costs, and you feel like they're going to chop off your head if something happens to it.

"Try it on, then."

It’s a bit too large on your finger, and it feels foreign. It’s not you at all. Then again, it’s not supposed to be you.

Before you can say anything, though, Bucky shakes his head. "What?" you say with a roll of your eyes.

"That couldn’t look more fake if you tried. Wait a sec."

He turns his back towards you and rummages through his bag for a while, his jaw still set as he holds out his hand once more. With a sigh, you pull the ring off again and return it, but before you can pull your hand back, he catches it in his own.

This one slides onto your finger perfectly, and your eyes widen at the sight of it. It’s a lot subtler, with only a small emerald for decoration, but it’s so delicate and beautiful it takes your breath away.

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes, but he swallows whatever came to his mind. "That’s better," he says instead, and his voice sounds oddly rough.

"They gave you a backup?" you say, angling your hand this way and that to see how the gem catches the light.

"Mhm."

Something is off about this whole situation, but then you feel like you don’t really know Bucky anymore. Not like you used to, anyway. It used to be so easy to get a read on him.

You stand there in silence for a moment, and it’s only then that both of you realize he’s still holding your hand. He drops it immediately, and you pretend it doesn’t sting.

"How come you don’t get a ring?" you ask.

"Says who?" Bucky says, clearing his throat and activating the camouflage sleeve Tony had installed for his arm. Sure enough, there’s a ring on his hand as well.

You grab his hand curiously. When you touch it, there’s no difference between his fingers and the pseudo-platinum band, all of it just cool vibranium in disguise.

"It’s fake," you say. "It’s not the same."

"No," he agrees and pulls his hand away. "Looks real enough, though."

You notice the red splotches on his neck and wonder what it is that you’ve said this time, but it’s pointless anyway. He’s not going to tell you even if you asked.

Maybe you should be used to him icing you out by now, but it still hurts.

***

"Yes, Steve, I know," you sigh. "We’re just gathering intel, nothing else."

"I just wanted to have you say it again so we’re all clear. You both love taking risks when it’s not necessary."

"Alright, punk, we got it," Bucky says, tugging at his tie again.

You can’t even blame him for the nervous habit; you’ve been twisting your fake wedding ring around your finger for the entire drive.

This isn’t the first time the two of you had to go undercover as a couple; hell, it’s not even the first time you’ve pretended to be married. Usually, though, you could have a laugh about the whole thing together.

Now you barely know how to act around Bucky as yourself, let alone as some made up woman.

"I think we’re going to attract a lot of attention if we don’t get out soon," you say, readjusting the collar of your blouse underneath your coat.

You notice Steve staring at your hand for a moment, a frown between his brows, but his lips curve upwards a split second later. "Ready to do this?" he asks and you smile a little in confirmation.

Bucky takes another breath and then he nods curtly. "Let’s go."

The change that goes through him as soon as the two of you climb out of the car is so stark you almost turn on your heels again and beg Steve to let you off the hook, after all. His hand sneaks around your waist and pulls you closely into his side as you walk towards the hotel, all soft smiles and charm.

"Sorry for the holdup," he tells the bellman waiting next to your bags with a wink. "The missus and I just needed another minute."

You lightly slap Bucky’s chest in fake indignation. It’s quick thinking on his part, really.

When you’re checking in under your assumed names for the evening, he keeps his arm around you, and the content look stays in his eyes. A subtle glance at your surroundings tells you some of your persons of interest have already arrived early for the event tonight, looking around the sparkling lobby with the same feigned boredom.

Bucky nudges your cheek with his nose and then smiles again when you look at him. It makes your brain shut off for a moment.

When he looks at you like this, it’s so easy to forget the past couple of months and just pretend for a moment. What if there was no mission at all, and it could simply be the two of you?

But of course, that’s not possible. All of it is fake, including the way he looks at you. You know that.

So how come it doesn’t feel fake to you at all?

***

You hate this dress, you hate these people, you hate this dinner, and most of all, you hate how much you enjoy spending this much time so physically close to Bucky.

It feels so natural when he links your hand with yours, so fucking meant to be, even though he’s just putting on a show for the band of creeps you’re tasked to keep an eye on.

But damn if he’s not good at it.

It’s amazing, really, how his eyes immediately soften when you turn your head towards him, like you’re the only person in the whole room. He looks at you during this charade like you wish he’d look at you daily, even far from prying eyes around you; especially then. It makes your breath shorten, your heart pounding erratically because it thinks it’s getting everything it’s ever hoped for.

Hearts are often stupid like that.

A full night of glances and touches and the pretence of secret whispers will do all kinds of twisted things to your feelings.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and when Bucky squeezes your hand you realize he’s no longer the only one who’s looking at you.

You chuckle nervously. "I’m sorry, I got … distracted for a moment. What were you saying?"

"Ah, newlyweds," one of the investor goons laughs. He’s a particularly vile looking man whose suit is way too big on his spindly limbs.

Bucky, academy award winning actor in another lifetime, chuckles politely while the fondness in his eyes seems to increase tenfold. "We’ve been married three years, actually," he says, sticking to your official cover story.

It’d been Tony’s idea to keep your fake timeline as close to the truth as possible to avoid any slip-ups. It’s a great move on paper, really, but in reality it just adds another nail to the coffin.

Three years ago, you were on a mission in Brussels, only the second one ever where it was just the two of you. It was mostly surveillance, so one of you usually had downtime while the other kept lookout. It became customary that you’d entertain each other during those long hours, getting to know each other intimately for the first time, taking the first tentative steps towards the friendship you now share.

That mission was the groundwork of your falling in love with him in the first place.

"You seem to be doing something right if you’re both still so enamoured with each other," Spindly Arms says.

"I’m the luckiest guy in the world," Bucky responds, still looking into your eyes. "It’s hard not to do the right thing, then."

He presses a kiss to your cheek and you smile timidly. His lips linger for just a moment, and then he moves to whisper into your ear, something you’re sure looks like sweet nothings to everybody else but is actually a, "Don’t fall asleep on me."

You tilt your head, shove him teasingly as if he’d said something inappropriate, and because he’s always been quick to catch on he winks, obvious enough so that the other people that are part of this conversation can clearly see it.

It’s not long after this that you excuse yourselves, walking around the room with apparent aimlessness. Everything is sparkling with pure gold decorations and countless little twinkling lights that have been scattered around the room like millions of fireflies. You spot an actual orchestra right underneath the massive Christmas tree.

"Kind of tacky, don’t you think?" Bucky murmurs with a sideway glance at you.

"Maybe a little," you say.

The truth is, though, the room looks oversaturated and expensive and magnificent. Something straight out of a Hallmark movie, more like a movie set than a real place.

It’s the one thing that keeps this whole thing from being completely unbearable.

He must have seen the truth in your eyes, because he ducks his head and says quietly, "I’m gonna go check out the terrace."

You just nod and smile as he kisses your cheek again and then vanishes through the crowd with a few long strides. Sighing, you take another drink from the tray a waiter offers you, absent-mindedly rubbing your cheek.

"What a lovely surprise," a voice says next to you and you freeze for a moment before forcing yourself to calmly take a sip. "Miss … Winter, was it?"

"Mrs," you say with a pleasant smile. "Good evening, Director."

"Right, of course." Director de Fontaine eyes her martini warily. "I don’t suppose these olives are fresh, do you?"

Your mind is racing. If she’s here on official business, then your entire operation might be compromised.

"So," she continues, looking rather bored. "Met any interesting people yet, Mrs Winter?"

