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berrys-hide-out · 1 day ago

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I needa take notes holy jitters, kicking and screaming, why is this so good ✨😭

Real Pain

I received a prompt from a lovely anon who asked for a story in which the reader has a toxic dad and Bucky comforts her. This kind of snowballed into a long story and not entirely what I intended it to be, but I’m glad it turned out different than what I‘d planned. This was hard to write, so I hope the sweet anon and others out there find some comfort in the narrative 💜

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader (platonic)

Word count: ~12,400

CWs: toxic dad, sexism, violence (fighting, knives, guns, blood, etc), death, bad family dynamics, swearing, injuries

Bucky Barnes was a liar.

Because as much as he said he wanted a nice, quiet life in the aftermath of decades laden with combat, he couldn’t stay away.

Sam knew that. Sam vocalised that, a lot, which only made Bucky feel pestered and annoyed. Now, though, after all they’d been through together Bucky begrudgingly trusted the new Cap’s judgement. That’s how he ended up in a very off-grid repurposed hanger, standing next to Nick Fury, looking out over a room alive with the hunger and grit of fresh young agents.

“You know what a side hustle is?” Fury tried his hand at engaging Barnes in some kind of modern wit, but the sergeant shook his head. “Well, this is like my special little project. SHIELD’s grown out of needing me to oversee it. Dare I say, it’s been watered down,” he clasped his hands behind his back as he watched two agents expertly avoid each other’s training knives. “Hence, I had to get a new thing going.”

They approached a small firing range where a slew of agents of all shapes and sizes demonstrated their expert precision. Fury kept talking as his guest observed.

“A smaller collection of agents. More elite. The best of the best. You can imagine my relief when you said you were open to more work in this field.”

“Open to it, yeah,” Bucky crossed his arms and watched a short red-haired male group his bullets impressively. “Depends what you’re asking for.”

“I’m asking for a contractor,” Fury answered perfectly. “Every mission is your choice- I will not tell you what you have to do,” he turned his head and Bucky met his one-eyed stare. “What’s more, I won’t even tell you how to do it. As long as it gets done.”

Bucky stuck his tongue against the inside of his cheek and pondered the scenario that sounded too good to be true. He knew he was an asset, a valuable one at that, so of course any potential job would come with perks. If he was being honest with himself, it’s not as if he could just go train to do something else. This - the fighting, the weapons, the reconnaissance - this was his life now. May as well live it on his own terms.

Sensing his further openness, Fury dropped the other shoe. “You’d need a partner.”

“Why?”

“Because a lot of work requires backup. You can always leave them at home if you don’t need them, but it’s better to have one you can stick to.”

“So that’s why we‘re here.”

“Why we’re here,” Fury nodded. “Take all the time you need. Pick whoever you want.”

Fury took a call and left Bucky to his observations. Surely he wouldn’t expect him to make a decision today, so Bucky decided he didn’t have to. Today, he could just get a lay of the land and scope out the recruits.

The training area was large, spanning multiple rooms with state-of-the-art equipment and technology. He watched a middle-aged Chinese man decimate a group of holographic attackers, before a beautiful olive-skinned person with a buzzcut climbed a rope with terrifying ease, hitting a button at the top and clock their time. A young girl, couldn’t be more than eighteen, wore her hair in two platinum blonde braids that whipped around her face as she threw the knives and hit four major arteries on her target dummy. There was a lot going on.

Anyone he’d seen would’ve made a great partner in the field but there was something intangible he needed to find, and something in him thought he might find it over at a boxing ring, alive with commotion, where several agents were watching on.

He subtly pushed past to watch the scene unfold between the fighters. There were two people in the ring: the one standing was a tall, slender brunette with striking green eyes and a poorly-concealed smirk. The one on her hands and knees, was you. He saw your chest heave, he saw blood trickling from your nose as you lifted your head and stood back up.

“Tap out,” the other girl clicked her tongue and looked at you with pity. “Know when you’re beat.”

You laughed sharply and raised your wrapped fists in front of your face. Without your stare leaving hers, you ducked your head to the side and took a deep breath in. “I could do this all day.”

Bucky then watched as she landed blow after blow against you, kicking you while you were down just to scoff when you’d get back up again. You managed a few good hits against her, and Bucky could see the precision you’d clearly honed. In fact, there was a mountain of untapped potential to marry with the power evident in your near-perfect stance, the accuracy of your aim and the tenacity cutting through your words and breath as you refused to give up. Then, when your opponent landed a harsh blow that drew winces from the crowd, you spun once and fell hard to the mat.

She called you crazy, declared the fight done, and stepped out of the ring. The other agents slowly dispersed while Bucky watched on. Now, beaten and bruised, you still got back to your feet and called after her to come back. She didn’t listen. She just gave you a wary look and walked away, so you dropped your fists and let yourself fall back down to sit and catch your breath more completely.

“You’re losing power in your stance,” Bucky took a few more steps forward and picked up a water bottle, then slid it across the mat to you.

“How so?” You nodded your thanks for the water and eyed him skeptically as he stepped up, between the ropes and into the ring. You stood before he had to motion for you to stand, and you tossed the bottle down. “This was how I was taught,” you explained, getting into that same fighting stance.

“Drop your shoulders.”

“But my neck-”

“You’re wasting muscle tension,” he took a step forwards and nodded at your shoulders, so you dropped them down. “Better. And the best way to protect your neck is to land blows first.”

“I have more of a defensive combat background,” you said. Bucky bumped his eyebrows then took a swing at you. Your arm whipped up to defend yourself and stopped his swipe in its tracks. He could see the difference in your block when his forearm crashed against yours. He could see the surprise in your eyes when you felt the extra strength you’d already unlocked by following his advice. You looked up at him, still with blood caked against your nose. You were hungry. Eager. You looked excited as you asked, “What else?”

“Of all the highly qualified people in this building you somehow seek out the least experienced agent,” Fury sighed as he and Bucky watched from a distance while you assessed your injuries from the fight before. “She’s been here a month. You can’t choose someone else?”

“No.”

“You super-people always giving me headaches.”

“Where’d you find her?”

“Top of her class at Quantico.”

“Why’d you recruit her?”

They watched on as someone else limped up and you immediately vacated the bench you were sitting on, then turned to pass them them a fresh bottle of water.

“I know who you see in her,” Fury spoke solemnly. “Maybe I did too. That doesn’t change the fact that she’s not trained.”

Bucky watched on as, even as you wiped the blood from your nose and lips, you practised your battle stance. The one he’d taught you. You weren’t wasting a second to improve. A smile pulled at one side of his lips. “Even better,” he said. “I’ll train her myself.”

At first it was hard to believe. Really hard, considering how inexperienced you were compared to all the other agents, but you didn’t dare question Fury or give Sergeant Barnes a reason to second guess his choice. It was the highest honour imaginable, that someone who fought alongside the greatest heroes in the universe had seen something in you that he wanted to foster. To work with.

Then again, you’d been the worst in the room by far, so maybe he just likes the little guy.

Even still, as you got to training you swore to yourself you’d never burden him with your self-doubt. Even on the days it took you an embarrassingly long time to get the hang of something, you didn’t vocalise your insecurity or seek out his validation. As the weeks and months passed, it became more clear why he’d chosen you.

