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kwanisms · 1 year ago

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🎄 Tales from Camp Holiday Special 05 🎄

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➮ chef!Mingyu × fem baker!Reader wc: 6.6k summary: Mingyu and his wife, Y/N, get a little dirty while closing up the bakery the night before Christmas Eve. genres/themes/au: nothing but fluff and smut; holiday themes; non idol au, chef au, baker au, married couple au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, established relationship, mentions of stressful work conditions, sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist: @yoonguurt @wonw00t @aikisbbq @enhacolor @duchesskaren @sherituhhh @wonderfulshinee @gaebestie @drunk-on-dk @seokgyuu @salty-for-suga @aaniag @dnylwoo @1004luvangel join my taglists: main | TFC: Holiday Special closes when part 7 goes up! Strikethrough means I cannot tag you. MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: i'm back with more foodplay! It plays a much bigger role this time lol Mingyu and MC are pretty nasty, going at it in their own business kitchen. This one was so fun to write, expanding on their dynamic and how they’ve grown since meeting at camp all those years ago. Now they’re married and the banter is adorable. I love their relationship. Thank you so much for reading and if you like this part, please reblog! As always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: unprotected sex (they're married but yall should use protection unless ur married too just, protect yourself lol) oral (m receiving), marking (m receiving), strength kink, size kink, bottom!Mingyu (but he's stronk boy), foodplay (frosting, whipped cream, cherries, etc), some light temperature play (ice; f receiving, m receiving), creampie (yum), dirty talk, begging kink, slight degradation (m receiving), it’s dirty, it’s filthy, they’re nasty lol

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Soft jazzy tunes floated through the air, drowned out by the chatter of customers as you headed back up to the front counter, a smile plastered on your face. Your cashier looked almost beside herself as she tried to get the terminal to work. “I’m here,” you said, drawing her attention. You could see the tears threatening to spill.

You felt your heart hurt for the poor girl. Amara was a hard worker but she’d never worked the holiday season with you at your bakery so she wasn’t prepared for the volume of orders, especially on Christmas Eve.

It was your fourth holiday season so you were falling into a practiced routine by this point. The rush, the influx of customers and orders, and of course, the Karens. Seeing as you were the owner of the establishment, you got to choose how to deal with these difficult customers as you saw fit.

The perks of being the boss.

Leaning in, you whispered in her ear. “Go into the back and take a break. I got this.” She nodded and thanked you, slipping past you and through the back door as you turned to greet the customer in front of you. “Sorry about that,” you said softly as you exited the program on the computer and rebooted it.

“It’s her first Christmas working with us,” you explained. “How can I help you?”

The man in front of you rolled his eyes and you could already tell what kind of interaction you were about to have. “Maybe this place should hire competent workers,” the man snapped angrily. You kept the smile on your face. “We do hire competent workers,” you replied. “But we’re all human and we all get overwhelmed and stressed from time to time.”

The man scoffed. “It’s unprofessional.”

The smile finally slipped from your face. “It’s unprofessional to be a human being?” you asked, a hint of confused annoyance to your voice. “It’s unprofessional to get emotional at work. It’s a place of business.” You narrowed your eyes. “And it’s childish to berate and scream and curse at an eighteen year old girl,” you snapped back, taking the man by surprise.

“How dare you speak to me like that,” he said indignantly, puffing up with an air of superiority. “I want to speak to your manager!” ‘Ah… the magic words,’ you thought to yourself, smiling inwardly. “I’m sorry, sir,” you replied. “The manager isn’t here right now.”

Mingyu cursed to himself as he walked, tripping over the curb but thankfully didn’t fall. He continued to the back passenger door of his car, opening it before leaning down to grab the paper sacks, balancing them precariously in his arms as he attempted to close the door with his hip.

Only once it clicked shut and the car beeped, signaling it locked, did Mingyu walk away, heading down the sidewalk towards the bakery. He’d gone to grab some last minute supplies as you had run out of a few spices and some extracts. He’d also grabbed the stuff to whip up a pre-Christmas Eve dinner for you and your workers.

He cursed the busy sidewalk and businesses lining the street for making him park so far away and having to walk the rest of the way to the bakery. He knew the place was busy but he didn’t realize how busy it was going to be.

Upon reaching the bakery, he swore under his breath as he realized his hands were no longer free to open the door and let himself in. Lucky for him, a patron chose that exact moment to exit, their purchases in their hands. They held the door for him, allowing him to enter the establishment. Mingyu thanked them and hurried in where the crowd seemed to have doubled in size.

As he reached the counter, he set the bags down, opening the small door before grabbing the bags and moving to the back where he set them down, looking around. He caught the eye of one of your bakers and gestured at the bags. “Could you unload these for me. I’m gonna pop up front and help Y/N,”

The baker, Geoffrey, nodded and moved over to the table as Mingyu shrugged out of his coat, hung it up, and grabbed an apron, tying it on before heading out into the store front where he saw you standing at the register, arguing with an older man who was red in the face.

Mingyu walked over, ready to launch over the counter at the man who was currently shouting at his wife.

“What’s going on here?” Mingyu asked, announcing his arrival. The man looked up from you, giving Mingyu a once over. A smile of relief spread over your face. “Perfect,” you said. “Here’s the manager,” you said, turning back to the man and stepping away from the terminal to help the next guest while Mingyu took your place.

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” Mingyu asked, knowing before the man even spoke what he would be dealing with. It was a sort of code between the two of you, calling him the manager was just a way of setting up the rude customers to realize the consequences of their actions.

Most of the time, when Mingyu entered the equation, they would demand that you be fired for being incompetent or rude or refusing to give a discount. It often led to hilarity when Mingyu, keeping up with the charade, would insist he can’t do that before revealing that you were the owner.

Which is what he was prepared to do but he didn’t have the chance when the red-faced man spoke.

“I’ve never been treated so poorly in an establishment in all my life!” he shouted, drawing the attention of most of the customers, some who were already recording the exchange on their phones. “I’m friends with the owner! I should call him and tell him what an awful bunch of employees he’s allowing to run his business.

Mingyu kept the fake smile on his face. “Oh, you know the owner?” Mingyu asked, to which the man nodded, pulling his phone out. “I’ll call him right now!” he threatened. Mingyu shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he started, picking up the phone. “I’ve got the owner on speed dial,” he added, pushing a series of buttons. He waited for the first ring before handing the phone to the man.

“It’s ringing,” he said. “You can talk to the owner yourself.” The man snatched the phone and held it to his ear, grumbling about finally getting real service. Mingyu waited by the terminal, apologizing to the customers waiting patiently behind the man.

You felt your phone buzz in your pocket and apologized to the customer in front of you. She was a regular so she understood that when the boss’ phone rings, the boss had to answer it. You checked the screen and saw it was the number for the store calling you. Resisting the urge to smile, you excused yourself to the customer and swiped the green button, bringing the device to your ear.

“Hello?” you asked, glancing over to where Mingyu stood, giving you a devilish smile, the irate man holding your store phone to his ear. “Yeah,” the man snapped. “I want to speak to the owner of this bakery. Where is he?” Still fighting back that smile, you responded.

“Oh, that’s me. I’m the owner!”

The man looked up from the phone, turning his head to lock eyes with you. He then pulled the phone from his ear and looked at Mingyu. “What is this? She’s the one who was rude to me!” Mingyu took the phone from the man, hanging it up. “Yeah,” Mingyu replied. “She’s the owner. If you’re going to lie about knowing the owner, at least do your research about the place you’re trying to scam,” Mingyu said, looking up at the man, his smile now gone. “Also, you’re lucky I love my wife too much to cause a scene in her establishment. So either we can start over from the top and you can be nice or you can get out and never come back,” Mingyu said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It’s your choice.”

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“Thank you, come again!” you called, waving as the last of the patrons exited and you walked over to flip the sign, turning the lock on the door and turned around to look at Mingyu who was counting the drawer. You walked over with a sigh, giving Amara a smile as she started to sweep.