"Oh, yes," you say lightly, clinging to your role of unassuming young wife. "It’s all rather exciting."

"I’m sure. These kinds of events are all very … shiny." She looks into your eyes and there’s an almost explicit warning written in hers. "It’s surprisingly easy to get blinded."

You swallow heavily even as she smiles. "If you’ll excuse me, I think I see someone …"

You quickly walk over to the buffet table where some of the wives have formed a semi circle of gossip, trying your best to hide your sigh of relief when the director doesn’t follow you.

For a few minutes, you lose yourself in pointless gossip, until one of the women takes hold of your forearm.

"You must tell us, what’s your secret?"

"Excuse me?" you chuckle nervously.

"Your husband!" she exclaims, earning a few nods from some of the others. "He clearly adores you," she goes on. "I don’t think he’s looked away from you once since you joined us."

You steal a look around your shoulder. She’s right. Bucky’s gaze immediately locks with yours, an almost bashful grin on his lips. You caught me, his eyes seem to say, and you feel a rush of heat go through you.

He should be nominated for an Oscar with this performance.

Quickly, you turn around again to meet several expectant pairs of eyes.

"I don’t know what to tell you," you say. "He’s just … always been like this. I mean, he’s my best friend. I really don’t know what I would do without him."

There’s not a word of a lie in what you’re saying, and it elicits a round of coos and murmurs even as your heart gives a sharp pang.

"Dance with me?"

You flinch, turning to look at Bucky’s outstretched hand, at the sad, hopeful look in his eyes, and the line between reality and fiction blurs a bit more.

You take his hand, and he pulls you onto the dance floor, some cheery Christmas song ramping up to its big finale. Then, the band switches to a slower song. To you, it sounds mournful.

"That was nice," Bucky mutters into your ear. "What you said."

"I meant it, you know," you whisper, but he turns, and you don’t think he’s heard you.

Bucky places his hand on your hip and you hide a shudder. His gloved fingers wrap around yours, and then you start moving again.

You barely know the steps, but he’s a great leader, and he doesn’t say anything when you step on his toes. In fact, his gaze softens even more when he looks at you after the third time, the hand around your waist pulling you a little closer.

"How are you doing this?" you say without stopping to smile.

"Easy," Bucky says, and the way he says it almost makes you believe it’s true.

You bite your lip, trying to stop yourself from breathing him in. "I didn’t mean the dancing."

With the last note of the song, you stumble over his foot again and he snorts. "Me neither."

The melody changes and neither of you lets go. His steps are getting slower, smaller, like he’s just trying to keep both of you in motion. Your head is spinning. The twinkling lights are starting to blur into a great mass of stars in the background, like you’re at the center of a music box and everything else is just background noise.

You wrap both hands around his neck as you’re swaying, then, your foreheads only inches apart. You could stay in this moment forever, you think, as it stretches into blissful infinity. Somewhere, a clock strikes ten.

Bucky leans in a little closer and your breath hitches again.

"It’s time," he whispers, and your eyes fly open.

You’d almost forgotten about the mission.

"Val is here," you say quietly.

His expression hardens for just a second. "What?"

"She came to talk to me earlier. She knows we’re here."

"Why didn’t you say something?"

"I … There wasn’t time."

"We’re just gonna have to be quick and discrete."

You open your mouth, but then you see the distance close in again between you two, and so you just nod.

The plan is almost laughably simple, but it’s probably going to work out just as you’ve laid out beforehand. Everyone in the room has watched the two of you staring at each other for the past couple of hours, so no one bats an eye when Bucky nudges you gently and you make your way up the stairs to the fancy elevator that’s going to take you up to a bedroom.

Or, more specifically, to a bedroom that’s being used to store all kinds of evidence, but no one else needs to know that little detail.

You notice the director talking to Spindly Arms and a couple of other people, but you force your gaze not to linger on her. Instead, you grab Bucky’s hand more tightly.

He lets go of you as soon as the elevator doors close behind the two of you, dragging a hand through his hair and messing it up. There aren’t any cameras in the elevator, but you’re both pretty sure there will be on the floor you’re going. "CIA exposure, that’s exactly what we needed."

"There was nothing I could’ve done," you say, tugging your sleeves down your shoulders.

"I’m not blaming you, sweetheart," Bucky says distractedly, loosening his tie. Your heart makes a very heavy thud. "But if Walker shows up tonight as well, I’m gonna shoot first and ask questions later."

"No, you won’t," you say with a grin, mostly because you know he didn’t bring his gun because the male attendees were all frisked at the entrance.

"Maybe I’ll throw a knife. I could say it was an accident."

The conversation lasts barely a moment, but it reminds you so much of what the two of you used to be, it hurts.

You follow him stumbling out of the elevator onto the right floor with a breathless laugh. There’s no one in sight as you subtly check the room numbers before making him follow you with a coquettish smile for the security camera.

You find the right door without much trubble, pulling the keycard out of your inconvenient little handbag. "Come on now," you murmur as the lock rejects it at the first try.

Suddenly, Bucky’s hand is on your waist again, and you gasp as he spins around. The keycard drops to the floor.

He presses you against the wall, effectively trapping you in his embrace. Your hands are laid flat against his chest, his heart thundering madly underneath your fingertips. Bucky’s eyes flit around madly, like he’s trying to come up with something on the spot and, for the first time since you’ve known him, is left without ideas.

You gasp as his nose brushes against yours.

"Sorry," he whispers hoarsely. And then he kisses you.

Your body responds immediately, lighting a fire in your core as his lips press against yours, hungry, gentle, almost apologetic. You can taste the champagne on his tongue.

You arch your back against him on instinct as his hands travel down your arms, brushing your hips, your tighs, slowly parting your dress at the slit. Your eyes fly open the moment you realize what he’s doing, even though he swallows your gasp.

In one smooth motion, he pulls the I.C.E.R. out of the garter on your thigh and fires a single, silenced shot. The guy with the earpiece barely has the time to grunt before he sacks against the opposite wall, unconscious, his hand still in the pocket of his jacket.

"Fuck," you hiss, pushing Bucky away from you. He stumbles slightly, the gun loose in his fingers. His eyes are almost black as he blinks at you. "You could have told me we’re being shadowed."

Bucky’s mouth is stained from your lipstick, and the sight of that alone makes your head swim. You can still feel the ghost of his hand on your leg.

"It’d have blown our cover," he replies, infuriatingly calm. "Hate me later, our window has just narrowed by a bit."

You swallow, blinking to try and gain control over your breath again, grabbing your gun back with a short nod. "Let’s finish this, then."

***

Back at the Compound, you both give an exhausted report about the events of the night, leaving out nothing but your improvised kiss on floor fifteen.

Your lips are still tingling with it.

Finally, you and Bucky are left alone in the briefing room, and for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t just get up and leave as soon as the silence takes hold. Instead, you both sit next to each other, staring straight ahead.

"I guess we should talk," he says slowly, reluctantly, and you can’t help it.

Your defenses shoot up again.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," you say, squinting.

"Yes, you do." He’s lost the tie hours ago, but he keeps tugging at the fabric in his hands as if it could give him the words he’s looking for. "I shouldn’t have kissed you, not with … Not like that."

"Like you said, the guy would’ve blown our cover," you say, crossing your arms.

"Doesn’t make it right."

"What do you want me to say, Buck?" you say sharply. "That you should’ve talked to me before? Well, I’m kind of used to you not doing that anymore, so just forget it."