One of the reasons had to be that he wanted to train his own partner, not attempt to re-train someone else. Your time at Quantico had made you physically fit and mentally tough, and you were just fresh enough in your career that some of the things you’d been taught could be erased and/or improved. New dog, new tricks and all that. Often when he’d be showing you a technique he’d allude to the way the Americans did it, or the British method of training special forces, then he’d show you the way he did it. And he’d been, mostly, trained by Germans and Russians. They had a different way of doing things, so Bucky did too.

By the first time you went into the field together, he’d taught you dozens of tactics and manoeuvres, holds and hits, codes and communications, and you felt confident. It was a success, and it felt almost too easy. You’d had half a mind to ask him if it had been a test, but the hard drive you delivered to Fury the following day and the relief on his face told you it had been real.

The paperwork was certainly real and you were the one of the pair who always got stuck filling out reports. But since that was the most buerocracy you’d have to deal with being partnered with Bucky Barnes, you decided to take it in stride and try to enjoy it. Over time, you learned little ways to turn it into a game. Like asking your partner if he’d describe his final blow to an enemy as a “strike” or a “smackdown” as you sat typing from your seat on the jet. He’d crack a smile, provide a much more exciting adjective, and then stare out the window.

It was a fine line, being around him, of not too much but not nothing. So you just tried your best and gave him lots of space.

Over even more time, more missions, more late night stakeouts and slapdash dinners in safe houses, something more genuine blossomed up between you two. You didn’t when or how it had happened. Maybe it had occurred between the moment you’d wordlessly handed him a coffee when he’d walk into the kitchen of a safe house in Beirut, and the moment he’d gotten up and started the fire when you‘d reached for another blanket at the house in Anchorage. There was a genuine desire to look out for one another, and not just in the field. You didn’t need to name it for it to be real, and you got the sense that trying to name it would just make both of you feel awkward. That’s the last thing you wanted because even after all this time, it had never felt awkward.

Even when you had to hold his hand or kiss him to keep cover, or had to share a bed when there was only one, or he had to rip your clothes off and lower you into a bathtub in your underwear because you’d been shot or stabbed and it was just cleaner that way.

Even during those times, when you felt light-headed from blood loss and pain seared through your skin as he went in search of the slugs embedded in your shoulder or your thigh, you still couldn’t bring yourself to vocalise your doubt. Be it in yourself, or his ability to stop the bleeding, you‘d make some lame one-liner and backseat drive his stitching skills until he was rolling his eyes and you could see the concern in him alleviate.

Then, the most incredible thing started happening. Whether in the field or the training room, on the jets or in the cars… Bucky started getting sarcastic with you. Sassy, almost. He’d always been a bit stoic and professional and guarded, but after months and months of the two of you spending far too much time together, working, cooking, eating, training, he finally opened up a bit more. Not in a pour-his-heart-out way, but in a way where maybe he felt confident enough in how well he’d trained you to give you a bit of a friendly ribbing now and then. And you… well, you took it and ran with it.

Not too far, of course. Never too far. But the banter became undeniably good and only served to deepen the connection which aided you so well on missions. Now, not only could you give him a glance from across the room and know he’d understand you were heading behind the bar to spike a mark’s drink, but you could also catch his eye and share his humour when something funny happened. You could laugh at how he’d roll his eyes when Sam Wilson was on TV and Bucky would call him a “clown,” but he wouldn’t change the channel and he’d watch the interview in full while he pretending like he wasn’t watching.

Before you knew it, it’d been over a year and you grew accustomed to your “days off” being interrupted by a call to your work phone.

There you were, reaching for the bag to measure the protein powder for your pre-workout shake, when that familiar subtle ringing brought your attention to one of the two phones on the kitchen bench. The tune told you it was Bucky, so you put the bag down and answered the phone. “Hey.”

“Ireland.”

When it was a mission, he always greeted you the same way - by telling you where you were going. It always made you smile, even after all this time, because it was just too much fun travelling the world in the pursuit of justice.

“Good morning to you too,” you chuckled. “What do I need?”

“Stealth pack. No disguises. Safe house is kitted with clothes so pack light. It’s a nice house. You’ll like it.”

“Flatscreen and a wine cellar?”

“Overlooking the ocean,” he confirmed with a smile in his voice. “I’ve picked up our weapons packs and I’m on my way to your apartment.

“ETA?”

“Ten minutes.”

“See you soon.”

Protein shake abandoned, you made haste to your closet to throw on your standard black flight clothes, throw the covers over your recently-left bed, slip into some sneakers and head over to the bookshelf on the wall. You ran your finger along the spines of the volumes until it landed on Ulysses and you pulled it to trigger the panel on the ground beside you, the one disguised as floorboards, to unlock and shift enough for you to slip your fingers under and lift up.

Looking between the different packs and cases of weapons, your eyes settled on the sleek black backpack with an piece of masking tape on it which said STEALTH. You ripped the tape off, stuck it to another pack for now, picked up the bag and shut the panel. Three minutes later, you were leaving your building and sliding straight into the backseat of a armoured car.

“You’re early,” you mentioned.

“By one minute.”

“Still early. What’s the brief?”

Bucky ran you through the details as you were driven to the airfield. Fairly simple objective: download the contents of a pharmacy executive’s computer. Why you two were called in, AKA the catch: it was in his private residence in Dublin, the guards were armed, the security was tight. It would be better to not be detected, but not the end of the world if you were.

The flight felt brief. You studied the floor plans, ate a nice protein-rich meal prepared by the private jet’s crew and made sure both you and Bucky had a device to copy the files and also a key to the getaway car that was marked on the map as being left on a nearby street. By the time you were descending over Ireland, you were testing your comms and making sure all your stealth gear was in place. You both wore sleek, black, fitted clothing with several concealed pockets for the various bits and pieces you needed, be it guns, comms, knives or other high-tech gadgets and gizmos. Today, you kept it light.

The mansion was located in a nice suburb just outside the city centre on the east coast of Ireland. You were breaking in just before two in the afternoon, which you’d usually never do unless under the cover of nightfall, but the intelligence brief stated the homeowner wouldn’t be home and security did their changeover at two, so it was the best time to attempt to be undetected.

The house was blocky and minimalist from the outside, covered in windows, dark greys contrasted it from the outside shrubbery and chrome accents glinted in the sun from the windowsills and various metal bits. It certainly gave the impression that someone was trying to make it look like a supervillain lair. Though, you were pretty sure, there was no secret cave underneath housing weapons of mass destruction. No, all that was here was a man who used legal pharmaceutical shipments to disguise trafficking dangerous and illegal drugs around the world. And the evidence, said a whistleblower who reached out to US Intelligence, was on his personal computer in his office at home.

Bucky signalled to you, and you two started making your way towards the fence. You eyed the cameras, then shot a small radio frequency at it which would freeze the picture in place on the other end - leaving whoever watching none the wiser that someone had passed through. The jamming only lasted fifteen seconds so they wouldn’t get suspicious. Once it was frozen, you two hopped the fence. Immediately freezing three other cameras, you and Bucky ducked behind a large garden statue, he looked at his watch, remembering the guard formations, then nodded. You ran towards a serviceperson door, freezing the camera there before running into its view. The door required an RFID tag, so Bucky held up his RFID descrambler. The lock clicked open. You slipped inside, Bucky right behind you.