“Thank you for handling that customer,” Amara said softly. “He reminded me of my dad and I just couldn’t…” she trailed off. You placed a comforting hand on her back. “It’s alright, Amara,” you told her. “I don’t deal with customers like that. I give them one chance to start over and if they don’t, they don’t get served. I’m not going to let customers walk all over me or my employees.”

“Babe,” Mingyu called, making you look in his direction. “Can you take over for me? I’m gonna get started on that dinner.” You nodded, moving around to the backside of the counter and over to the terminal. “Thank you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek and disappearing into the back.

You started counting, adding to his progress as Amara continued to sweep. She reached the counter and glanced at the door before leaning on the counter. “Miss Y/N?” she asked, making you look up with wide eyes. You hadn’t noticed she’d gotten so close. “Yes?”

“It might be a little personal but can I ask you something?” You nodded as you finished counting the drawer and shut the drawer, keeping the till in your hands. “What’s it like, being married to the nicest, most handsome guy in the world?”

You let out a laugh at her question. You weren’t laughing at her, just at the wording. “Don’t let Mingyu hear you say that,” you said softly. “It’ll fan his ego even more.” Amara smiled but waited for your answer all the same. “Being married to Mingyu is like having a massive, overly excited golden retriever but it can talk. He’s nice and always happy,” you explained.

“But he’s also clumsy, loyal, honest, and trustworthy,” you continued, shifting your weight to your other foot. “He’s a people pleaser,” you added. “Always wanting to help or be involved in some way, which is why he’s making dinner for the staff right now.” Amara’s smile widened.

“You really hit the jackpot, didn’t you?” she asked in a dreamy voice. You smiled, nodding. “I certainly did,” you replied, making your way over to the door to the back. “Taking the kitchen assistant position at summer camp when I was in culinary school was probably the best thing that ever happened to me.” Amara tilted her head. “Why’s that?” she asked.

“That’s where I met Mingyu.”

Amara went back to her sweeping while you entered the kitchen, eyes landing on your husband as he stood at the stove, a steaming saucepan on one of the back burners as he stirred something in a skillet. You tore your gaze from him, heading for the office instead to finish up your closing duties.

As you separate the cash transactions, resetting the drawer to its starting amount and putting the sales away in the safe. Shutting the door, you returned to your desk to finish up some paperwork you’d been putting off. As you were filing it away, you heard a knock on the door and looked up at one of your employees. “Hey, is it alright if I take off? My wife and the baby are waiting for me for Christmas Eve dinner and I really don’t wanna keep them waiting.” You smiled up at them.

“Sure, Candy,” you answered. “Make sure to take one of the extra pies on the counter. And tell Bethany I said hello,” you added. Candy smiled at you, thanking you as they headed back into the kitchen. You heard them call out a holiday parting to Mingyu who repeated the sentiment.

Getting up from the desk, you walked over to the door and peered into the kitchen. Mingyu was plating the finished food and looked up as you entered the kitchen. “Candy just left,” he announced, returning his gaze to his work. “I know,” you replied, walking over to where he stood.

“I told her to take one of the pies,” you added. Mingyu looked up at you before looking at the counter where the pies stood. “I hope they didn’t take the cherry one,” he pouted as he went back to his work. You rolled your eyes playfully, leaning against the counter.

“The cherry is already put away for us.” you replied, smiling when your husband looked up at you with excited eyes. He finished spooning sauce onto the food and returned the skillet to the stove. “So,” you started, looking down at the plates. There were four of them. “What have you made for us today, Chef?”

Mingyu moved back, standing in front of you, his hands landing on your hips. “I like it when you call me that,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. “Makes me feel all tingly.” You pushed him back playfully. “Alright, pervert,” you replied as Amara and one of your chefs, Finn, walked into the kitchen. “Dinner is served,” you said, narrowing your eyes at Mingyu.

“Tell them what you’ve made,” you added, turning to face Amara and Finn.

They were your two youngest employees. Amara was still in high school but wanted to become a pastry chef like you and Finn. Her parents were both successful in business and from what Amara let on, they weren’t very involved in her life except financially so she had come to see you as sort of an authority figure, likening you to the older sister she never had.

Finn, on the other hand, had moved across the country, settling in this town and finding work at your bakery the year it opened. Finn’s family were back in his hometown and he could never afford to fly home to see them so you had always made sure to make it known he was welcome to spend the holidays with you and Mingyu.

“I have made for you, pan-seared duck breast with a peppercorn cream sauce and roasted garlic butter parmesan potatoes,” he announced, gesturing at the plates. “And!” he added, rushing over to the fridge, opening it and disappearing for a moment to emerge with two unopened bottles of red wine.

“Could you grab the glasses for me?” Mingyu asked and you shook your head, walking over to your office to grab four glasses. Amara looked nervously from the bottle of wine to you and back. “Am I… allowed to have wine?” she asked softly. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

You smiled as you returned. “This one,” you said, tapping one of the bottles on the lid. “Is my favorite wine and is a non-alcoholic wine by Leitz.” You could see the relief wash over Amara’s face. “And this one is a Jacques Bourguignon,” Mingyu added, tapping the other bottle. “It does have alcohol.”

You rolled your eyes as you opened the bottle of Leitz, pouring a glass for yourself and one for Amara as Mingyu opened and poured a glass of the Bourguignon for Finn and himself. The four of you stood in the kitchen, sipping on your wines and cutting into your food.

“This is amazing!” Amara said with a sigh. “I had no idea you could cook so well!” Laughter burst out of you as you sat on the counter, nursing your glass of non-alcoholic wine. Finn doubled over, clutching his stomach in laughter as Mingyu looked slightly offended.

Amara glanced from you to Finn, confusion on her face. “What did I say?” she asked, pouting. You patted her shoulder from your spot. “Mingyu is a chef,” you answered. Amara’s eyes widened comically as she started sputtering an apology. “I’m so sorry! I had no idea! I thought he was just really good at cooking!” You stifled more laughter with a sip of your wine.

Mingyu shook his head. “It’s okay,” he replied. “I don’t really talk about it much,” he continued. “But I actually own a restaurant.” Amara’s eyes widened even more as she started apologizing again. “It’s okay!” Mingyu reassured her and you smiled fondly, watching your husband comfort the poor girl.

After eating, Finn headed out after you refused to let him do the dishes, telling him you and Mingyu had it covered. You headed back into the office to check your calendar and finish the rest of your paperwork while Mingyu and Amara worked on cleaning up the kitchen.

At about half past 7, you decided you were done with your office duties. Anything you didn’t finish today you could finish the day after Christmas. You stretched your arms, flexing your fingers before getting up and opening the door to see how Mingyu and Amara were getting on.

“Have you finished cleaning up,” you asked, peering into the kitchen to see your husband standing at the counter. He looked up, meeting your gaze. “Not yet,” Mingyu answered, lowering his gaze back down to the bowl of frosting on the counter. “I sent Amara home,” he added, glancing back up as you entered the kitchen, moving over to stand beside him and starting to collect the decorating tools.

“Her parents are hosting a party so I said we can manage,” Mingyu continued. “Hope that was okay,” he added and you nodded, looking up at him. “Of course,” you replied, looking back down as you gathered the icing bags and tips. “I don’t mind cleaning up the kitchen with my husband.”

Mingyu’s smile widened, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. “Besides,” you continued, dropping the tools in the hot soapy water and moving back to grab the silicone spatulas. “If she was here I couldn’t do this,” you added, swiping your finger over the spatula you just grabbed, the tip coated in white chocolate sauce. You turned to your husband, reaching up to spread the sauce on his cheek, letting out a giggle as you licked your finger clean.

Mingyu snorted, reaching a hand up to wipe up your mess but you stopped him, pulling his face to yours before licking the sweet confectionary off his skin. “Yah,” Mingyu whined as you pulled back and licked your lips. “I guess it’s a good thing I sent her home,” he continued.

“If she had seen that, I would have been very embarrassed.”

You rolled your eyes and moved to take the other silicone spatula, scooping some of the chocolate sauce on your finger. When Mingyu wasn’t paying attention, you dabbed some onto his face, smearing it near the corner of his mouth.

“Stop,” he chuckled, grabbing the spatula. “I’m gonna be all sticky.”