"Y/N—"

"No, really, it’s fine. Like I said, you’re leaving, anyway, so what does it matter. Didn’t tell me you were planning to do that, either. You just did it."

"You know why I’m leaving."

"No, I fucking don’t!" There are tears in your eyes now. "I have been trying really hard, Bucky, but you’ve just shut me out. I thought you needed space, which is fine, by the way, but you just—one day you decided you were done with me and that was it."

He stares at you incredulously. "You seriously don’t remember."

"Don’t remember what?!"

"That you were talking about me. To Natasha."

The memory rushes through you so violently it’s almost ridiculous you hadn’t thought about it in months.

You’d just come back from another undercover op, and you’d called her right as the door to your room had closed behind you because not for the first time, your feelings had threatened to spill over again.

"You should talk to him. Be honest."

"No, Nat, come on, I can’t—I can’t do that to him. I can’t risk … you know, he’s my best friend. And that’s all it can ever be. I don’t want to ruin what we have. I just wish he’d make it easier."

"You’re making excuses, you know. Both of you deserve a bit of happiness, don’t you think?"

"I tried," Bucky says now, barely looking at you. "I tried making it easier. But you’re so …"

"So what?" you ask hollowly, ignoring the fact that you can feel the tears starting to trickle down your cheeks now. "So pathetic? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? That’s why you asked for the transfer, so you can be rid of me."

"Rid of you?" Bucky starts, but you ignore him.

"You know what, Bucky, fuck you if you think my feelings for you are so much of an inconvenience that you need to leave the state. Silly me for thinking we could be adults about this."

"You’re the one who wouldn’t just tell me."

"Well, now you know anyway and I’m sure once you’re off to Cairo or wherever the fuck they’re going to send you, you can have a big old laugh about the stupid girl who fell in love with you despite the fact that—"

"Love?"

"I mean, obviously?!"

"You … you’re in love … with me?" There’s something very soft and vulnerable in Bucky’s eyes.

"Are we talking about two different phone calls?"

"I thought you hated me."

You huff incredulously. "Why would I hate you?"

"That’s why I gave you space, I thought … but then …" He grabs your hands. "Sweetheart, I’ve been in love with you for years."

It punches the air out of your lungs. "What?"

Bucky’s eyes are devastating as he looks at you, then. "I’m so sorry, I—I got it all wrong, I was just—I thought you know and you didn’t see me like that and that’s why I …"

"You …?" you say, still not quite comprehending what’s going on.

His thumb caresses your knuckles, halting when it makes contact with the ring you’re still wearing. "I'm in love with you," he says quietly.

"I don’t understand," you whisper.

"Please tell me I didn’t fuck this up completely."

This time, you’re the one to lean in.

Where your first kiss in the hallway had been feverish, this one is soft, almost unbelievably sweet, both of you still breathless with the fact that you’re allowed to do this. Finally, it feels like all the pieces are falling into place and you’re home again.

You press closer into him and Bucky smiles against your lips, pulling you in with his hands on your hips just like he did when you were dancing earlier.

The loudspeakers overhead crackle. "Alright, kids, we’re gonna break this up until you’re back in your own quarters, I don’t want to expose FRIDAY to the creation of your sex tape."

You break up with a snort.

"Fuck you, Tony," Bucky shouts, but he’s still smiling as wide as you’ve ever seen him do.

You giggle as you nudge your nose against his, curling your fingers into his hair. "That reminds me, you know."

"Of what?"

"Quick and discrete," you mumble, repeating his words from the hotel. "Title of your sex tape."

Bucky groans and shuts you up again.

(A few years later, you get the ring back.)

happy holidays, y'all 💛 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]

suz i'm so glad you enjoyed this 🥰🥰 also a kiss to @writing-for-marvel

step number one

summary: You haven't kissed anyone in a couple of years. Johnny's more than happy to help you out.

pairing: johnny storm x f!reader

word count: 1.8k

warnings: friends to lovers, making out (in the name of practice) please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this was supposed to be my valentine's day fic but here we are. c'est la vie. hope you still enjoy this fluffy nonsense a week later 🫶🏼

masterlist | read on ao3

"You got any plans for tomorrow?" Johnny asks the day before Valentine’s Day, spread out on your bed like usual, his eyes not lifting from his phone.

You snort. "Yeah, right."

There’s something, you think, about the aggressively pink-and-flowers-and-chocolate aesthetic of this month that well and truly makes you want to throw up. 14 per cent discounts and coupley pictures and cutesy videos have been flooding your feed for the past week and a half, and with most of your friends neatly paired off as well, it’s like there’s absolutely no escaping the—

"Why not?" Johnny asks. "I mean, pretty girl like you gotta have guys lined up around the corner." The smile in his voice is sincere enough to let you believe he really does mean that as a compliment.

"First of all, ew," you reply, closing your app after yet another "date fit" video. "Second, the last date I went on ended with the guy leaving the country, so there’s that." Granted, you’d known about his travel plans beforehand, but still.

Johnny pushes up on one elbow. "Really. Coffee shop creep?"

You scowl at him. "Don’t call him that."

He’d been nice enough. Paid for your drinks and museum tickets. Hung his jacket over your shoulders when you started shivering. Yes, he’d also ghosted you and gone to Iceland, but it wasn’t like you’d known him that well.

You’d only gotten your hopes up too soon, like you always did.

"That was your last date?" Johnny says, attention fully on you now. "Wasn’t that, like, four years ago?"

"Five," you mumble, your cheeks heating. Almost six, but who's counting? "So, no, I’m not doing Valentine’s Day."

Being single is much easier, anyway. You don’t have to consider anyone else in your life; don’t have to wonder about what they’re doing or whether their family liked you or if they’re planning a three month trip abroad … huh. Maybe that one’s still somewhat of a sore point, after all.

"Why haven’t you gone out with anyone in five years?"

"I don’t know, it just sorta happened. Not everyone goes on a date with a new person every week."

"Gross exaggeration."

"Not really," you say, nudging his side with your toes. "Do you ever see those girls a second time?"

"Sometimes. Hey, when did this become about me?" He catches your foot when you make to poke him again. His smile doesn’t waver, but his voice becomes gentler when he speaks again, a little more serious. "I thought you want a relationship."

You swallow.

"I do," you say quietly. "It’s just … it’s scary. I don’t like putting myself out there, and I’ve been so busy with everything else. I don’t have time to worry about small talk or the fact that at this point I don’t even know how to kiss anyone anymore."

It’s a vicious circle, really. Wanting something serious while also being terrified of anything serious. And suddenly, almost without noticing, years have gone by and nothing has changed at all.

Next to you, Johnny goes very still.

Honestly, it’s not the reaction you’ve expected. Deep down, you thought he’d laugh, tease you about the fact that it’s been nearly six years since you’ve gotten intimate with anyone. Sometimes, you want to laugh about it yourself, even though at the same time, you don’t find it funny at all.

But Johnny Storm has always had more layers than people give him credit for; even you, sometimes.

"Do you …" His voice cracks and he clears his throat, staring at the wall behind you. "Do you wanna practice?"

You blink, heat rushing to your cheeks before you even understand what he’s asking. "Practice what?"

"Kissing."

…

Maybe your brain short-circuited. There’s been some misfiring in your neurons, mistranslating his actual words, because there’s no way on earth he’s just suggested what you thought you heard.

"I—"

"It’d be one less thing for you to worry about, you know," he interrupts, talking quickly. You’ve never seen him look at you this intently. He seems to realize from your stunned expression, and a shadow of his earlier smile softens his face. "Don’t worry," he says. "I don’t bite unless you want me to."