There were far fewer cameras inside so you replaced the device in your pocket and listened out for footsteps. Memory told you this area was relatively free of guards. Perhaps a wayward gardener or housekeeper would stumble across you but they were easier to put to sleep and hide without much fuss. You crept down the hallway towards the main stairwell. Bucky’s hand met your shoulder. You stepped once to the side. He stepped in front with his gun raised; his spacial awareness was spiked with the serum so it made sense for him to be at the front when you didn’t know what you were approaching. You saw him flinch, and then step off course into a doorway. You followed, hiding yourself flat against the fibreglass door as a security guard walked past the end of the hallway you were on.

“Changeover,” you whispered. Bucky nodded. You waited. Two minutes went past, another guard, a different guard, walked the other way after they’d changed posts. You looked up at Bucky, he gave a single nod.

Seamlessly, expertly, you and your partner dodged people and cameras and wrong turns until you finally reached the private office of the homeowner. The biometric lock was state of the art, but nothing really stood a chance against the technology Fury had ordered to be developed. Less than five seconds after your descrambler was set to biometrics and held against the unit, the door slid open. You both shot inside, Bucky then hit the button to close the door. No way in hell would there be a camera in here.

Without wasting any time, you hurried over to the slick computer sitting at the desk and turned it on. Even as it was still booting up, you stuck the drive into the USB port and let the technology within the thumb-sized device work its magic, then you stepped out of view of the large window.

Whether it was two seconds too late or too early, you didn’t know, but a large-caliber bullet broke through the window right where you’d just been standing and embedded in the ceiling. You swore loudly as the glass splintered and fractured and then was completely busted open when another round entered it.

Someone outside, on the ground, had seen you.

You looked at Bucky. He was loading his gun so you did the same; they shot first using deadly force, so you’d have to respond in kind.

Just barely peeking out from behind the curtain, you aimed at who’d shot at you, pulled the trigger, and watched as the man dropped his rifle, clutched the shoulder of his shooting arm, and fell to his knees. It was all on.

A loud alarm sounded throughout the property and the lights all became that much brighter, not that it made much difference in the day, but you supposed they’d want to take away any shadows from night-time intruders.

Casting a glance to the drive in the machine, you saw the first of five tiny lights flick on, meaning the data was beginning to be copied. “Hunker down,” you nodded to the drive and saw Bucky’s jaw tense, then he loaded another gun and gave you a solemn look.

“There are more coming to take aim from outside. You take them, I’ll hold them off from coming in here.”

“Copy. How many mags you got?”

“Six.”

Knowing how many guards were on duty, you gave him a wry smile and a tilt of your head. “Don’t miss.”

Then, you two entered a flurry of firefight. Bullets splattered the ceiling through the now-vacant windowsill. These were clearly trigger-happy guards who didn’t get to use their toys much - not serious threats - and so you took your chance to make precise shots as they reloaded for another spray. Always preferring to maim rather than to take a life, you aimed for shoulders, knees, feet and hands, taking down guard after guard and they ran outside to join. Someone on the back perimeter of the fence looked to be calling for backup, so you looked to Bucky, but he’d since become distracted with guards trying to enter the room.

It had been a few minutes. Three out of five clicks on the drive.

With a grunt of discomfort, you reloaded your last magazine into your handgun and fired off three shots at two guards. One was a warning shot. They didn’t move. So the next two caught a quadricep and a bicep, respectively.

You looked back. Still three out of five clicks and only five bullets left in your supply. Stealing another glance at Bucky, you could see he was engaged less in firefight and was now trying to render his attackers unconscious. Or… maybe you were the attackers? No, these were the bad guys- four out of five clicks!

Not wanting to waste your bullets just in case, you slid the gun back into your ankle holster and fixed your focus on that lone guard by the back perimeter. You had several blades in a pocket on the back of your thigh, so you slid your hand in and took one between two of your fingers. Hesitating as you aimed, you held your breath and wondered if it was fair to distract him by throwing a knife at his shin, he only-

“Ughf!” You whipped your head around as you head the breath get knocked from Bucky’s chest and he stumbled backwards. The door opened more fully and a tall, brute-looking guard entered with a blade clutched tightly in a reverse grip. The second he lifted his arm to swipe at your partner, your arm had whipped around, your blade was in his ribcage, and your footsteps were pounding towards him. He growled in pain but used his other meaty hand to make a close-fisted hit towards you, which you ducked and then used the momentum of your upper body going down to brace one hand on the floor and connect your heel to the underside of his chin. He froze, then crumpled in unconsciousness.

“Nice one,” Bucky coughed and stood. “Where’s the data?”

“Almost done,” you panted, then felt around for your knife supply. “How many more are coming?”

“Two more I can hear,” he said after a brief listen, then a nervous look. “Get cover,” he whispered.

He pulled you both into a small nook close to door, so someone walking in would have their back to you for at least one or two seconds. It was a quick move you’d had to make, so you ended up pressed snugly front-to-front with Bucky. It was tight, and not entirely physically comfortable, but you didn’t dare complain as human silence shrouded the area. They‘d turned the alarm off. They were listening. Waiting.

You looked up at Bucky, who gave a somewhat nervous look which wasn’t exactly reassuring. He braved mouthing, “automatic weapons,” and bumped his eyebrows when you mouthed back, “fuck.” Automatic weapons were a different breed of killing machine. Squeeze the trigger once, hold it down, and spray your target with… for something hand-held, about three hundred bullets a minute. You were fast, Bucky was strong, but not impervious.

The steps outside came closer, slowly, intentionally. You could hear the shift and click of metal machinery, of rows of bullets clanking together. Daring to turn your head, you could see the drive had lit up five out of five clicks. The data was complete. They stepped into the room.

In a move you didn’t anticipate, Bucky‘s hand swiftly slid down the side of your hip and then around to the back of your thigh. You figured out rather quickly that he was going for your knives, but that didn’t stop the crazy ticklish feeling of his fingertips grazing down the back of your leg and worming into a pocket. Thankfully, the lights in the room were sparking and cracking from being shot at, so they covered most of the sound of a small breathy giggle bursting through your lips as your leg flinched away from his touch. The other thing that concealed your noise was Bucky’s free hand suddenly clamping over your mouth. He set his jaw and gave you a look that said, “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.” A look that said, “This would be funny if we weren’t in so much danger right now.” You widened your eyes, then shut them tight when Bucky slipped two knives between two fingers out of your pocket and suddenly threw them with deadly precision.

Each blade hit a major artery in the two machine gun-wielding guards’ necks so fast, they didn’t have time to pull the trigger from instinct before their hands flew to the knives and they dropped to their knees, then one to his side and the other to his front. Bucky listened closely, then narrowed his eyes at you with his hand still stuck over your mouth.

“Keep your weapons somewhere else if you’re too ticklish,” he said with snark.

You scowled and shook his hand off your face, feeling yourself blush as he smirked. “How ‘bout you keep your hands off my knives. What happened to six mags?”