You snorted into a giggle as you fought your husband for dominance over the spatula. Mingyu took his chance to smear some chocolate sauce on your face, laughing when you stared at him in stunned silence. “Gotcha!” he chuckled. You pulled the spatula free and started to advance on him.

“No!” he squealed, running from you, his long legs helping him cross the kitchen quickly. You on the other hand were just fast, catching up to him and cornering him against the corner counters. “I was just returning the favor!” he whined as you wiggled your fingers, the tip of your index still covered in white chocolate.

“Here,” you said, holding out your hand. “Even the playing field.” You offered your finger with the chocolate sauce on it. Mingyu stared at the spatula in your hand, breathing a sigh of relief when you tossed it into the sink nearby. Mingyu took your hand, pulling it towards his face and sticking your finger in his mouth, cleaning the chocolate off your skin.

The action was one you’d done many times, letting him lick everything from whipped cream to cheese sauce from your finger. He was never one to turn down having your fingers in his mouth. The pent up frustration from the day pushed you to pull your hand from his mouth, grabbing the front of his smock and pulling him into a heated kiss, tasting the chocolate on his tongue.

You pulled back after a moment, your lungs burning and screaming for air. Mingyu turned your head, immediately licking off the frosting on your cheek slowly, taking his time to savor it. You let out a groan, feeling one of his hands wander down, fingers squeezing your ass.

“Your turn,” you whispered, your voice slightly hoarse as you tilted his hand and licked the frosting from his face, ending in a sloppy kiss that tasted like a mix of white and milk chocolate sauces.

“We should probably finish closing up,” you murmured as Mingyu pulled back, resting his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he replied breathlessly. “We probably should.”

Despite agreeing, neither one of you moved first until Mingyu’s hands wandered up, cupping your chest. “Or,” he offered, pulling back to look into your eyes. “We can finish off these sauces before we let the bowls soak.” You studied his face, looking into his eyes before coming to a conclusion.

“Okay,” you replied. “Go make sure the front door is locked,” you ordered.

Mingyu was off like a cannon, rushing to the storefront to make sure the door was locked, neon sign turned off before he returned to the kitchen as you were pulling out another steel bowl from the fridge and the leftover strawberries. You turned as he started to untie his apron.

“I figure we can eat some of this stuff with the leftover fruit,” you explained, showing him the bowl and the basket of strawberries. Mingyu flashed you a wide grin as you walked over to the counter and set your finds on the metal surface, moving to untie your apron.

You felt your husbands nimble fingers tug at the knots and help you remove the article. You turned, thanking him with a kiss before taking both yours and his aprons over to the hamper and tossing them in. You returned to Mingyu, hopping up onto the counter and picking up a strawberry. You dipped it into the chocolate and held it up for Mingyu.

He smirked, parting his lips and allowing you to push the chocolate covered fruit in his mouth. Mingyu dipped a piece of melon in the cream cheese frosting, holding it up for you to take it. You parted your lips slowly, keeping your gaze locked on his as you leaned forward, taking the fruit in your mouth.

You noticed the way your husband’s eye lingered on your lips, even after you pulled back with a grin.

The two of you continued to feed one another fruit and chocolate sauce. As you leaned back, holding yourself up with one of your hands, Mingyu leaned in, taking your lips in a measured kiss. Your lips parted and you felt his tongue along with chocolate sauce spill into your mouth.

“Come here,” Mingyu murmured, hands reaching up to undo the buttons on your chef smock, his lips meeting yours once more. Once he managed to undo the last button, he pushed the fabric aside, groaning as he buried his face into your chest, immediately kissing at your skin.

“This needs to come off,” he growled, pulling back just enough to undo the front closure on your bra and pull it off of you along with your smock. You groaned, back arching into his touch as you felt his mouth close around one of your nipples, tongue swirling around the bud.

You leaned back, one hand tangling in the mess of his black locks while the other supported your body. Mingyu pulled back, reaching over to grab a strawberry which he dipped in white chocolate sauce and promptly started to trail up your body from your navel. He smeared the sauce up your stomach and between your breasts, stopping to spread some over your nipple before holding the strawberry to your lips. You took it, moaning as his head ducked down to your stomach, licking up the path of the sauce.

Your thighs tightened around his waist as his tongue brushed over your nipple, taking it into his mouth to suck off the chocolate. Mingyu pulled back, moving back up to kiss you again, his hands fumbling with the ties on your pants. “What about you?” you whined. Mingyu chuckled as he pulled your pants down, thanking you when you lifted your hips to assist him.

“You’ll get your turn,” he murmured. “Lay down,” he instructed. You did as he asked, moaning as he kissed his way down your stomach, lips meeting the band of your panties. He stopped to glance up, meeting your gaze before he continued to kiss over the thin lace.

You moaned out his name, spreading your thighs wider as you felt his tongue press against you, only the black lace separating his tongue from where you wanted it the most. “F-ah! Fuck, baby,” you whimpered as you felt Mingyu leaned more into it, heat from his mouth spreading through your soaked panties.

“Just take them off, please!”

Mingyu pulled your panties down your legs, dropping them with the rest of your clothes. His head was back between your thighs quickly, tongue flicking rapidly against your clit as he held your thighs open. Your back arched off the counter, fingers tangling in his hair as you tried to push his head closer.

Mingyu groaned as you tugged on his hair, the sound vibrating against your cunt and sending waves of pleasure throughout your body. “Oh shit,” you gasped, eyes rolling shut as Mingyu licked and sucked at the sensitive bundle of nerves. The slurping sounds, coupled with your mewls and his groans against your pussy filled the room. It was so lewd and almost vile. You’d have to remember to sanitize and sterilize this station before opening back up on the 27th.

Mingyu’s fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs as he held your thighs open, tongue and lips messily moving against your cunt. “So good,” you breathed out, combing your fingers through his hair. You felt one of his hands slide up your body to grope at your chest, kneading gently as he continued to suckle.

“M’close,” you warned suddenly, feeling the tension in your body build, ready to snap at any moment. Instead of pulling away and letting you fall back from the edge, Mingyu drove you over it, tongue flicking in quick motions against your clit, groaning at the taste as you came, your juices flowing out of your pulsating hole.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck,” you groaned, fingers in Mingyu’s hair tightening as you held his head still, your hips moving of their own accord, grinding yourself on his tongue as you rode out your high. Mingyu pulled away much too soon for your liking and as you were about to protest, he pressed his lips against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth.

“Tastes so good, baby,” he groaned against your lips. “Tastes better than anything,” he murmured as he pulled back. “Y-your turn,” you stammered, trying to sit up but Mingyu held you down. “Later, angel,” he replied. “Let me just fuck you real good.”

You shook your head, pushing him back as you sat up. You made quick work of his shirt, tossing it aside as you turned your head to the chocolate sauce and dipped a piece of fruit into it, bringing it up to Mingyu’s lips before dipping a finger into the same sauce and smearing it across his chest and some down his stomach.

You slid from the counter, lowering yourself to lick the sauce from his skin. Mingyu let out a groan. You stood back up, grinning at him for a moment before grabbing the bowl of chocolate sauce and dropping to your knees. Mingyu watched as you undid the button on his jeans and pulled them down along with his underwear, almost groaning yourself as his cock sprang free.

He was fully erect, tip red and leaking as you let his pants and underwear pool at his ankles. You dipped your finger in the chocolate sauce and carefully spread it along the underside of his cock, licking your finger clean before grabbing the base of his shaft and lifting his cock.

Mingyu’s eyes fluttered shut as you licked a strip up his cock, cleaning the chocolate before swallowing. You then make sure to clean it all up before taking all of him in your mouth quickly. Your husband let out a groan, one hand moving to brace himself against the counter behind you while the other moved to the top of your head, stroking your hair gently.

“Fuck, that’s it baby,” he groaned, hips starting to move in tandem with the bobbing of your head. You let go of his cock, placing both hands on his thighs as you let him guide your movements. His cock hit the back of your throat, filling the room with a wet, lewd gagging sound. You pulled back, looking up at him.