Your mouth opens and closes a couple of times, your heart pounding so loud you can hear feel it behind your temples. "I don’t know how to respond to this."

"Say yes," Johnny says. "We can just try it out. We don’t have to bring it up again after today, it’ll just be … preparation, you know? Step number one of getting you back in the game."

It doesn’t feel like a game at all, this suggestion.

The craziest part about it, though, is that you are seriously considering it. You stare at him, his pretty blue eyes and his cocky grin, and the earnest expression behind his nonchalant façade. No matter your answer, he wouldn’t judge you.

Besides, it’s not like you’ve never thought about it.

You’ve caught glimpses of Johnny kissing other girls one too many times not to secretly wonder what it would be like. To feel his lips on yours, the heat of his body pressed against you, your hands gliding over the short buzz of his hair.

It’s longer now, maybe even long enough to tangle your fingers in and yank.

"Fine," you say quietly, and watch his smirk falter ever so slightly.

No matter his grand bravado, he clearly didn’t expect you to agree. It’s sweet, the way he scrambles to sit up properly, not even caring that his phone drops to the floor.

"Yeah?"

You swallow, nod. There’s an excited blush spreading on his cheeks that’s kind of endearing but also makes you want to melt into the ground. The way he’s staring at your lips makes you feel aware of every single cell in your body. You can’t remember ever being looked at like this.

"Do you want to …?"

"I don’t know, can you just—"

His hand cups your cheek, warm and steady. He’s always so warm.

"Close your eyes," he says lowly, and they fall shut of their own accord.

You don’t think you’re breathing as you wait, your hands fisted into your blanket as if you’re trying to hold on for dear life. Maybe you are.

For a very long moment, nothing happens, and you’re starting to feel like you’re being ridiculed after all. Like you’re going to open your eyes to Johnny laughing in your—

His lips brush against yours, just a single, careful touch, lingering, testing the waters. You don’t dare to move, or breathe, or do anything but feel. Your mind is racing, even though you cannot catch a single coherent thought.

The sheets rustle, the mattress dipping as Johnny breaks the kiss, adjusting his position. His thumb is still on your cheek, a gentle caress.

"You in there, darlin’?"

"Yeah." Your grip loosens a little.

"Okay." His breath fans over your lips. "You wanna try again?"

You’ve barely started nodding before he dives in again.

This time, you’re a little more ready for it, moving your mouth against his experimentally. He smells nice. You don’t know what to do with your hands.

He pulls away again and your heart tugs painfully, but he only tilts his head the other way and goes back to kissing you, still so soft, so languidly, like he has all the time in the world. He makes no rush of deepening the kiss, which is so like and unlike him at the same time.

It’s you, then, who leans in closer, your tongue slipping into his mouth, your brain going in and out of focus with each shuddering breath as he responds fervently. His fingers move down to your chin, angling it just a little. One of your hands lands on his shoulder, seeking balance.

He tastes sweet. Dangerously addictive.

This time, you’re the one to move back, your eyes flying open, feeling like his fire has set your entire body aflame. "How’d I do?"

Johnny blinks a couple of times, staring at your mouth, his pupils blown wide. You press your lips together.

"Not bad," he says hoarsely. "Maybe a little …"

"What?"

"Come here."

He catches your hands, putting them around his neck. It’s an awkward position, the rest of your body still angled away from his until he raises an eyebrow.

You realize there’s two options before you, and you’re not ready to have him on top of you in your own bed.

Instead, you straddle his thighs, looking over his shoulder to not have to meet his eye. His arms fall around you, settling at your lower back, pleasurable heat crawling up your spine.

"This okay?"

You kiss him again.

He makes a startled noise against your mouth, tightening his hold on you as his head drops back, granting you easier access. Your heart is pounding so wildly in your chest it’s making you dizzy.

It’s the most natural thing in the world, to kiss him like this. To scratch your fingernails against the nape of his neck until he makes that sound again. It vibrates against your tongue, and you melt against him, his body hot and solid against yours. Even when you come apart for air, he’s the only real thing in the world.

There’s nothing innocent about the way your mouths crash together now. He swallows your surprised moan like he’s been hungering for it, his hands bunching up your shirt at your back. You shudder against him when he grazes bare skin, each new touch burning in the most delicious manner. You’re weightless, intertwined, content to never again draw a single breath that hasn’t fallen from his lips first.

His tongue slides against yours, tasting your mouth in a way that borders on desperate. You press even closer to him, your fingers slipping into his hair in that way you’ve wanted to for longer than you’ve cared to admit even to yourself, hips involuntarily stuttering against his until he groans, responding in kind to each push and pull.

Finally, after what well may have been hours, you come apart, your forehead pressed to his, chests heaving. You don’t want to open your eyes; don’t want to return to the aftermath of what you’ve just done.

"Go out with me."

You sit back. Johnny’s arms are still draped around you, and there’s a mesmerized smile on his face as he looks at you. "What?"

"Go out with me. On a date." His voice is rough and strangely hopeful, and it makes your stomach flutter. "I promise no small talk."

"You’re not serious."

"About you?" His gaze drops to your lips again. "Always." His nose bumps against yours. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" You exhale shakily, dropping to a whisper. "That’s soon."

"Hmm."

"Maybe I should practice some more before then."

He smiles against your mouth.

thank you for reading my first full length johnny fic 😌 i'm sure it won't be the last. if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

[intrepidacious]

🧸 - Bucky & reader caught in the rain?

like lightning | b.b.

a/n: hi. yes i still have these sleepover requests. i'm starting to get to them i promise 🥲 anyway this was inspired by fine from ordinary days

"Told you we should've taken a cab."

Your voice is drowned out by another clash of thunder loud enough to make you flinch; even though you’ve pulled Bucky’s jacket over your head in an attempt to shield yourself, your dress is already completely soaked through, and you can feel water slowly beginning to seep into your shoes with every step.

Bucky, meanwhile, still hasn't lost the damn grin on his face, and it's frankly starting to drive you up the walls of this never-ending alleyway; you’re the only maniacs outside in this weather and he seems to enjoy it while you're starting to resemble a drowned rat hurrying alongside him, your make-up running down your face. Shortcut, your ass—if you're late to his family's dinner now, if you’re going to make a horrible first impression on top of everything else, you might just consider murdering him, no matter how charmingly he bats his eyes at you, and—is he slowing down?!

"Buck, I don’t think we should—" you start, then gasp when he suddenly pulls you towards his chest, his other hand coming up to gently cup your face.

His eyes roam over you like he’s mesmerized by the very sight, still with that smile on his face, the one that makes his dimples show, and normally you’d think all of this very sweet but the wind’s picking up and you’re late and miserable and cold and wet and—"Marry me."

And with another thunderous crack, your world turns upside down.

thank you for joining the sleepover

[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]

first date, last night

summary: You were supposed to go on a date tonight, but Bucky just had to interfere. It doesn't make any sense, either. It's not like there's anything going on between the two of you.

pairing: 40s!bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 5.5k

warnings: good old angsty fluff. banter and miscommunication (it's two painfully oblivious idiots in love, people), socially anxious reader, slightly jealous bucky in the beginning, a lot of cake, sad-ish ending (only if we take mcu canon to be a real thing)

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

prompt: this was written for the lovely @imaginearyparties' theatre challenge—congrats again on 300 followers, ilana!! (and thank you for extending the deadline) my prompt was "first date / last night" from dogfight. you can and should listen to the whole song here.

a/n: frankly, this has zero rights to be as long as it turned out to be, but the second half of this hated my guts and i had to just roll with it. hope you enjoy x

masterlist | read on ao3

It’s late, and Bucky is pacing.