“They were coming too fast to reload,” he grunted and pulled you both out of the space. “Download complete. Let’s get out of here.”

You pulled the thumb drive from the computer and then opened some random files on the desktop to make it look like you’d been snooping or looking for something. While you were leaned over, you suddenly spluttered and an embarrassing squeak came out when Bucky’s hand was in and out of that back pocket in half a second. You whipped around just in time to see him hurl the knife across the lawn at that guard you’d seen lurking by the perimeter. This time he’d been aiming a gun at you, but Bucky’s throw caught him in the hip and his shot fired into the ground as he fell in pain.

Bucky gave you another look, more amused this time, and then pulled out the thin grappling wire from his belt. He shot the clamp towards the ground and winked, “We’ve really gotta work on that.” Then, he jumped backwards out the window. With a roll of your eyes, you pocketed the drive and followed suit.

Navigating out of the compound was relatively easy, which made the hair on the back of your neck stand up just a little bit. Still, you ran alongside Bucky, both of you remembering where the getaway car was parked. Only, you discovered when you got there, it wasn’t a car.

“I’m driving,” you chuckled, pulling out the key from the concealed pocket by your wrist.

“You know the rules,” Bucky plucked the key from your hand and smirked a grin as he strode over to the motorcycle. “You drove last time.”

“Why do you always get the cool rides,” you muttered as you settled on behind him. “Let’s just get out of here before they regroup and chase after us.”

He turned the engine on and revved it in agreement, so you tightened your grip around his waist and braced as he peeled off from the corner, leaving burnt rubber stuck to the road as your final trace on the scene.

As the wind whipped past and Bucky mazed through the streets of Dublin to lose any potential tail, you thought of that guard by the wall. You thought about the gun you didn’t see, the knife you didn’t throw. He’d just looked… you didn’t know, maybe young. Or scared. Which seemed a foolish assumption to make about someone who did private security for a man who furnished his guards with automatic weapons.

Bucky brought the bike to a stop behind a warehouse on the outskirts of town after nearly twenty minutes of evading. “I think we lost ‘em. What’s your read?”

“Me too,” you stretched for a second, then resettled. “How far to the safe house?”

“Two hours.”

“Can I drive?”

He chuckled and revved the engine again. You rolled your eyes. He took off, out of the city, and down the country roads.

You passed rolling fields of farmlands and livestock, humble abodes, cars, a school bus or two before you got too far out from the city. Making sure to analyse your surroundings, after about forty-five minutes of driving above the speed limit, you were sure you weren’t being followed. As you whipped past a scene of who you assumed to be a father and son throwing a ball beside their house, your mind returned to that guard. Maybe he had a family. A reason he was making money like that. Or maybe he liked it.

The data in your pocket felt heavier. Then, you remembered the report of gang violence borne from the narcotics the homeowner was trafficking, and the countless families and lives destroyed by the added ingredient which amplified addiction and fatality rates. Families like the father and son throwing a ball. Or the ones you’d seen in other country homes or small towns Bucky bypassed on the way to the other coast of Ireland. So you tried to relax and enjoy the fun of the ride.

Just as the sky began to turn golden, Bucky slowed the bike and turned up a long driveway. You could taste the sea salt in the air as it roared past your head, and once he reached the peak of the hill you caught your first glimpse of the beautiful coastline of towering stacked cliffs. A few houses were dotted here and there along near the edge, including one stunning building you were heading straight towards. It was a large one-story house, you could practically feel the high ceilings from the outside and from the glimpses in the windows. The architecture was modern and angular, polished wooden panels slatted together to create a sense of homeliness, yet elegance. In all honesty, your thoughts turned to how amazing the shower was going to feel as Bucky brought the bike to a full stop outside.

“It’s getting chilly,” you commented as you two walked to the front door and scanned in your biometrics. It clicked open with a welcoming chime and you stepped inside. It was warm and inviting, and your bags had been dropped in the entryway. When you two were fully inside, the door shut and locked itself. Based on past experiences in these houses, Fury would soon be notified that you’d checked in.

“Damn,” you whistled. You‘d switched on the lights and you two were met with a large open-plan kitchen and living area. “This place is nice.”

The ceiling-height windows, which were large because the ceiling was indeed quite high, were an unusual feature for a safe house but not unheard of. You saw straight through the wooden-floored area and right out over the grassy cliff and to the ocean. There was a hallway to your right which, you guessed, would lead to bedrooms and bathrooms. It was large, nicer than a lot of places you’d stayed before.

Eager to get something to eat, you immediately headed to the kitchen. Bucky followed you over while you shrugged off your jacket and draped it over one of the stools partially nestled beneath the marbled countertop. “Glad we made it here alive, considering we almost got shot because you can’t hold in a little laughter.”

“Are you still on that?” You gave him a look, then turned to open the fridge. It was stocked. You shut the door and turned back, placing your hands on the counter opposite him. He gave you an unimpressed glance, but you knew Bucky enough to know when he was actually annoyed. “It’s a normal human reaction. You shouldn’t give me shit for being ticklish. You wanna make pizza for dinner?”

“I’ll definitely be giving you shit for it. Are there olives?”

“I think so,” you turned around and cracked the fridge, then nodded. “Yeah, but they’re stuffed with something.” You looked over your shoulder. “And you can’t give me shit. That would make you a hypocrite.”

“A hypocrite?”

“You’re really gonna act like you’re not ticklish too?”

“I need to be able to rely on my partner,” he argued, ignoring your call-out, a smirk forming across his lips. “For anything. Including being able to supply me with weapons.”

“You can rely on me,” you argued back, shut the fridge and turned with your arms folded and your cheeks warming up as you mumbled “You just caught me off guard.”

“Really?”

“Really,” you set your jaw, then decided you had to try proving it. “Come, I’ll prove it. I have a knife in the other pocket,” you nodded to your left leg. “Take it.”

Bucky smirked wider and shrugged, taking steps to approach you. You rolled your eyes and turned around, then bit the side of your tongue and readied for his touch. He burst into a snarky chuckle. “I have never seen you so tense.” His hands met your shoulders to push them away from your ears and you growled in annoyance. “Very convincing.”

“Take the damn knife.”

“Fine,” he whispered loudly. You gritted your teeth and tried your hardest to not flinch when his fingers met the opening of the well-concealed pocket. He was being deliberately light and messy with his touch, but knowing that didn’t make it any less ticklish. Then, his fingers finally broke into the opening slit and all four scraped down the back of your fabric-covered leg in a motion that was far too sensitive to bear. Unprofessional giggles burst through your lips as you jump-shuffled away from him and then groaned.

“Okay, whatever!” You whipped around and glared at where he was laughing with his arms crossed. “What you want me to do about it, huh?” You challenged, taking steps towards him. “It’s not like you can hold it in. I’ll show y-”

You’d made a lunge to grab at his sides but hands were around your outstretched arms in an instant. He looked down at you with something dangerous and playful in his eyes. You met his gaze, your own eyes narrowed. One wrong move, and you’d start something that he’d probably be the one to finish. But Bucky was ticklish, and that was far too funny to ignore.