Mingyu could have cum from the sight alone, you naked on your knees, looking up at him with glossy eyes, saliva starting to spill down your chin. “Fuck my face,” you gasped hoarsely. Mingyu didn’t need to hear it again, grabbing your head and guiding your lips to the tip of his cock.

He let out a moan as your head sank further, his cock gliding back into your mouth. He started slowly, giving a few measured thrusts before setting a steady pace, pumping in and out of your mouth. Each pull back, you allowed your tongue to swirl around the head of his cock until he stopped pulling out entirely. You gagged around him as he thrust into your mouth.

Your hands moved up to his hips, pulling him in as you tried to take all of his cock. “Oh fuck,” you heard him groan as the head of his cock slipped into your throat. You gagged around his cock, throat constricting as you tried to swallow. “Ah, shit!” he hissed. He pulled your head back, allowing air to fill your lungs again as his cock twitched.

Your hand moved back, fingers wrapping around him as you continued the momentum, stroking him quickly, spitting onto the head of his cock to add to the lubrication. “Fuck, fuck! Stop, baby!” He moaned, hand wrapping around your wrist. “I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop!”

You gave the head of his cock a light lick, giggling and looking up at him. Mingyu groaned at the sight and grabbed your wrist, tugging you up gently. “Up,” he ordered, helping you back up to the counter before he grabbed his cup of ice water.

“What’re you doing?” you asked, watching as he pulled the lid off and took a tip, tipping his head back. When he lowered the cup, he set it aside, leaving the lid off. In his teeth, he held an ice cube. He leaned forward, leaving open mouth kisses along your collar and chest with the ice cube gliding over your skin easily.

A chill went up your spine, nipples peaking as his mouth moved closer. You let out a gasp, feeling the icy liquid against the sensitive skin of your areolas. Mingyu swirled his tongue, allowing the melting ice cube to move around your nipple.

He pulled back, grabbing the cup and dumping more ice into his mouth. He kissed down your stomach, pushing you flat on your back as his head dipped between your thighs. You felt the ice against your clit and gasped loudly. His tongue toyed with your clit, the cold sensation contrasting with the heat radiating from between your legs.

Mingyu pulled back, swallowing down the ice. You sat up, grabbing his cup and dumped some ice into your mouth, pushing him back as you sucked on the cube. You lowered yourself, to your knees, fisting his cock before guiding the head back to your mouth.

Mingyu groaned out, pounding his hand against the metal counter as your cold mouth took more and more of his hot cock. You bobbed your head a few times, allowing the melting ice to rub along the underside of his cock.

“F-fuck,” he shivered. “Get up here,” he growled, pulling your head back and guiding you back to your feet. “On the counter.” You must not have moved fast enough for him because he turned you away, pushing you over the counter as he guided the head of his cock to your dripping entrance.

You felt him rub the tip around your slit, gathering your wetness and smearing it. You felt him rub his cock against you, rutting against your ass and dragging the underside of his shaft through your folds. “M’gonna fuck you so good,” you heard him groan, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance again before taking your hips in his hands and pushing in.

You mewled, your walls stretching to accommodate the head of his cock. He stilled for a moment, panting as he tried to hold back but the way you wiggled your hips made it harder and harder and soon, he was bracing himself, fingers tightening on your waist before plunging his cock into you with one thrust.

The sudden intrusion caused you to cry out in both pain and pleasure, the ache and sting of the stretch pairing with the pleasure of feeling him filling you raw with his thick cock. “Lift this,” he urged, grabbing the back of your thigh and guiding your leg up, knee bent as he pushed your chest against the steel.

“Stay just like that,” he groaned, moving his hand back to your waist. He thrust into you, pulling back only slightly before thrusting again, setting a steady rhythm. He looked down, watching his cock sink into your cunt repeatedly, groaning at the sight of your juices already coating his shaft.

“That’s right,” he scoffed when you moaned loudly, fingers curling into a fist as you tried to brace yourself against his thrusts. “Only I fuck you this good, don’t I?” he groaned. You moaned in response, back arching as his hips started to slap against your ass.

“You like it when I stuff you full of this cock, don’t you?” he asked. You nodded, head dropping as you lost yourself in the pleasure. “Y-yes!” you gasped out. “Love it when you fuck my tight pussy with your big cock, Mingyu!”

You were stroking his ego but then again, your husband had pretty good thrust and hip game when it came to sex. He always left you feeling more than satisfied. “That’s right,” he retorted. “You’re such a little slut for me.”

Your walls clenched around him before you started to push back to meet his thrusts. The sudden action had him doubling over your back with a deep groan. “Mm, fuck!” you growled. “Oh shit. I love it when you do that,” Mingyu gasped. “Love it when you fuck yourself on my cock. Keep going, baby.”

You felt him slow his movements but you kept the momentum going, fucking yourself back on his cock, gasping and moaning as the tip nudged your cervix with each thrust. “Oh fuck, yeah,” Mingyu moaned, hands moving to the counter on either side of you, holding him up.

“Keep going,” he continued. “Fuck yourself. Use me like your own person fuck toy,” he added. “Oh god, Mingyu!” you whimpered, thighs shaking as your ass hit Mingyu’s hips with each thrust. “Call me your dirty little fuck toy,” Mingyu pleaded, his voice becoming breathless as he met your movements.

“You think you can tell me what to do?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. “You’re my fucking slut,” you growled back. “Begging me to fuck your cock like some kind of whore.” Mingyu’s cock twitched, a groan escaping him. He made no attempt to move his hands, content to let you move at your own pace for now.

“Good, look at you,” you continued. “Willing to let me use that thick cock to get myself off.”

“How pathetic.”

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu said quickly. “I’ll be good,” he added. “Just keep using me.”

You scoffed, turning your head to look back forward. “I want you to fuck me,” you retorted. “I want you to fuck me hard. Make me scream. Make my legs shake. Make it so I can’t stand tomorrow.”

You felt his hands on your hips. “You sure, angel?” you heard him whisper. You nodded. “Yes,” you replied. “Fuck me, Mingyu. Fuck me hard.” Mingyu didn’t need to be told twice, grabbing your hips hard as he slammed into you from behind, a gasp ripping from your throat.

He set a relentless pace, pounding into you from behind as he drove both of you towards orgasm. “Your cock is so big, Gyu,” you moaned, cheek pressed against the cool metallic surface. “Feels so good. Feel it so deep.” “God, yes, Gyu. Please,” you whined.

“Please give it to me. Give it all to me,” you continued, his cock starting to twitch rapidly, each drag of your walls raw against his cock sending him further and further towards the edge. “F-fuck!” he gasped. “M’gonna cum, baby,” he warned. “Where you want it baby?” Mingyu asked, glancing down at you.

“Inside me. Just cum inside me, Gyu. Fill me up with your cum.”

He groaned, leaning over your back and sinking his teeth into your shoulder, sucking against your skin as his hips slammed into you, his release washing over him. Thick ropes of cum spilled inside you, painting your walls in white.

Mingyu rode out both your highs, thrusting sloppily into you as he forced his cum further into you. When his hips finally came to a halt, he let out a breathy chuckle and pushed himself up, looking down at the indentation of his teeth in your shoulder. He pulled back to see where his cock disappeared inside you, the base of it coated in his cum.

He internally winced as he pulled out, both from the sudden change and from the sight of his cum spilling out of your abused cunt. He gathered some of it with his fingers, pushing it back into you. “Keep that in there,” he said playfully as he looked down at your pussy.

“We need to finish cleaning up,” he murmured, moving to grab a clean kitchen towel and wet it before wiping your thighs and sex clean. He helped you back into your clothes before pulling his own on. You cleaned up the rest of the leftover chocolate sauce and fruit, dumping the bowls into the soapy water that was surprisingly still hot.

Mingyu washed the dishes while you cleaned and sanitized the counter you’d defiled. Once the dishes were clean and you were certain the countertop was sterilized, you returned to his side, sighing as he pulled you into his warm embrace. “Can we go now?” he asked softly, tilting your head back so he could kiss you.