You can hear it through the ceiling, even though you’ve pulled a pillow over your head to try and block out the noise. He’s been pacing ever since you’ve sent him marching upstairs, slamming the door so hard a bit of plaster fell off your living room wall, and you shouted a name after him your mama would have smacked you over the head for.

But tonight was meant to be lovely, your first real night out in the city, and he just had to ruin it. And once again, you’re left to literally pick up the pieces on your own in an empty apartment. What a waste.

You’re sort of glad your roommate has to work the late shift tonight, though. Angie would’ve found this whole thing hilarious. You can almost hear her.

“It’s just because he wants to be your fella,” she’d have said, soothingly combing her fingers through your hair, and you’d have rolled your eyes. “So he doesn’t like anyone else asking you out.”

“It’s not like that, Ange. We’re past the age of pulling pigtails, you know. This ain’t how you treat people,” you told her last time you had this conversation, after Bucky had frightened away the man at the laundromat who’d asked you out for ice cream. Granted, that guy had been a bit of a creep, so you didn’t think much of it at the time. You can’t let yourself.

No matter what strange unspoken thing there seems to be between the two of you. Surely, you’re just imagining things anyway.

Tommy’s different though. Tommy’s a nice guy. Works for a newspaper, sent flowers to your doorstep last week and asked you to go dancing with him soon after, flushing so deeply it reached his ears. And sure, they might be a bit large compared to the rest of his head and he had a somewhat aloof air to him, but he was sweet enough. Besides, you’d never actually been on a proper date. Of course you’d said yes.

Angie made you get a new dress for the occasion, navy colored with a lovely petticoat. The price of it almost made you weep, but “you never get anything nice for yourself, Y/N,” as Angie put it. “Besides, I have the perfect pair of shoes you can borrow.”

8 p.m. rolled around and you were trying not to wait next to the door. Your hands wouldn’t stop sweating.

After ten minutes, you started to worry. Then again, it had just started to rain. Maybe Tommy’d turned back for an umbrella.

At half past eight, you decided to go downstairs to see if he was waiting for you there. Instead, you found Bucky, wearing his newly issued uniform and peaked cap. He was smoking, half-leaning in the entrance so he’d be sheltered from the weather underneath the tiny wooden porch.

Immediately, you felt the old familiar twist in your stomach at the sight of him, the little flutter and sting. This time, though, it was followed by an immediate sense of dread. He wasn’t even supposed to be home so early. Last you’d heard, he’d found some girls for him and Steve to take to that science exposition the papers won’t shut up about. Neither of them had even thought to ask you, of course, even though you were the one who’d first pointed it out to them.

“Sounds like a crowd puller,” Bucky’d frowned and soon changed the subject to some movie with Hedy Lamarr he wanted to see, not noticing the way your face fell.

“He’s a knucklehead,” Steve had said later with an apologetic smile, and you’d nodded and thrown the flyer in the trash, unsure what you’d expected or how you’d wanted the conversation to go. After all, you’re just the girl from the second floor, a friendly face on rainy days, sure, but also easily ignored. Well, most days, anyway.

Bucky turned when he heard your steps approaching. Your bad feeling seemed to be confirmed, because at the sight of you, he choked on the smoke he was inhaling. Like someone caught. Ignoring his coughing, you glanced past him. Not a single person was out in the rain.

“Has anybody asked for me?” you asked wearily.

Bucky’s eyes were still wide as he took you in. “Well, look at you all decked out,” he said hoarsely.

You crossed your arms. “Just answer the question.”

“Fella came by a bit ago,” he said nonchalantly, turning his head to blow out a puff of smoke away from your face. “Didn’t stick around.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you’re not interested?” He made it sound like a question, cocking his head slightly, that little lopsided smile of his dancing around the corner of his mouth but never reaching his eyes. It only irritated you more. “I actually wanted to—”

“Why on earth would you do that?” you interrupt him.

“Why, was I wrong?” He went for another drag from his cigarette, but you snatched it out of his fingers and stomped on it. For some reason, that just made him give a laugh. “Come on, sugar! That guy’s a drip, anyway.”

“You don’t know him!”

“Neither do you, or you wouldn’t’ve agreed to go out with him. He ain’t right for you.”

“Well, you don’t get to decide that! You don’t see me going around tellin’ you you can’t go out with Clara from the flower shop or whatever she’s called!”

That was a slip-up. Bucky’s smile morphed into a smirk. “Have you been keeping tabs on me?”

“Oh, grow up, Barnes, I don’t care what you do!” Turning around on your borrowed heels, you pushed back inside.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t know either, would ya?” he called after you, still sounding way too amused.

“I don’t give a—” In your anger, you forgot to skip around the broken floorboard. The heel of Angie’s shoe crashed right through it and you could feel yourself rushing towards the ground. At the last second, a pair of strong arms stopped your fall, pulling you back up until you regained your balance, heart thundering.

“Careful there,” Bucky’s voice murmured way too close to your ear. “Don’t want you fallin’ for me like that.”

There was a beat. Neither of you seemed to breathe.

“You alright?”

“Get off me,” you hissed. His hands disappeared as if you’d burned him, but your skin was left cold. With an annoyed growl, you slipped out of the shoes and yanked the stuck one out of the floor. The heel was left all scratched up. Angie was going to murder you. “Look at this!” you snapped at Bucky, jabbing the messed up shoe in his direction.

He caught it in his hands. “Jeez, that ain’t my fault!”

“Yes, it is! Because without you constantly interfering in my life, I’d be out cuttin’ a rug right now!” Tears threatened to spill out of your eyes now, so you turned your back on Bucky and started to climb up the rickety stairs in your pantyhose.

“You really think you’d be havin’ a good time right now if you’d actually gone out with Dumbo back there?” Bucky called, taking two steps at a time behind you. “Look, I’m sorry but I think—”

“You know what, Bucky,” you interrupted him, turning around sharply in front of your apartment door. “You might fool all those other girls with that fancy uniform of yours that you’re so keen on showin’ off, but underneath, you’re a jerk. And I just want you to stay the hell away from me.”

A look of genuine shock flashed over Bucky’s features for just a second, revealing something else under the layer of jovial swagger you usually saw him wear. Something that almost looked like hurt. It was gone in less than a second, though, replaced by an unusually cold sneer that seemed unnatural on his handsome face.

“All right,” he said, brusquely handing you back the shoe you’d left behind. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough, anyway.”

“Great,” you shouted as he made his way upstairs, “can’t wait for the peace and quiet!”

The door slammed. The plaster fell.

Angie couldn’t be more wrong, you think as you lie there in bed. You know the way Bucky acts around girls he wants to be with, charming and funny and confident. You’ve seen it too many times, each of them another tiny stab because he’s never been like that with you. Not once.

The pacing finally stops and you breathe a sigh of relief. You emerge from underneath the pillow and drag yourself in front of the little vanity you share with your roommate. In the silence, you wipe the smeared make-up off your face and start pulling the pins out of the elaborate updo you’d spent half the afternoon on. Your hair tumbles down in an unruly mess.

You think about dropping by Tommy’s agency tomorrow to explain your situation, but you don’t think you’re that desperate quite yet. Besides, the thing that really annoys you about Bucky’s words is that he’s not wrong.

You weren’t that interested in your date in the first place. You’d just welcomed the distraction from your actual feelings, because it’d felt nice to get positive attention for a change.