“Aww,” you pouted, then smirked. “Super-soldier afraid of a little tickling?”

He scoffed, and his smirk returned. “You’re gonna regret that,” he promised.

Bucky had trained you very well, specifically to work with him. Over the past year and a half you’d learned his moves and methods inside and out. The serum meant it could never be a fair fight, but Bucky’s instructions and your will to improve at all costs meant sometimes you could gain the upper hand. It would be hard, now, with your wrists already in his grasp, but you started grappling anyway.

Pulling your feet from underneath yourself, you let the surprise of your drop pull Bucky forward and off-balance enough to twist your wrist away from his metal fist. He’d always been afraid of accidentally crushing your bones, so he always had a weaker hold with the vibranium hand. Using the leverage of your downwards swing, you slotted around behind him and wrapped your legs around his ankles, sending him even further forward. He had to let go of your other wrist to break his fall without breaking your arm. He landed on his front with a grunt and you flew forwards, your digging fingers finding his ribs with terrifying speed. Because, hell, this was probably the only shot you’d get.

Much to your delight, Bucky jolted and fell more into the ground as his arms clamped against his sides and he failed to hide his breathy laughter. You giggled and jeered for the several seconds you managed to attack while he composed himself to fight. Then, his leg came up and knocked you sideways. A grunt of battle left your lips as you reached up to continue your torment, only barely squeezing at his hip before he barked out a laugh and pushed himself out of reach. You sat, partially propped up, and laughed in triumph as Bucky caught his breath and then turned to you with a menacing stare. It made your blood run cold but you couldn’t show him that. He’d taught you to never show fear to an opponent.

He laughed once, then twice, then chuckled as he brought himself to his hands and knees and looked at the floor, mustering the strength and energy he had to ready himself to take you down swiftly.

Maybe it was the nail in your own coffin to say it, but you gave it a shot: “So should I pre-heat the oven, or-” You cut yourself off with a suppressed gasp and a mighty shove backwards to slide along the smooth floor and out of reach of the swipe he’d made for you. You got to your feet and ran the only way you could - further into the living room, further trapping you. There were a few boxy minimalist couches that looked comfortable enough, and a very large sheepskin rug between them. You casted a glance up to the ceiling and saw the rafters looked especially nice for hanging from.

“That’s a stupid plan,” Bucky clicked his tongue. “You’ll never get up there in time.” He took a step forwards, you took one back.

“So what��s the play here?” You jutted out your chin, challenging him. “If you were in my shoes, how would you get out of this?”

“Brute strength.”

“If you didn’t have that,” you narrowed your eyes, stepping behind one of the couches as Bucky slowly advanced. “What would you do?”

He shrugged and then picked up his pace.

“You’d go for the rafters, you jerk,” you scoffed a laugh and darted out of his reach.

“No I wouldn’t.”

“Then wha-HAT would you do?” You repeated, narrowly avoiding him by side-stepping another swipe. It was futile, you knew that, so it came as no surprise when his hand finally closed around your upper arm and pulled you back against him.

You turned to fight but he swept your ankles, bringing you crashing down to your side on the sheepskin rug. Twisting and kicking did nothing as he expertly took your blows against his forearm, then used your own momentum to flip you firmly onto your front. Feeling your desperation mount with the reality of how screwed you were settling in, you tried pulling a leg up to crawl away. Bucky grabbed your ankles and yanked you backwards before straddling your knees, pinning your legs firmly to the floor. With a grunt, you tried to turn. Bucky had already started grabbing for your wrists. In less than five more seconds, he was hovered over you with your hands trapped in his metal fist, fixed to your lower back.

It was a very immobilising position, which made your breath pick up and a small whimper slip out. You turned and grimaced when you saw the backs of your thighs completely open and vulnerable to him.

“Who’s afraid now?” Bucky leered, metal fingers twitching around your wrists. You rolled your eyes and tried to stop your blush.

“Get it over with so we can make pizza.”

“Get what over with?”

You huffed. “Your payback.”

“This isn’t payback,” Bucky said. You flinched when his fingers once again met the pocket. “This is training.”

You pressed your lips together and squealed into your mouth, burst of air breaking through as his fingers worked their way into that same damn place. He stopped and pulled away. You let out your breath.

“Payback comes later,” he promised. “First, we’re gonna do this until you can control it.”

You felt your mouth go dry, your eyes widen, your cheeks go up in flames as you stared at the sheepskin inches from your face. “What?!” You tugged on the way he held you, finding it, of course, unwavering. “You can’t be serious.”

“Control it, and we’re done,” he said matter-of-factly. There was an infuriating smile in his voice.

“Oh, get on with it then!” You seethed and pressed your face into the soft wool. Your composure was short-lived because Bucky didn’t even try to be delicate next time he slotted his fingers into the pocket. Laughter burst out of you and your feet kicked as much as they could with his seat pinning your knees to the floor. You twisted for the few seconds it took for him to touch the handle of the small hidden blade, but then he retracted his hand once again. You caught your breath and turned your head to rest more comfortably against the carpet. “Cahan’t we just change where the pohocket is?”

“Again,” Bucky told you, ignoring your perfectly reasonable question.

But again, you immediately fell into hysterics and tugged on your wrists when his searching fingers wormed into the pocket. Part of you suspected he was making it unbearable on purpose, but you really didn’t have a way to defy him. He pulled away to reset and you giggled nervously, giving a whine. “We’re gonna be he-here all nihight,” you said, glancing up to see him far too amused.

He shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.”

“Mmmmno!” You whined once more but cut yourself off with a shriek when Bucky’s fingers wiggled more harshly against the back of your thigh, as if the space he was trying to enter was difficult and fortified. He was definitely doing this on purpose. “BUHUCK!” You jolted and thrashed once or twice before he stopped. You gasped for breath. His hand was still in the pocket.

“Wow,” he let out a low hum. “Is it really that bad?” He answered his own question when he ripped his hand away from inside your clothing and then lightly scratched at the back of your other leg. You exploded in squealing laughter, fighting hard against him as he scratched at the hyper-sensitive spot like one might lovingly scratch a pet’s furry coat. After you’d given a tiny scream, he pulled away completely.

“I’m huhungry!” You protested, slamming a foot against the ground. “Cut it out- this isn’t helping!”

“Fine, training’s over,” he released your wrists and you sighed in relief. It was short-lived, because you remembered what he’d said the second before he shot forward and straddled your hips. “Time for payback.”

“Nuh-no-NAHAHA!” You shrieked and squirmed when five squeezing fingers met each side of your rib cage. Bursting in ticklish helplessness, you tried whatever your panicked mind could muster the tactical reasoning to do.

Planting your feet against the floor to push didn’t help, neither did trying to squirm out from under his seat, and pushing at his hands was the worst idea of all because it gave him the opening to shoot his fingers up and slot them into the open spaces underneath your arms. “N-” was all you got out before falling into silent laughter with your arms clamped tight at your sides. The breath could barely leave your lungs, only in gasps, as Bucky chuckled over you and dug his fingers in even deeper. When he did, something broke and you let rip a long, loud, sustained scream.