You smiled against his lips, pulling back to nod and answer him. “Yes. We’re done and we can finally leave.” Mingyu’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Perfect,” he responded, taking your hand and pressing it against his growing erection. “Again?” you asked incredulously. He nodded with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I’m not done with you just yet.”

ⓘ Graphics made by me. Content and support banners made using a template by cafekitsune. I do not allow reposts, translations, or continuations of my works. All writing and graphics are ©️ kwanisms.

#svthub #ksmutsociety #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fanfic #seventeen smut #seventeen x reader #mingyu scenarios #mingyu imagines #mingyu fanfiction #mingyu fanfic #mingyu smut #mingyu x reader #tales from camp holiday special

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imtryingmyfuckingbe · 3 years ago

Text

The Truth is: I’m a Liar

Word count: 29,352

Bucky x Mom!Reader

The front door slams, echoing through the house. Y/N’s chest heaves, breathless from the struggle. Blood, sticky and warm and real— she tells herself so thrice until it settles as a reverb in her head— paints her fingers to match her nail polish. It stains her dress and speckles her kitchen floor, whereupon she kneels. Her hands shake around the handle of the chef’s knife.

Five years.

She moved to Lambertville five years ago, took up a new name and a fake personality she perfected: a job at the bank because she fell off the Ivy League track she began in her youth when she birthed her baby and started a life as a single mother making ends meet and trying to give her daughter a normal, stable life. Parks on the weekend. Structured lessons before preschool, and then during, and then when Winnie moved on to kindergarten. A babysitter who she vetted and tested before trusting him with her kid.

She built a life here, goddammit. A lie, but a life nonetheless, constructed from the rubble of who she left behind. Painstaking details so well crafted her neighbors believe it and her coworkers don’t ask questions; brought to its knees by a ghost at her table.

Or, what should be a ghost. Instead, a man with gnarled skin and scars, a fierce, ugly grin, holding a vendetta like a flame, darkened the corner of her kitchen.

It played in slow motion, him rising from the table. His voice rebounds in her head against the lock boxes she stored her past in. ‘It’s high time I get what I’m owed’, he said around his sneer.

Old reflexes kicked in, muscle memory unused for years. A lunge and a grasp and stab. The squelch of the blade when she pulled her arm back and aimed again. His grunt of pain when he tried to block it and it went through his hand. The ringing in her ears.

She sets the knife in front of her, parallel to her knees. The sun shining through the windows glints off of the metal, mocking and surreal. She wipes her hands on the skirt of her dress, twisting her fingers in the fabric; scrubs at her skin until the blood transfers, save for the stain it leaves in its wake.

She exhales through her nose with a forced calmness, wading through the ocean of leftover panic in her chest. A list. She needs a list. A purpose.

The floor, first. Clean the floor and go from there.

She unties the bow holding her dress closed, grimacing at the perspiration sticking it to her arms and her back. It peels away with more effort than usual, her movements slow. The breeze from the overhead fan raises goosebumps on her skin, the sweat drying into a cool coat.

With the edge of the skirt, she wipes the knife, careful of its blade and her fingers. She tosses it into the sink, where it clatters against the other dishes.

The heavy fabric, built to withstand the springtime cool, soaks up the blood splatters on the floor. She needs bleach and a mop and to burn this dress and shower a thousand times over until the water runs clear and she can breathe.

She sends partial, bitter gratitude upwards that Peter, the babysitter, picked Winnie up after school. That Brock fucking Rumlow broke into her home and threatened her on a weekday. Y/N long ago promised to hide this side of her life from Winnie, to tell the same tales she sells the curious neighbors to her daughter. She refuses to allow an egotistical fuck who should’ve stayed dead to force her to renege on that promise.

She balls her dress into a bundle, tucking the bloody portions in on itself to hide them. Her knees ache from kneeling on the floor. It hurts to stand. She grips the countertop to steady herself, cold and shaky and angry.

Livid.

See, her father left before she knew him and her mother liked a drink and a man more than Y/N. She grew up in a house on fire, the bones of it creaking with old ghosts who lived far past their time. Anger, frustration, loss— it burrowed its fingers into her young enough for it to morph into a sick comfort. A blanket of sorts that she wrapped around her shoulders and carried like a shield and a weapon— the right person’s hands make the most innocuous thing dangerous, she learned.

In her kitchen, white-knuckling her dirty dress, it returns in a tidal wave. All at once, overcoming the peace she sought. She put to rest the girl in her youth, shucking her ways to take on the role of a better mother. Caring, gentle, honest. The thing is, she hid those parts of her away but not out of reach.

With a mechanical decisiveness, she stalks to the drawer by the refrigerator. It slides open on a whisper. The gallon freezer Ziploc bag pulls from its box on a whisper. The dress falls into the bag on a whisper, and she presses out the air and zips it shut on a whisper, too.

She used to live, thrive in the murmurs of her work— methodical and calm. It fits her to return to it now.

She places the bag in the back of her freezer, behind two loaves of bread and the chicken nuggets Winnie loves. Surveying the kitchen, with the pots hanging on the wall and the snack pack she made Winnie on the counter, it looks like it does on any given day. Lived in but clean, small remnants of their lives a decoration.

Y/N clenches her jaw, scanning the room. It should reflect the new upset in her life; the new and harsh reality. If things worked like that, her body would reflect her life; her grief, her misgivings, her misdeeds. It’s both a small mercy and a large mockery that skin and rooms scar less often than the wounds wrought within.

She shakes her head, casting out the lamenting of intangible markings. She needs to hurry before Peter brings Winnie home from their after-school date.

From beneath her kitchen counter she retrieves disinfectant wipes and a bottle of bleach, slamming them on the counter. She keeps her mop bucket on the floor of the pantry, along with rubber gloves that extend up to her elbows. She pulls the rubber taut, securing it.

First, the floor. Normally, she uses scented cleaner, diluting it with water. Now, she grabs the dish towel hanging off of the oven and falls back to her knees. She breathes through her mouth, the bleach too acidic and stinging in her nose to power through it.

She takes it tile by tile, wrapping the towel around her pointer finger to get into the grout. Her hand cramps in its tight fist around the towel and against the floor. She scrubs harder. She cleans past where the blood splattered, working her way over where he stepped to erase his presence in its entirety.

She crawls around the table, the floor biting into her knees and the trail of bleach harsh on her skin. Her elbow hits a chair from an errant swipe, the shock of it running up and down her arm. She hisses and ignores it. At the chair where Brock sat, she scrubs the legs and the seat and the backrest. Between the slats, beneath the lip of the seat. Anywhere he may have touched.

The panic evolves into a calm purpose, her harried movements slowing but no less vigorous. The smell of the bleach fills the room and lingers on her skin. If she glares at the open space hard enough, she thinks she sees lingering specks in the air. She throws away the towel.

At the sink, she looks from the bleach in her hand to the knife and back, and then shrugs, dumping a superfluous amount over the dishes. She needs to change her sponge anyway, she reasons, scrubbing at the blade. She cleans the remaining dishes in turn and with the same intent— the plates front and back, the pot in all of its crevices— and puts them in the dishwasher to run.

When she finishes the last one, she turns to the sink itself. She loves the basin, a focal point of the room. It sits in the center of the countertop, a stainless steel that extends far enough for dishes to pile up without it looking messy. The faucet is tall with a curve in its neck, its head extendable. She cleans that, too, just in case.

She misses the sink already, knowing they have to move. She plans to take care of Rumlow herself, since James failed, but he tainted the charm and the comfort. He broke in and sat at her table and dirtied the floor. Dirtied her peace.

She shucks the gloves, throwing them and the sponge away.

What did he touch before she found him? Did he snoop through the cupboards out of twisted curiosity? Her pantry? Did he run his finger along the counter to leave behind his prints like a marking?

She doesn’t know, but she knows him. Knew him. Brock loved mind games, so much so Bucky trusted him less and less the more he reveled in them. He enjoyed playing a shadow in his object’s peripheral vision, disappearing when they turned their heads. Walking through a room with heavy steps to announce his presence, and then prowling like a panther to make someone think he left to abuse the element of surprise.