Because despite of his meddlesome ways and his sometimes thoughtless actions, you still care about Bucky. Probably more than you should, and more than he cares for you anyway, no matter how high Angie raises her eyebrows.

Matter of fact is, these past couple of weeks, he’s barely even talked to you, your interactions limited to brief nods in the stairwell and the odd word or two, with him never quite meeting your eye.

Lost in your tangled thoughts, you’re about to start unbuttoning your dress, when a knock on the door brings you back to reality.

You frown. It’s not the rhythmic knock Angie uses when she’s forgotten her keys again, and it’s too timid to be your landlady. Probably Steve trying to talk reason about his best friend’s behavior again. You’re not keen on the speech, but you don’t want to keep Stevie standing in the drafty hallway. He’s stubborn enough to catch pneumonia out of spite and misguided loyalty. Again. Rubbing your cheeks one last time, you go to open the door.

You almost slam it again immediately when you realize it’s not Steve who’s standing on the other side at all. It’s Bucky.

He’s changed out of his fatigues into something more casual, and his hair looks as if he’s dragged his hands through it several times. The disheveled look of it almost has your heart fall over itself and you inhale sharply to keep it firmly locked in your chest.

“What do you want?” you try to snap, but it comes out toneless. You’re too tired for anger.

Bucky clears his throat. He keeps shifting under your gaze, keeps moving, his fingers pulling at a loose thread in the hem of his sweater. Little cracks in his carefully crafted façade that have you pause.

“I was wonderin’ if you’ve eaten.”

Confused doesn’t quite cover your feelings. You’re at a complete loss. “Excuse me?”

“Seein’ as your plans tonight, uhm—fell through, I just thought I’d … ask. In case you’re hungry.” Never, in all the time you’ve known him, have you heard Bucky stumble over his words like this. It’d be endearing if you weren’t still annoyed at him.

“I’m not,” you lie. Truth is, you’ve only had a late lunch and your kitchen cabinets are basically empty since no one was supposed to be in tonight.

“Right,” Bucky says, swallowing. He pushes his hair back again. “Or maybe we could get some sodas down the block, there’s this shop on—”

“Is this some kind of joke?” you interrupt. His eyes finally stop their constant wandering and find yours. There’s an ache in them you haven’t seen before, one that doesn’t make any sense at all. You shake your head, ignoring the flutter. “First you scare off my date and then you want me to come out with you?”

“That’s not what I—it’s not a joke,” Bucky says. “Look, you’re angry with me, I feel rotten, let me make it up to you! You gotta believe me, I’m sorry.”

The sad thing is, you do. When he looks at you like that, you do. You can’t help it.

You sigh deeply. “Go to bed, Bucky, it’s been a long day. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

But when you move to close the door again, he holds it open with his foot. “See, here’s the thing,” he says, his voice wavering ever so slightly, “that’s not exactly an option as I’m being shipped out first thing in the morning.”

Another chip, another crack, and the puzzle pieces are starting to fall back into place. It’s your heart that breaks instead, the last of your anger dissipating into thin air.

“You’re leaving,” you say softly, and Bucky nods curtly. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Only found out yesterday myself.”

Obviously you’ve known this day would come. You’ve known ever since you first saw him in that damn uniform, and even before then. You just thought he’d have more time. You feel your heart trying to pound out of your chest as you look at Bucky, suddenly desperate to commit his face to memory before … you don’t want to think about it.

“What about—does Steve know?”

“Said goodbye to him at the expo. He wanted to try enlisting again, but I don’t know …” He laughs humorlessly. “At this point, they’ve either taken him or booked him and there ain’t a thing I can do about either. Don’t even know which one’s worse.”

You’re glad you’re still holding onto the door, because you feel slightly faint. In the past months, you’ve gotten so used to living downstairs from Bucky, to having both him and Steve always lingering somewhere nearby, always close, reliably inseparable. And now, from one day to the next, neither of them is going to be here anymore.

“I could eat,” you say abruptly. Bucky seems as surprised about it as you feel, but your heart is still beating fast and you’ve never felt more resolute about anything. “Let me just get my shoes.”

You slip into your everyday oxfords with the flat heels and grab your purse off the floor next to your bed where you’d dropped it earlier. As you pass the vanity, you notice the worried flicker in your eyes. With a deep breath, you try to soothe it away. Not yet. He’s still here.

Bucky is leaning next to the door as you lock up and straighten your back. When you meet his gaze again, he holds it as if he thinks you’ll change your mind any second.

“Where to?” you ask with forced joviality, dropping your key in the bag.

He gives you a tiny crooked grin. “I know just the place.”

“And where’s that?”

“It’s a surprise, sugar.” He sticks out his elbow slightly as you get to the stairs as if he wanted you to take his arm. Bewildered, you look at it for a second before you move past him and start descending. You think you hear him sigh before he follows you.

“You know I hate surprises,” you say, ignoring it.

“You’re gonna like this one. Trust me?”

You hum noncommitantly and hop over the hole in the floorboard. “I still think you’re a jerk, by the way,” you tell him. Because it’s safe. Because that’s what you are, that’s what you do, the two of you, shallowly bickering all the time like neighbors do.

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly as he holds the door open for you, “I know.”

The rain has stopped, but the air still feels like there’s a storm incoming. The milky glow of the street lamps dimly lights your way through your empty Brooklyn neighborhood. Most shops are closed by now, bedroom windows darkened. Only once you get closer to the larger streets are there still a couple of late-night strollers dotting the alleyways.

You don’t talk, hiding again in the heavy silence that follows an argument. Neither of you seems to want to be the one to come out of it. Personally, you don’t know how.

Stealing a glance at Bucky, you find him already looking at you. Hastily, you avert your eyes again, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks. Every ounce of your earlier determination seems to have vanished; you feel more unsure with each step. Bucky stuffs his hands into his pockets, coughing. You wonder what cat caught his tongue.

He looks more like himself in his own street clothes. He even walks differently, back less straightened, more relaxed. The uniform suits him well, but it makes him look younger, somehow. A bit lost in its ironed edges.

But now, like this, he’s just Bucky. Just Stevie’s best friend. Just your too-charming-for-his-own-good upstairs neighbor who can’t ever make his rations last and comes knocking for eggs and cups of sugar at ridiculous times, making you threaten to tell the landlady. You never do, though, not when he flashes that little lopsided grin at you, his eyebrows drawn together in an almost bashful expression.

You’ve started drinking your coffee black, instead.

It’s little things like that that sometimes make you wonder whether there actually might be something between you two that he’s just decided not to tell you about. It’s certainly enough to make Angie hide a knowing smile, no matter how often you tell her—and yourself—that it’s not like that.

A seawater breeze makes you shiver and you realize you’ve almost reached the bridge. You just start thinking that you should have brought a cardigan when suddenly Bucky stops, muttering to himself.

You halt, too, and half-turn to him, about to ask him what’s wrong when he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. The gesture is so gentle, so unexpected, that for a moment the words get stuck in your throat.

“Aren’t you gonna be needing that?” you ask softly.

Bucky smiles, and for the first time tonight, it reaches his eyes. You hate the effect it has on you. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “But it’s still a bit of a walk.”

His fingers linger on the collar for another second or two before he slowly pulls back. He inhales as if he wants to say something else, but stops himself at the last moment.

“What?” You pull the jacket more tightly around yourself.

His eyes flicker down your body and back to your face. “Looks better on you than me, anyway,” he says.