Whether it was the shock or the sympathy, something made Bucky pull away and burst into his own laughter. He sat back and you saw him clutch his chest from the corner of your eye as you coughed, whined, and then laughed at the pure humour of how loud your scream was. As Bucky kept laughing, so did you, just at the hilarity of it all. It felt nice to laugh with him. It always did.

“You’ve got a problem,” he taunted, and pinched at one of your hips. You jumped again, which made him laugh. “It’s not safe to be this ticklish.” He then took to drilling his fingers at both of your hips, as if he had no idea it wouldn’t be immensely, horrifically, ticklish. Loud and deep laughter once again resounded through the living room as you grabbed at his hands and thrashed underneath him.

“BUCK PLEHEHEASE!” You shouted into the carpet, feet scrambling behind you, try to not kick him since that would only egg him on. Bucky just laughed, gave a fake menacing growl, and kneaded his fingers even faster. You shrieked and then flipped with all your might, trying to throw him off. Instead, he pushed himself up onto his knees as you violently turned and then settled back down to pin you again. You gasped and moved to fight but his hands were already clawing at your stomach, so all you could do was grab his wrists and press your head hard into the carpet as you erupted into giggles.

“We really shoulda put you through some training for this,” Bucky called to you over the noise of your laughter and your struggle. You kneed him hard in the back, which made him scoff a laugh and then hook his fingers around the sides of your lower ribs. There was nothing you could really do except lay there and take it, so you switched your focus to trying to block it out. Maybe he was onto something with the training f-

“AHH!”

Nope.

You screeched and sat up underneath him when his fingers found the place where your sides became your back, just below the centre of your ribcage. Knowing it was futile, you still shoved at his chest. He brought his hands up to grab yours but you evaded, landing a blow at his own ribs causing him to flinch. He narrowed his eyes and you gritted your teeth as you swiped and dodged and landed sharp but controlled blows to each other. After Bucky missed the chance to subdue you one too many times, he suddenly threw his weight forward and sent your upper body crashing back down to the carpet with his near full weight pinning you there.

Squirming and laughing nervously, you strained to pull your arms into your control to fight him off. Bucky’s face sat just above your shoulder, his eyes flitting up to catch yours and give you a provoking stare. He was challenging you to get out of this, to fight back, but he knew he’d win.

Distracting you with his look, he shot a hand out and wrangled your wrist into his hold before starting to drag it along the carpet up over your head. “You’re right,” he chuckled as he handled you with ease. “I would’ve taken the rafters.”

“Oh, you’re such a- ugh!” You gave a valiant effort pulling against him, but ultimately winced and tugged to no avail. Just as he went for your other hand, you heard it.

Your stomach dropped.

That specific ringtone resounded from the kitchen and you recognised it instantly. It was hard not to. It was loud and abrasive and one you’d chosen specifically for him because it was hard to ignore, and missing his calls always just lead to more drama.

Bucky saw your face go a bit grey in a stark contrast from the warm golden laughs he’d just pulled from you. He felt your wrist tense against his, and saw the way your tongue went a little heavy in your mouth.

“That’s my personal phone,” you said, not meeting his eye. “I need to get that.”

There was some hesitance in your tone, so he dug a little further. “Are you faking a call to get out of-”

“I-It’s my dad I need to pick up,” you fumbled out and lost all enjoyment in your eyes. He pushed himself off of you before you had to struggle again, and you quickly got to your feet to dash over and answer the phone. “Hey, Dad,” you sounded a little breathless as you held the phone to your ear and walked down the hallway. “Woah, hang on, can you please-” was all Bucky heard before he made a conscious effort to not listen in.

He brought himself to his feet and dusted some of the wool from the carpet off his knees as he wracked his brain and realised you’d never talked about your family. Or, families. Either of you. Which was strange because Bucky felt like you knew each other pretty well. He thought about it more as he opened the fridge and started pulling out the stuff to make pizzas.

You knew each other’s favourite sports teams, meals, genres of movies to watch. He knew you hated red wine and you knew he loved cherry pie but hated peach cobbler - which you insisted was weird because they were like “dessert cousins.” Yeah… you’d said something like that and he’d laughed and rolled his eyes and pushed the plate of cobbler over to you as you sat undercover in some filthy diner.

Maybe you’d never talked about your family because you didn’t want to make him feel like he needed to talk about his. Not that he’d mind, there wasn’t much to tell, but you‘d never been one to pry into his past. Forget the Winter Soldier eras - you’d never asked one question about his experiences with the Avengers, or in World War II, or in Wakanda. The most you’d asked about his past was seeing a news report of Wilson at a press conference and asking if he knew what Bucky was up to. Thinking about that time, the soldier couldn’t honestly recall that he’d reacted badly… no, he definitely didn’t do anything to ward you off asking questions. Still, he was quietly thankful that you always seemed far more interested in knowing Bucky now than Bucky then.

The kitchen was large but laid out and stocked with common sense. Bucky found cutting boards and knives with ease after taking out the relevant ingredients and splaying them across the counter. There was some champagne ham he thought would go rather nicely on his pizza, so he started slicing it into smaller pieces before getting to work on the rest of it.

Just before he’d finished prepping all the ingredients, he heard a door slam. Slinging the kitchen towel over his shoulder, he wiped the pineapple juice against it and called your name. You didn’t answer. He tossed the towel down and started walking towards the hallway. That’s when, from the corner of his eye, he saw you. Through the massive panes of glass which overlooked a small wooden deck, then the grassy embankment before the cliff dropped down to the rocks and the sea, he saw you looking out over the water with your arms wrapped around yourself. There must have been another door in a bedroom. He watched for a minute, then picked up your jacket and mustered the courage he knew he’d one day need; you couldn’t build a closeness like yours without the inevitability of an encounter like this.

He didn’t know when or how it had happened. Maybe it started when you’d traded your carrot cake for his berry tart at that cafe in Paris, knowing he’d like yours more. Maybe sometime from then, or maybe when he’d let you drive the JetSki in Bali for no other reason than he’d seen the way you looked at it, he’d decided that the inevitability of this kind of conversation was worth the friendship you could have. So he let you in. And you ran with it.

Still, this felt entirely unfamiliar. You were the partner who made sassy quips to hide the searing pain as he dug bullets from your skin, who joked about his lack of skill in administering stitches and said it would be his fault if a potential hook-up got put off by your jagged scars. Each time, he'd playfully glare and remind you that anyone deterred by such a thing certainly couldn't handle you.

This was different than those times. Or the times he'd place your beaten body in the safe-house bathtub and help you strip off the clothing, assessing your injuries as you made attempts at humour. He'd scoff a laugh every time, sometimes roll his eyes to distract you from the concern welling up in him each time you'd smile and he'd see some blood frame the insides of your lips.

He'd never seen you cry. Something, he was sure, you were proud of. After all, agents didn't cry over physical pain and that was the only kind of pain he'd ever seen you endure. Until now. There was a heaviness in your hunched shoulders that showed someone carrying the weight of an imploding world. He fidgeted his fingers around your jacket, and wondered if his presence would do more harm than good.

Since coming off the ice, there'd been countless times he'd felt out of his depth. The cultural differences were getting easier to navigate, as was the access to information, then the workings-through of everything he'd done as a bystander in his own body - it was obviously overwhelming at times. No one could blame him for that. For the hundreds of dead bodies - sure, if they wanted to. But not for feeling in over his head.