Y/N found it amusing, once upon a time. The people they targeted deserved the paranoia and confusion. She played the game, too, until Brock turned it into a habit. His intention shifted from scaring those who deserved cold sweats of fear to wanting a hush in the crowd when he walked into the room— no matter if his so-called friends stood in the audience.

Before Y/N left, Bucky talked about ousting him. They, the family she forged through fire and brimstone, had no place for a man hellbent on power.

She cleans the counter with the wipes for that reason. The handles to her cupboards and drawers. Over the stoves and its knobs and the oven door. She cleans and cleans until the surfaces of her kitchen shine and it smells like a hospital. The itch in her fingers urge her to keep going, to pull out her plates and cups and clean the shelves; to throw out her tablecloth and maybe the table, too.

The time on the stove stops her. 4:43. Winnie comes home soon, and Y/N needs to shower.

Sticky sweat and disinfectant linger on her skin. Her underwear clings to her body like a plastic wrap— uncomfortable and tight.

Y/N dries her hands on a paper towel, scanning the room. Good enough, for what she needed done. She turns the fan to its highest setting, hoping to dispel the heavy smell, and cracks the windows along the far side of the wall.

4:47.

She runs her tongue over her teeth and nods. Her feet pad across the floor, not unlike any other day. The living room looks the same, with its haphazardly tossed pillows and throw blankets, Winnie’s toys put away in a bin in the corner of the room. The stairs creak under her steps, the house old but renovated. The shower handle squeaks when it turns and, though it takes a minute to warm, the water is scalding and the pressure heavy.

Like any other day, except blood stains her fingers and the skin on her knees burns.

She cleans herself with the thoroughness of the kitchen, from head to foot and back. First with her hands, scrubbing between her toes and behind her knees and ears. The water runs a light pink circle around the drain, and then it runs clear.

She cleans again with a washcloth, lathering in the discount body wash she got at the local drug store. It fills the bathroom with the scent of flowers and spring, carried through the steam.

She cleans herself again.

And then again.

She rubs her skin raw until the water runs cold and then some.

The slow encroaching freeze steels the fire in her belly, like lava meeting water exploding into volcanic rock— a slower danger, but one nonetheless. She stands until the steam dissipates and reveals her feet once more.

The shower handle squeaks when she turns it off.

The faucet drips and the towel rubs against her skin. Outside, a car honks and someone shouts their grievances, and then silence. A floor below, Winnie laughs.

Y/N closes her eyes, resting her forehead against the shower wall, and focuses on her daughter. Peter murmurs something back which makes Winnie giggle harder and louder. It’s for her that Y/N swears to watch the life leave Rumlow’s eyes; to ensure he can’t enter their lives again and threaten their livelihood.

It’s for her that Y/N forces herself to step out of the tub and get dressed. One foot in front of the other, one pant leg at a time. Leggings, sweatshirt, socks.

Y/N never wanted to have children. She feared herself incapable of the nurture necessary to do it right; of the ability to not fuck up a kid like her mom fucked her up. She took the pregnancy test on a hunch and laid in bed for a day when it came back positive. No matter who knocked on her door, she turned them away. Natasha picked the lock, took one look at Y/N, and crawled in bed beside her.

It took thirteen days to make a plan, and three more to execute it.

Winnie’s voice draws Y/N from her room like a beacon, and down the creaking stairs once more. Peter sits on the floor holding an action figure and a pony while Winnie wiggles a stuffed animal at him. She pauses on the bottom step, hand on the rail, and watches.

Peter slipped into their lives with ease. He reminds her of Pietro, always sunny, always smiling. He laughs and he jokes and he knows how to answer Winnie’s questions in a way that satisfies her. Y/N wishes she could see her friends with Winnie, can imagine it with a clarity unmarred by the years, and then scoffs. She’ll find out soon enough.

Winnie jumps up, turning to face Y/N. “Mama!” she shouts, gleeful and young.

Peter grins at Y/N, too, catching the stuffed animal Winnie throws over her shoulder in favor of running to Y/N. “Hey, Jenn,” he says.

Y/N loathes the lies she tells Peter, a kid she thinks trustworthy. Still, if one person knows her real name, she risks it spreading. She forces herself to smile and steady Winnie, who throws her arms around Y/N’s waist.

“Hey, baby,” she says, leaning down to press a kiss onto Winnie’s head. She caresses her hair with one hand, the other palm against her back. “How was your day?”

Winnie heaves a great sigh, as if burdened with the woes of the world. She shakes her head against Y/N’s stomach. “I hate math,” she groans.

Y/N laughs. “Me too, kid.” She runs her fingers through Winnie’s hair, gently untangling the snatches. “But it’s important! You said you wanted to touch the stars, right?”

Winnie shrugs. “I like looking at them, too.”

Peter stands, tossing the toys in their bin along his way to lean against the couch. He crosses his ankles, hands perched on the back of the couch. “We went to the park and learned about the animals there, didn’t we, Win?”

Winnie pulls back from Y/N, looking up at her. She nods with vigor. “Yeah, Mama. There’s lots.”

“There sure are.” She peers into Winnie’s eyes for extra fortification, drawing strength from their light and joy. “Hey, Peter?” she asks, still looking down.

“What’s up?”

Y/N tucks a strand of hair behind Winnie’s ear and then looks at him. “Do you mind watching Winnie for a little bit more? I need to make a phone call.”

He smiles, confusion apparent in the drawing of his brows. Normally, Peter leaves after he drops Winnie off. Y/N takes phone calls around her all the time, but Y/N doesn’t want to leave Winnie alone— not with the risk of Brock around the corner.

“Uh, sure,” he says slowly.

She nods, smiling quick and ingenuine. His face scrunches up further. “Thanks.”

She kisses Winnie’s head and then spins her by the shoulders, pushing her towards Peter. Winnie offers a soft protest, but goes, casting a glance over her shoulder at Y/N. They return to their spot on the floor, Winnie on her knees and Peter crossing his legs over each other.

Y/N forces herself to look away and return to her room.

On a hook by her door hangs a long unused purse. The colors faded with time and sun exposure, and dust coats the pleather exterior. She hung it up when she moved in, never touching it and hardly looking at it. Now, she stands before it, arms crossed.

If a bag could talk, this one says ‘so it came to this, you foolhardy girl’. She bought it at a flea market in the city, in the DUMBO archway, because it matched her jacket and she happened to walk through it when she felt she deserved something nice. It cost three and a quarter dollars, and came with a free fortune paper in the inside pocket. She can’t recall what the fortune said, only that she laughed and elbowed Nat to show her.

When she made her plan to leave, she emptied it and tore a hole in the inside pocket, revealing the insides of the purse. Within that makeshift pocket, she placed a cheap burner phone and its separate battery. Never used, save to program one phone number.

She bites the inside of her cheek, chewing the skin. She never planned to touch the purse again, let alone stick her hand inside and grab the phone. She allowed herself to reduce it to a marking of her past, a memento of what she left, without a chance of needing it for more.

Y/N rolls her eyes. She dealt with far more nerve wracking things than digging through a purse for a battery and a phone. She slides a finger up the strap of the purse, unhooking it. The items inside jostle. With both hands, she holds the bag, tapping her fingers along its back.

“So it came to this,” she murmurs, sitting on her bed.

She pulls the flap open, the magnet clicking when it releases, and peers inside. Black fabric lines the sides, sagging against the back wall where she cut into it. She reaches through the opening, feeling along the bottom. Her fingers brush against the smooth plastic of the phone, and then she reaches further for the battery.

Two small, innocent without the knowledge of their meaning, objects rest heavy in her palm. She exhales, pulling out her hand. She drops the bag to the floor, focusing on the phone. It looks like the day she bought it— small and gray. She flips it over and forces the back off, then slides the battery into its spot. It clicks into place with a sound only deafening to herself.

Backing returned, she turns the phone over. The small screen on the front lights up with the date and time she turned it off before it corrects itself. She thumbs it open, presses one, and then the call button. With a forced steady hand and bitter bravado, she puts the phone to her ear.

It rings twice before the line clicks. Silence, pregnant with tension because the person on the other line knows the severity of receiving a call from this number.

“Y/N?” Bucky asks.