You feel the warmth spread to your cheeks, and it isn’t just because of the additional layer. Even though he doesn’t mean anything by it, because it’s not like that between you. Right?

You hurry to catch up with him and once again, silence envelops you both, but it feels different now. As if something in the air has changed.

“Bucky, is this—”

“Listen, Y/N, I—”

An awkward laugh falls from your lips when you both start and stop talking at the same time.

“You go first,” you decide. Maybe he’s just saved you from embarrassing yourself by outright asking him what it is he’s doing.

Bucky chuckles quietly, even though you fail to see what’s so funny. “This isn’t how I expected my last night to go, is all.”

And there it is. “What are we doing here, then?” you ask, crossing your arms even tighter. “Why aren’t you getting dinner with flower shop girl?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not interested in Connie.”

Right. That’s her name. “Then why’d you even ask her out?”

“Because I can’t well walk up to a gal and her friend sayin’ ‘hello, either of you interested in accompanying my pal and me to this exposition while the other one stays behind?’”

Why didn’t you ask me?

You don’t want to say it out loud, but apparently you do, because the next thing Bucky says is, “What, to go with Steve?”

“To go with you.” The sentence is out of your mouth before you can stop it, the hurt still palpable on your tongue. Your heart gives another nervous flutter.

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “Didn’t think you’d say yes.”

You frown. “I like science.”

“You don’t like crowds. Hell, most of the time you barely like me.”

“That’s not true.”

Bucky snorts. “It is. You almost fainted the other week when that fella had the whole laundromat starin’ at you, remember?”

That’s not the part you were protesting, but you do remember. Your sweaty hands holding onto your laundry basket for dear life. Your breaths coming in faster with every passing second. The way your vision started to blur slightly, as if your eyes were trying to protect you from the prying eyes you felt piercing every inch of your skin.

You hadn’t realized that Bucky noticed that, though.

Thankfully, he keeps talking before your thoughts can go down that road. “Besides, you already had a date for tonight.”

Your lingering irritation at his earlier behavior again seems like a much safer topic, somehow. “A date you managed to shoo off before I even got downstairs,” you remark dryly.

He kicks a pebble and you both watch it tumble across the empty sidewalk. “I wasn’t gonna,” Bucky sighs. “I only wanted to say goodbye to you before I left, cross my heart. He just—he got under my skin.”

Now it’s your turn to grin. “And how on earth did he manage that, Buck?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he blushes. “Would ya look at that, we’re here,” he finally mutters, nodding up ahead.

You follow his gaze. “Did you drag me halfway through Brooklyn to get murdered in a roadside diner?” you chuckle nervously.

In your defense, it doesn’t look promising. Cold lights and a sadly flickering sign, the windows fogged up with the humid wind blowing through from the docks. When Bucky holds the door open for you, the broken sound of the brass bell has you cringe.

“First of all,” he says, “I couldn’t drag ya anywhere you didn’t want to go if I tried.”

You hide a laugh behind the sleeve of his jacket. The smell of him lingers in the fabric, but not enough to block out the stench of burnt eggs and stale air.

“And second of all,” Bucky continues, sliding into one of the booths next to the window, “I happen to know this fine establishment has the best dessert selection in the city. Do you want coffee?”

“Sure,” you say, sitting down opposite him. Your back is to the wall, which gives you a nice view of the whole of the diner.

Apart from the smell, it’s not as bad as it appears on the outside. The tables are clean, the menu is surprisingly extensive, and the only other customer is a bespectacled elderly man nursing a milkshake with a surprising amount of whipped cream at the bar. You can hear quiet music coming from the kitchen.

You push the half-empty sugar dispenser over to Bucky’s side of the table with a slight grin as a tired looking teenager makes his way to your table with the coffeepot and two mugs. Bucky watches you with curious amusement, but doesn’t seem to pick up on the joke.

“You guys want anything else?”

“Yes,” Bucky says with a charming smile. “However much cake we can get for one dollar and seventeen cents.”

“Are you nuts?” you hiss while you get your coffee poured.

“And give us a variety, please.” He turns back to you. “What?”

“You’re not serious. He’s not serious,” you tell your waiter. “You can’t spend that much money on cake.”

Bucky shrugs. “Not like I’ll get much use out of it come morning. I am very serious,” he tells the teenager.

“Doubt we have that much left, anyway,” the guy says with a yawn and leaves for the kitchen.

“Jesus, Bucky,” you snort, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“I did tell ya I was gonna make it up to you.”

“Yeah.” You lean your head against the back of your seat. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

His eyebrow twitches, but he keeps his eyes on his mug, swirling the contents. “I’ll live, sugar.”

“Promise?”

The painful uncertainty makes the air seem to crackle when he looks at you, then. This time, you don’t pull up the walls protecting your heart immediately, because slowly but surely, you’re running out of time.

You’re sure Bucky notices the emotion on your face, because there’s something similar lingering in his gaze, something you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s like there’s still a puzzle piece you’re missing and the answer to all of it is hiding somewhere in the blue depths of his eyes.

Have they always looked so soft?

For once, Bucky is the first one to look away, and you hastily clear your throat and lock your heart away again.

“So,” you say, “how was the expo?”

“Good,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “It was good, it was fun. Lots of people.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Well, if I tell you about the flying car we saw, that just makes me seem like a bragging arse.”

“Language,” you say automatically, then bite your tongue when he looks at you, amused. You think of the plaster on your living room floor. “A flying car, huh?”

“Yeah.” His eyes sparkle like the light reflecting off the sea, and it’s beautiful. “Though it did break on stage, so maybe you didn’t miss that much.”

“What a letdown,” you say sarcastically.

“I know. Steve was so disappointed he left.” He taps his fingers against the rim of his mug.

“He’s gonna be fine, you know,” you say, sensing the leftover worry in his voice. “Even if trouble follows him.”

Bucky snorts. “Steve follows trouble, not the other way round.”

“Still. Bad weeds grow tall and all that.” There’s a pause again and you hum to fill the silence. “Also, he’s not gonna wanna miss Stark’s next grand brain child.”

“I’ve got a feeling that’s not gonna be a good enough reason for that righteous punk to stay outta bad business.”

“You’ll see. Next time, he’ll be front row.” You hesitate, but only for a second. “I’m fine with crowds, by the way. Long as they’re not looking at me.”

Bucky nods slowly, that little lopsided smile making another appearance. His eyes crinkle with it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The arrival of his cake order turns the flutter in your stomach into a growl. Coffee cake with cream and steaming apple pie, jam filled vanilla sponge and cheesecake are placed in front of you, each slice about twice the size of what Angie is allowed to cut at the automat.

“We are so gonna turn our stomachs,” you laugh.

“It’ll be worth it,” Bucky answers and ceremoniously hands you a fork.

He’s not wrong. For a couple of minutes, you don’t talk at all, just tasting your way through the different plates in front of you, each bite more delicious than the one before. You have to control yourself hard to not make any obscene noises.

“I’mma miss this,” Bucky says, washing another bite down with the rest of his coffee. “Doubt they’re much for dessert in Italy.”

You watch him over the rim of your own mug. Your eyes flit to the untouched sugar dispenser, and it just irks you.

“Do you bake?” you ask with a doubtful expression.

“What?” Bucky chuckles. “No. Why, do you want me to?”

“Then what are you doing with all that sugar you keep borrowing? Do you eat it raw with a spoon?”

“Ah, you noticed that.” In the harsh light, the pink on his cheeks is all the more visible this time.

You snort over your fork. “Of course I noticed that, how was I not gonna?”