Back then, in his time, they didn't talk about feelings. Sometimes Steve could pull something from Bucky's heart, but the formerly-taller man liked to keep it light. With the war and everything, it was best to keep it light. Him and Steve talking about being overwhelmed, about coping, grief, guilt - those were conversations borne of the twenty-first century. Bucky hadn't had nearly enough of them before Steve left. It felt too hard now. But there you were, standing close to the edge, gazing into the churning sea, and a conversation needed to be had.

So he walked across the living room with your jacket in his hands, opened the sliding glass door, and stepped outside.

Bucky nearly held his breath as he approached. Your arms were still around yourself. You didn't look at him as he stood next to you, so he didn't look at you either. From his peripherals, it didn't seem like you'd been crying. He held out your jacket on the tip of one finger. You turned to him, looked at it, looked at him, and then took it.

"When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

The question surprised Bucky and he answered: "I don't remember." It wasn't a lie.

"I wanted to be a cop," you scoffed a laugh, settling the jacket and pulling your long sleeves out from where they’d bunched up inside. "Then, when I found out what a detective was, I wanted to be that. Solve crimes, take down bad guys." You paused, looked at your feet and then over at Bucky. "Do you think I'm suited to this life? Am I… good at the job?"

He looked at you with a stare which conveyed confusion; how on earth could you be asking him this question? "Uh, yeah," he nodded warily, you smiled a bit. "You're scarily good at the job." You laughed once or twice and turned back to the sea, giving a one-shouldered shrug.

"That's good to know. I've always felt drawn to the work, but that's good to know."

It fell silent again and Bucky didn't know how to respond. Should he put a hand on your shoulder? He stood by your right side so it would be the metal hand and that could be not super comforting, but maybe the gesture was enough and-

"I think I just got disowned."

That made Bucky almost scoff out loud. What? He turned his body to face yours but you stayed stone-faced towards the ocean. "What?"

“My father believes life should be done a certain way. You grow up, you get a job, you get married, if you’re a woman you stay home with the kids, you take them to church, you cook and clean and look after your family. That’s how it’s done.” Bucky saw the tears well up in your eyes, finally. “I’ve never wanted that,” you whispered. “But that’s the only thing he wants from me. Anything else is failure.”

Twenty-first century Bucky said something 1940’s Bucky would probably be shocked by.

“That’s bullshit.”

“I know,” you scoffed. “Just now on the phone he said there was a nice young man excited to meet me at my cousin’s wedding next month and I should remember to put some effort in.” You shoved your hands into the pockets of the jacket. “And I know what kind of man he’d want for me - someone just like him - so told him I wasn’t interested and it became this whole thing, I don’t know…” You trailed off. “At least I have this job. This is something.”

“This is good,” he said. It felt insufficient, and confused, but it was a lot of what he could muster through how his heart ached for you. “You’re making a difference.”

“They don’t care,” you smiled, clearly trying to hold back your tears in front of him. “He’s over it. He said “don’t come home until you quit” and apparently he means it this time. I thought after everything… he’d changed, he’d… whatever,” you whispered. “Fuck him. I don’t need him.”

Bucky opened his mouth, hoping something useful would come out, but a fear of saying the entirely wrong thing gripped his throat. Also the guilt, the shame, of a time when he felt the same way your father had about who did what, how lives should be lived. He couldn’t blame HYDRA for the way he used to think, back before the war. He could only blame his time, his lack of understanding, his era. He didn’t know what to say.

It wouldn’t be fair to you to insist your blood came first, because it shouldn’t. Not if it didn’t respect you, your autonomy, your life choices. Especially not choices as noble as yours. He also couldn’t give a “fuck him” of camaraderie, because he doubted stirring your anger would be useful right now. If there was something Bucky Barnes knew about the power of emotions, it’s that anger was a useful distraction from pain.

With the bravery of a humble foot soldier, he let his desire for eloquence fall to the wayside. “He’s wrong to not be proud of you,” he said, hoping the words that came out made sense in the way he wanted them to. “You don’t… owe him the life he wants you to live. You don’t owe him a big wedding, or grandkids in stupid matching outfits, or-or Christmas cards. And if he’s gonna kick you out until you comply, you don’t owe him a daughter.”

Bucky didn’t know if he said the wrong thing, or exactly the right thing but you sniffed harder, and started to cry.

The tears began to fall and you covered your face with your hands. Bucky took a step closer and instinctively put his hand on your forearm, pressing gently to guide you to the safety of the ground away from the ledge. You let him move you, taking a few steps backwards as you sniffed and spluttered. And before he gave himself room to doubt, Bucky's other hand met your shoulder and he stepped closer.

At first, you shook your head and pressed your elbows against him. When he stopped pulling on you, you didn't step away or tell him to piss off, you just kept breathing fast and heavy between coughs and stuttered cries. So he tried again, and you removed a hand to press at his chest. Your flattened palm shoved, then went still, then curled into a desperate grip around the fabric over his heart. Bravely, you looked up at him with tears spilling down your cheeks.

There was so much in your eyes that Bucky could feel tugging at his heart. He could see this internal storm brewing as you looked to the person who so often patched you up. Dark clouds fell across your glance as you let yourself accept Bucky could not fix this. This was no bullet wound, no busted lip, no cracked rib. This was real pain.

Bucky had to let himself accept that he couldn’t shelter you from the impending hurricane. He did, however, have the strength to weather it with you. He could only hope it would be enough, as his hand at your shoulder met the base of your neck, and again pulled you in. This time, you stepped into him, and buried your face against his chest as you cried.

The icy late afternoon wind pushed against him as he held you close, and he turned just a few inches so his back would bear the brunt of it. He held you against his warm body and rested his chin on top of your head. You cried hard, and would sometimes shake your head and half-heartedly push him away, but you’d always stop trying to leave his comfort the second you felt how his hold didn’t waver.

So there you stood with his arms around you, his right hand ever so often squeezing your shoulder where it had landed. You stopped fighting him when you were sure he wasn’t looking for any excuse to let you go. Still, it was hard to accept. He’d seen so much of you, your body, your mind and your desire for life, but he’d never seen you like this. No one had ever seen you like this. Any sort of emotional response was never tolerated in your house growing up. It was never beaten out of you, you were never yelled at to stop crying, but there would be comments. Snide remarks about how this is why women can’t be in charge, when you got teary over your family pet needing to be put down. Scoffs and sarcastic jokes when you were six years old and asked your dad how the game he was watching was played. If you had a clear memory of that specific time, you’d know it was the Super Bowl and you weren’t supposed to be in the room - you were supposed to be helping your mother in the kitchen and then sitting with the ladies outside. But you didn’t have a specific memory of that time, just how it all made you feel.

Bucky’s hand laced through the hair at the nape of your neck. His heartbeat was strong and steady. He sheltered you from the dusk wind.