She sighs, his voice a balm for the torrent of emotions in her chest. Once upon a time, when their wild youth let way for moments of reprieve, Bucky’s voice put Y/N to sleep. She sneaked out of her mother’s apartment to his, or vice versa, and they laid in bed, where Bucky spoke softly and sweetly, Y/N’s head on his chest.

“Got it in one,” she whispers.

Something rustles on the other side of the line. Bucky clears his throat. “What’s going on?”

Y/N pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. She wets her lips. “You said you took care of it.” It comes out harsh and biting.

“What are you talking about? Y/N, what’s going on?”

“Brock, James.”

Silence, like Bucky holds his breath. Y/N scoffs.

“I came home from work and he was in my kitchen, James. My house.”

“Where are you now?” he demands, tone shifting off center of the Bucky she knows. Knew.

She never imagined a life without it molding to fit him. Will he recognize her? Will she recognize him? “I’m home. I stabbed him. Twice. He ran.”

“You stabbed him?”

She stands to pace, the energy thrumming in her veins too strong to ignore. “Yes! What was I supposed to do? My kid, she was gonna be home soon and he wouldn’t— it doesn’t matter! You said we were safe!”

“Y/N,” he whispers, and she missed hearing her name on his lips more than she missed the name itself. “Calm down, please.”

“Don’t! Don’t tell me to calm down.” She lowers her voice despite her desire to scream until her lungs give out; to claw and kick at the world until it tells her why she deserves this. Above all, she loathes for Win to hear her yell. The thin floors allow for anything to fall through, including the sudden silence beneath her, Peter’s quiet murmur, and then a return of conversation. She huffs.

“Steve’s on his way. He’ll be there soon. This shouldn’t have happened. I thought— it doesn’t matter. I’m getting Nat and we’ll leave.”

Y/N halts, facing the mirror perched in the corner of her room by the nightstand. “How soon will Steve be here?” she asks slowly.

Bucky coughs. “He can be there in twenty.”

Y/N huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “What’s he doing near Lambertville, James?”

She knows. It makes sense; Bucky never left well enough alone. She foolishly believed his promise to let her cut ties, though even then it felt like a stretch. Bucky loves wholeheartedly; it nearly killed him a few times. He protects those for whom he cares, and that spans a state and the miles between herself and him. Frustration bubbles, but the comfort of knowing her friends— her family— watched over clashes with it. The day fills her chest, weighted and tangible, a cocktail of waning adrenaline and present anger and soft longing, sour on her tongue and slow going down her throat.

“Been keeping an eye on me, have you?” she goads, but gentler than the ire the words suggest.

Bucky sighs. “We’ll talk about this when I get there.”

“I suppose I’ll just ask Steve. I’m sure he’ll answer.”

“Y/N,” he warns, sharp and pointed.

The flow of the conversation, the familiarity of Y/N pushing boundaries and Bucky trying to draw her in, eases a weight that long found home in her bones. “See you soon, Buck.” She flips the phone shut without awaiting a response, more pressing things taking place at the forefront of her mind.

She needs to excuse Peter and prepare Winnie before Steve arrives.

She tosses the phone and catches it in one motion, and then slides it in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

Peter looks up when Y/N returns, an eyebrow cocked. “Everything good?”

She nods. “Yes. Thank you for staying, Peter. I’ll account for it in your check. You’re good to go now.”

He waits a moment, scanning her face, before pushing to a stand. Winnie follows suit, clutching her superhero bear to her chest. “It is always a pleasure, Your Majesty Winifred.” Peter offers a small bow, drawing his arm across his waist.

Winnie giggles and grins, returning with a curtsey. “You are very welcome.”

Peter nods once to Y/N, gaze lingering, and then departs on a final wave. He eases the door shut behind him to prevent it from slamming.

Winnie returns to the floor, picking up her toys. Y/N joins at her side, sitting with her back against the bin. She holds an old Barbie doll with marker stains, smoothing the cut up hair back. “Winnie, honey.”

“Yes, Mama?” Winnie mirrors Y/N’s position, holding the stuffed animal in her lap. She cranes her neck to look up at Y/N.

Y/N sighs. “I’ve got an old friend coming soon. Someone you’ve never met.”

Winnie stays silent, her face blank. Children pick up on more than adults deign to believe, evidenced in Winnie’s gentle stoicism. Y/N loathes to know what other traits she unwittingly imparted unto her daughter.

��His name is Steve. I was friends with him before you were born.”

Winnie nods. “Is he nice?”

Y/N smiles. “Yeah, honey. He’s real nice. I think you’ll like him.” She sets the doll to the side, turning so she faces Winnie. She pulls her legs beneath her and rests her elbow on the lip of the bin. The sharp edges of the wood dig into her skin. “And, after, I have a few more friends coming.”

“From before?” Winnie asks, somehow impressing upon the ‘before’ like she understands the separation between her mother’s two lives.

“Yeah,” Y/N says on a sigh, tapping her pointer finger to Winnie’s nose. “They’re nice, too. Their names are Bucky and Natasha. I think you’ll love them.”

Winnie frowns. “Bucky?”

“It’s silly, isn’t it?”

“Yeah!”

“He’ll fit right in, then, won’t he?” Y/N grins, wiggling her fingers at Winnie and leaning forward.

She reaches for Winnie’s sides, tickling her. Winnie gasps around laughter, doubling over. “No, Mama! Stop it,” she wheezes.

Y/N does, pulling Winnie into her lap so they sit back to chest. She rests her cheek on Winnie’s hair and closes her eyes. Winnie plays with her fingers, intertwining and twisting their hands together. Y/N tightens her hold and sighs.

For a moment, she pretends the looming weekend holds games and reading and relaxing. That she sits with her daughter, holding her because she wants to and not as a means to prevent the pieces fracturing in her chest from piercing a lung.

Winnie, in all of her five year old wisdom, stays silent, focusing on their hands and unprotesting of the quietude. Winnie separates Y/N from Before and the Y/N Now, a thick line dividing her life into two sections. Y/N can’t imagine choosing to not have Winnie, despite the necessary losses in her endeavor to raise her well.

She hopes she raises her well, at least. Her own mother thought herself a fit parent, but it left Y/N with little love to show for it. If Winnie ever looked at Y/N the way Y/N looks at her mother, it would break her heart.

A knock on the door, two quick raps, interrupts. Y/N sighs, opening her eyes. The setting sun shines through the windows, casting a golden glow across the room. She revels in the peace a moment longer, and then tucks the wistfulness away.

“C’mon, kid.”

Winnie uses Y/N’s shoulder to stand. She steps back, looking down. “It’s okay, Mama. Right?” She places her palm on Y/N’s cheek, a mimicry of how Y/N comforts her when she gets upset.

“Yeah. I just don’t wanna get up, I’m so comfy!” She tries for lighthearted, but it falls flat on her ears.

Winnie smiles anyway, grabbing Y/N’s hand as if to help her up. Y/N stands with a groan, pretending to use Winnie’s grip, her legs numb from sitting. “Thank you, honey. Go sit on the couch, please.” She pats Winnie’s back, who listens with less fanfare than her normal attitude.

Y/N fortifies herself. How does someone prepare to see a face from their memories? A person they once relied upon and then left? It aches like pressing a bruise.

Another set of knocks pushes her forward the five steps to the door. Her hand hovers over the knob, a second’s hesitation, before she twists it to reveal Steve. His motorcycle helmet rests tucked between his arm and side. His hair sticks up every which way. He looks the same, save for the wrinkles around his eyes and the beard. It drives a splinter into her heart.

“A beard?” she exclaims, focusing on the easiest thing first.

Steve laughs, full bodied and whole. “Shut up. Lemme in.”

Y/N grins back at him, shaking her head and swallowing all the varying words on the tip of her tongue. She opens the door wider and steps back, motioning him in. Steve scans the room, starting from the left where the toy box rests to the staircase, and then returning to the couch. Winnie peeks over it, her eyes and the top of her head visible, her hands holding the cushion. She ducks down when Steve’s gaze lands on her.

“Well, well, well. Who’s this little one?”