“Well, forgive me, but you have a tendency to wilfully misinterpret my intentions. Or outright ignore them.”

“I do not.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans back in his seat and takes you in for a second. “You look stunning in that dress, sugar.”

You look down at yourself, his jacket still thrown over your shoulders. “You can’t even see it.”

“All right. So when was the last time you changed the water on your flowers?”

You narrow your eyes at the change in topic. “Yesterday.” He stares at you blankly until your eyes widen. “So that wasn’t—”

“Nope.” He takes another bite of cheesecake.

“Right,” you say, slowly putting your fork down. You’re starting to feel a bit queasy, though not in an entirely unpleasant way. “Bucky?”

“Hm?”

“Are you makin’ a pass at me?”

His cheeks darken a little more. “Been tryin’ to do that for weeks now, but thanks for noticing.”

Your mind is racing, trying to form a single coherent thought, but all that manages to make its way out is, “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Bucky says. “Because I like you, that’s why.”

“No, you don’t.”

His brows draw together. “I don’t?”

“You went out with a different girl hours ago, and now you’re telling me you like me?”

��I told you before that I wasn’t interested in her.”

“Because you’re interested in … me.”

“Is that really so hard to believe?” His hand is in his hair again and you’re not sure whether he wants to push it back or make a mess of it. You wonder if they’re going to cut it, and the thought stings. It’s ridiculous, really, but it’s also easier to worry about his hair than about him.

“I don’t …” You trail off. Your heart is beating so loud it’s making it impossible to hear your own thoughts. For some reason, Angie’s voice seems to drown out all the noise inside your head. Told you so, she singsongs.

“Look,” Bucky says, and there’s a pained sort of cadence to his voice. “I know you don’t feel the same and this is just about the worst timing, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t risk … but I also didn’t want to leave without …” He huffs quietly and just like that, the final piece of the puzzle falls into place.

You’ve guarded your heart too closely around him.

You stand up with a jolt and he doesn’t even lift his head, as if he thinks you’re just going to leave him sitting there. Instead, you slide into the booth next to him, your body turned towards him.

“I’m so sorry.” Your voice reaches barely above a whisper. Bucky’s breath hitches when you touch his shoulder to have him look at you. “Say it again?”

His eyes flit between yours, still uncertain, still searching for something. Permission, maybe.

You hold your breath.

“I really like you, Y/N.”

And this time, you don’t have to question it. You see it in his eyes, clear as day now, no longer hidden in covert glances and friendly banter. It’s warm and soft, and you’ve never seen this particular expression of his directed at anyone else. He’s looking at you as if you are the only thing on earth that’s real. So you let your walls crumble away.

“I like you so much it terrifies me.”

The changes on Bucky’s face are imminent, the realization as your words hit, the same relieved sort of disbelief that courses through you as well. You pull him in until you can wrap your arms around him and bury your nose in his sweater, breathing him in. He holds you as if you’re something precious, his heart racing as much as yours.

“God, you’re an idiot, Barnes,” you mumble, and you can feel him chuckle.

“I’d say we’re on par for that, sugar.” He presses the tiniest kiss to your head. “We still have the whole rest of the night. About three more slices of cake to go through.”

He doesn’t let you out of his embrace, only draw back enough to face him. His eyes have little specks of gray and brown in them. You’ve never noticed them before, but you’re already committing each and every one of them to memory.

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“It’s gonna be fine, you’ll see,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll be back in a couple’a months with some small scars and a medal or two. And then I’ll take you out proper, wherever you want.”

“I’d like that,” you say quietly. “I’d settle for you coming home safe, though.”

“‘Course I will,” Bucky says, and that beautiful little lopsided grin returns. You’re dizzy with the weight of his gaze, and when he leans in closer, your eyes flutter shut. You feel his breath on your cheek when he speaks again, sweet like cake. “Can’t keep my best girl waitin’ too long now, can I?”

Ever the optimist.

And yet, you’re the first one to lean in, as if he still doesn’t believe you’d let him.

You restore his faith, again and again. It almost feels like a promise.

[intrepidacious]

For sss: Ari Levinson (or Steeb. Your choice bb 🫶🏼) + quiet time

happy little cloud | s.r.

a/n: i went with steve for this one. more specifically, primary school teacher steve 😌 also hi hello i missed doing these !!!

Usually, art class with Mr Steve was the best part of Morgan’s Monday. As much as she enjoyed math and biology and shop—her daddy always said those were the only important subjects anyway, and screw English grammar (she wasn’t supposed to tell mom about that part)—she was of the opinion that they had no place happening at the very start of the school week.

So she was in high spirits on her way to the liberal arts room, chatting excitedly with her friends until they’d all pulled out their colored pens and watercolors; they were supposed to learn about shading today.

Unfortunately, though, something wasn’t quite right today; Morgan could tell as soon as she saw Mr Steve because he didn’t smile as brightly as he usually did, and he kept looking at his watch and also he didn’t call them his little stormclouds once which meant that something was seriously wrong. And then, halfway through the hour when they were in quiet time—Mr Steve never gave them quiet time on their Mondays, he always said it was important for them to have a space in school to be loud and brave and let their art scream—Ms Wanda came in and Mr Steve hurriedly apologized to all of them before rushing out of the classroom and a confused murmur broke out.

"Alright, friends, let’s take a couple of minutes and then we’re gonna do something fun," Ms Wanda shouted over the noise, her smile undiminished as if the fact that they’d just been robbed of a class with their favorite teacher wasn’t the most upsetting to ever happen.

As it turned out, Morgan had been right (of course she had); something was going on, as Mr Steve explained a few weeks later, looking tired but happier than any of them had ever seen him—he showed them pictures, too, of his own little stormcloud that had unexpectedly arrived just a little early.

[intrepidacious]

i know right 😭😭 ugh i actually need more of this steve i can't lie 🥺

For sss: Ari Levinson (or Steeb. Your choice bb 🫶🏼) + quiet time

happy little cloud | s.r.

a/n: i went with steve for this one. more specifically, primary school teacher steve 😌 also hi hello i missed doing these !!!

Usually, art class with Mr Steve was the best part of Morgan’s Monday. As much as she enjoyed math and biology and shop—her daddy always said those were the only important subjects anyway, and screw English grammar (she wasn’t supposed to tell mom about that part)—she was of the opinion that they had no place happening at the very start of the school week.

So she was in high spirits on her way to the liberal arts room, chatting excitedly with her friends until they’d all pulled out their colored pens and watercolors; they were supposed to learn about shading today.

Unfortunately, though, something wasn’t quite right today; Morgan could tell as soon as she saw Mr Steve because he didn’t smile as brightly as he usually did, and he kept looking at his watch and also he didn’t call them his little stormclouds once which meant that something was seriously wrong. And then, halfway through the hour when they were in quiet time—Mr Steve never gave them quiet time on their Mondays, he always said it was important for them to have a space in school to be loud and brave and let their art scream—Ms Wanda came in and Mr Steve hurriedly apologized to all of them before rushing out of the classroom and a confused murmur broke out.

"Alright, friends, let’s take a couple of minutes and then we’re gonna do something fun," Ms Wanda shouted over the noise, her smile undiminished as if the fact that they’d just been robbed of a class with their favorite teacher wasn’t the most upsetting to ever happen.

As it turned out, Morgan had been right (of course she had); something was going on, as Mr Steve explained a few weeks later, looking tired but happier than any of them had ever seen him—he showed them pictures, too, of his own little stormcloud that had unexpectedly arrived just a little early.