Around the time you became a teenager your father’s over-protectiveness started manifesting in derogatory comments on the clothes you’d wear or the sports you’d played or the careers you expressed interest in. It was about this time, also, that you started going toe-to-toe with him. You refused to go to church, so he took your phone away. The phone you’d paid for with money you’d earned cleaning yards. You wouldn’t call him “sir,” so he took your bedroom door. You’d beg your mother to reason with him, but she’d chosen this life and she didn’t understand why you couldn’t just go along with it. She’d tell you that your father bought her anything she needed, and most of what she wanted, he was a provider, he’d provide for you too if you weren’t so hell-bent on defying him.

Bucky’s hand slid to your waist and pulled you in closer when a stronger gust hit. The icy wind nipped at your ears. He pulled your hood up, then held you tighter.

Around the time you were seventeen you moved out for good. You’d kept receipts of all the clothes you’d ever bought, which came in handy when your father stood in your doorway as you packed and snarked that you better not take anything he paid for. You pulled out the folder of the copies of the receipts, itemised with photos of the clothing next to it, threw it at his feet and told him you wouldn’t leave with any of his property. When you saw the look in his eye, you could tell he knew you chose the word “property” for a reason; you were leaving, so you were not his.

You felt your breath slow, the tears slow, your mind slow, as the gentle pressure of his hand in your hair pulled you to the present. Still you felt far away. Helpless. Bucky didn’t say anything, thank God for him.

Your father only started changing his tune when you hadn’t come home for two years and it made your mother cry to talk about you. Then, he started being kinder with his words. He asked you how your studies were going on family calls. You’d tell him you were top of your class, but you knew that didn’t matter because a degree in Political Science didn’t make you any more or less qualified to serve beer and hot wings on Super Bowl Sunday. You knew he talked to you for her. For your mother.

Then, you turned to dust.

When you reemerged into life it had been five years and you found out your mother had disintegrated too, and your brother. Your father was left with no one except his aging mother. Your grandmother passed away in those years between the universe being torn apart then stitched back together. She went quietly, in her sleep, and then your father was truly alone. He never told you how he felt, if he thought about moving on, if he had hope, all you knew is that when you drove fourteen hours straight and ran into their front door, everyone cried. All four of you. You stayed for a week and it had been perfect.

After he’d filled you in on what he could manage, there wasn’t a lot to catch up with. The world had changed and was still grieving but was about to change again so the past felt unimportant. So you laughed and baked pies with your mother and kicked a soccer ball with your little brother and talked to your father about the World War II book he was reading. He seemed pleasantly surprised by your engagement in the content, and you laughed and said you did an entire semester on it, it was fascinating. He’d gotten an e-reader while you were gone but was kind of useless at it, so you showed him how to navigate it and downloaded some books on the war you knew he’d love. It had been good. But that was nearly two years ago now and everyone was desperate for life to get back to normal.

You could’ve sworn your heartbeat fell into rhythm with his as you sensed the sky darken around you. Your eyes were still shut, but the night was strong and obvious and demanded to be seen. You started to feel guilty, for keeping Bucky out here with you. He must be hungry. He must think you were-

“Don’t you dare feel bad about this,” Bucky commanded in a low voice when he felt you start to wither away. “I’m here for you, you understand?”

There was no fight left in you but you didn’t need it - you had all the trust in the world to know you were safe here. So you nodded, and started pulling away. The night air hit your face which felt tight and puffy from crying. The tears had dried but your head ached with the pressure and the release of stress. Drowsiness pulled at your mind.

“C’mere,” he whispered, wrapped an arm around your shoulder and walked back to the house with you. It was nice from the back too. The wooden minimalist architecture shaped perfectly around the feature windows. You could see the ingredients on the kitchen counter and fought the urge to apologise for leaving him to prepare dinner by himself. Instead, you swore to yourself you’d do the dishes and not take no for an answer.

“I’m gonna just-” you motioned to your face and he understood, going back to the kitchen to turn on the oven.

After splashing some cold water on your face and not thinking too hard about your post-crying puffiness, you went in search of that wine cellar he’d mentioned on the phone. It wasn’t hidden, and you found a bottle of white you know you’d both enjoy, returning to find him at the kitchen island with the kitchen towel draped over his shoulder. You chuckled and set the bottle down.

“Domestic life suits you,” you half-grinned, then pulled two wine glasses from the glass-fronted cabinet.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever have a standard domestic life,” he smiled shyly back. “I’m not sure if I used to want that, or if it’s just what everyone did,” he offered up, popping an olive in his mouth before turning and putting the first pizza in the over. “After everything happened,” he started over his shoulder, then turned back. “I dunno, I guess it seemed… unimportant.”

“How so?”

“Well I’ve got this arm which, you’d be surprised to know, doesn’t exactly make women swoon.”

“Swoon?”

“Give me a break, I was born in 1917,” he held a hand up with a firm glare, then used it to sprinkle cheese on the second pizza. You grinned. “Yeah, you know, I was actually something of a playboy in the forties.”

“Oho, were you now?”

“As much as a guy can be while dragging their twerp of a friend along,” he muttered, and gave you a look. “I was an excellent wingman. Steve just always had his head somewhere else.”

You smiled at the mention of his best friend. “Where else?”

“With the world. With an urge to stand up and fight…” Bucky said. There was something else at the tip of his tongue, so you didn’t prod. Instead, you let him decide if he wanted to say it or not. Then, he did. After he turned and put a chopping board in the sink, he wiped his hands on the towel and slowly came back to face you. “You remind me of him. In a lot of ways. Sam, y’know, he’s Cap now and I don’t doubt him the way I used to. He’s the Captain America the world needs right now.” Bucky half-smiled at some distant fond memory, looking down at the bench. “But I realised a while ago that you don’t have to be Captain America to make a difference.” He looked back up. “The world will always need people like Steve Rogers. People like you.”

“And you.”

“I’m no hero,” Bucky smiled sincerely, a little sadly. “I thought I should keep away from everyone. Buy a little cabin in the woods in, catch up on books and music until I die, that sort of thing, but Steve… he, uh… he asked me to stay. To make sure the new Cap got settled in.”

Braving it, you asked, “Where is he now? Steve.” It was the first time you’d dared to ask a question about Steve Rogers and boy, was it a doozy.

Bucky didn’t seem phased, instead he smiled and slid the pizza on a tray to add to the one in the oven. “Did I ever tell you how they did it? How they brought everyone back?”

You shook your head and reached for the wine bottle, “I only know the official narrative. The same as the rest of the world.”

“You’re not stupid. You know there’s more to it.”

“Everyone does.”

“Well,” Bucky slid his glass over. “One bottle isn’t going to be nearly enough, but settle in,” he nodded with something serious in his eye, but something real and open. You smiled shyly before filling his glass, and then your own.

Say what you want about Bucky Barnes, what he’d done, how his life turned out, his choices now… whether or not you agree with his quasi-reintegration into modern society, there was one thing that wasn’t up for debate:

“Did you know raccoons can talk?”

He had a hell of a way to start a story.

#giggling and kickin my legs #✨✨#what a story 😭✨#AAAAAAA officially one of my new favourites!!!#grinning like an idiot at this #I need to take notes from you asap #AAAAAAAAAAA #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #ticklish!reader #ticklish!bucky #ler!bucky x lee!reader #how have I only seen this so late??#berry recommends

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