Y/N cheeks hurt from smiling so wide. “This, here, is Winnie. Come say hello, honey.”

Steve’s head whips to look at Y/N, his eyes wide and lips turned down in a contemplative frown. “Winnie?” he draws out.

Y/N avoids his eyes in favor of focusing on drawing Winnie out. Her head pops back up. “Yes,” Y/N confirms. She clears her throat. “Come on, baby.” She holds her hand out.

Winnie shakes her head but stays peering over the back of the sofa. Her eyes flick from Steve’s riding boots up to his hair. “You’re Steve,” she says with all the bravado of a child who knows the truth.

He slowly turns to face her once more. “I sure am. I hear you’re Winnie.” He pauses, almost imperceptible, between ‘you’re’ and ‘Winnie’.

Y/N rolls her eyes. Steve dons a bleeding heart in his chest and on his sleeve. His emotions flick across his face plain as day for anyone to read, and Y/N used to know him front and back and front again. He thinks fast and draws conclusions faster.

“Not a word,” she whispers out of the corner of her mouth.

Steve wets his lips but nods. He steps closer to the couch and to Winnie. “I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

Winnie uses the cushions to push to a stand. “Yes. I know.”

Steve laughs. “Do you, now?”

His teasing tone washes over Y/N. Her head swims with vertigo, trying to make sense of the past standing in her living room talking to her present. Merging into one image, a memory and a fact. She missed this: the comradery, the jokes, the closeness. She regrets for half of a second, taking this away before Winnie experienced it, and then shuts the thought down just as fast. She made the right decision.

Winnie nods. “Mama told me.”

“Oh?” Steve prompts, stepping closer.

Winnie cranes her neck to look at him. “Uh huh.”

The swirling in Y/N’s gut intensifies. “All right, all right. Winnie, can you go to your room for me? I’ve gotta talk to Steve.”

“Mama,” Winnie whines, pouting.

Y/N snorts. “Go on.”

Winnie huffs a sigh. “Nice to meet you,” she says through her glower, the effectiveness lessened by her round cheeks and wide eyes.

Steve snorts. “You as well, Winnie.”

She tries one more time to change Y/N’s mind with a kicked puppy look she perfected too young, but Y/N waves her onward. Winnie stomps across the floor, her shoes lighting up with each step. Y/N bites her cheek to stop from laughing at the sight. Winnie’s door closes with a slam, and then opens again. “Sorry,” she says, albeit without conviction. Her door closes again.

Y/N strains to hear if Winnie intends on pressing her luck by sneaking back downstairs, but the door remains closed. She exhales.

“Come here,” Steve says, quiet.

Y/N steps into his arms, sagging into the hug. His heart beats a clear cadence through his jacket where she purposefully presses her ear. He rests his chin on top of her head. She holds him as tight as she can, forcing her mind blank save for the acknowledgment of the comfort and familiarity.

She hugs Winnie and no one else. While Winnie soothes the ebbing and flowing of aches, she missed these hugs. The ones where she feels small and held; protected and safe.

Steve smooths his hand down the back of her head, landing on her neck. He squeezes, an old gesture of solidarity, and then releases her. Y/N sighs, hollow and full all at once.

“Good?” Steve asks.

Y/N smiles, small and tired but honest. “Yeah. Come on.”

She leads him to the kitchen, the furthest point in the house from Winnie’s room. It allows them privacy, and, above all, bolsters Y/N’s resolve. The wall of cleaner they hit upon entrance brings forth her earlier adrenaline and anger.

Steve coughs around it, shaking his head. “What happened in here?” He settles against the table, setting his helmet behind him.

Y/N crosses her arms and leans against the counter across from Steve, the same spot Brock attacked her. “Buck didn’t tell you?”

“No. He called me and said to get here. That he and Nat and a few others would be following.”

Y/N looks over his shoulder and out of the window. Light pinks and purples and oranges paint the sky, darkening into the blue of the night. The trees lining the sidewalk sway in the breeze. A couple walks past hand in hand, grinning and laughing and easy.

“Brock.”

One word, but it holds the weight of a promise unfulfilled. Steve tenses, his leftover smile vanishing for a grim set to his lips. “What?” he barks. “No, we—”

“— Apparently you didn’t.”

Steve looks down at his shoes. “Y/N, I—”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not— there are more important things to deal with right now than how he survived. Like the fact that he did, and knows where I live and that means he knows about my kid.”

Steve nods.

“How long have you guys been checking up on me?” She wants to get it out of the way; all of it.

His head shoots up. “I—” He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “Bucky told you?”

She snorts. “No. I figured it out when he said you’d be here in twenty minutes. What else would put you near me? You expect me to believe it’s a fucking coincidence?” she hisses. “How long?”

“Since you moved here.”

“How often?”

“Y/N…”

“How often?”

His jaw clenches. “We didn’t have a schedule. At least once a month, when time afforded it. It’s a quick drive, all things considered.”

Y/N lets that settle. Once a month for five years. She never caught them, and they never showed themselves. That hurts the most, carving a wound right down her center. If they ignored her boundaries anyway, why not go all in and show their faces?

She sniffs, shaking her head. “Whose idea?”

Steve laughs once, humorless and dry. “Whose idea do you think, Y/N?”

She thought so. “Okay.” And she can’t help herself now, because it builds in her lungs and leaks into her chest, a pressure chamber all on its own upset by the newfound revelations of what passed her by and it leaks out through the holes poked by the splinters. “Why didn’t you— no one ever…” she shakes her head, the words acidic on her tongue. Heavy and harsh, like the stench and taste of the bleach.

Steve sighs. “We didn’t want to mess it up. You deserved— deserve— a normal life. Out of all of us, you had the best shot of it. Hopped on the straight and narrow. A job at a fucking bank, of all the places. You wiped your hands clean, Y/N. We weren’t gonna ruin that for you.”

Small mercies, she supposes. “And he never— I mean, I’ve been here this whole time, and…” Words come easily to Y/N. She thinks and she speaks and it makes sense. After today, she knows nothing except keeping Winnie safe and herself whole.

“He never came. Said he couldn’t.”

She blinks back the tears threatening to spill, saving them for a later date where she can fall apart alone with only herself as judge, jury, and executioner. “Right.” It comes out weak, stilted. She clears her throat and tries again. “Right.”

Silence settles, a thorned bush of flowers. Beautiful and kind, but bloody otherwise. Steve shifts, pulling out a chair and sitting gracelessly. He crosses an ankle over his knee, hands clasped in his lap. His gaze pierces through Y/N, searching past her façade for more than she says or reveals. She knows Steve well, despite the difference in time and space, but it goes both ways.

They used to share conversations with looks and nudges and quiet scoffs. The habit stays, a muscle unused but there, and Steve uses it to parse her thoughts.

“Winnie?” he asks, a hunch and a lifetime and an accusation all rolled into one word.

“I only told Nat.”

“And you think he won’t put two and two together?”

“Well, Steve, when I named her I thought I’d never see any of you again. I was tired and alone and miserable, okay? I just, it felt right.” She pushes off the counter, itching to do something, anything, other than suffering Steve’s weighted silence in response.

Dinner. She can make dinner.

She ignores Steve’s unfailing attention heating her back, stalking to the pantry. She needs to grocery shop. She meant to do that this weekend. Careless for what she grabs, she retrieves the ingredients for pasta. An easy dinner, but at least she can watch the water boil rather than turn around.

The pot clangs against the sink when she fills it, and then the stove when she sets it down. Water splashes over the edges. She glares at it and turns the burner on anyway.

She gathers the onions, tomatoes, peppers, and chicken sausage and lines them up against the wall. Steve shifts behind her. The cutting board clatters on the counter, covering the rustling of his clothing. She reaches for the knife, stopping short of the block and clenching her fist.

Right.

Brock. Bleach. Dishwasher.

She decides on the bread knife, the only other large knife in the block. Peppers first, so they sauté the longest. She cuts the stem and then halves it, foregoing the knife for her fingers to tear out the seeds and glands.

Thoughtlessly, she chops the pepper into slivers and tosses them into the pan. She works through the onions and the tomatoes, stirring when necessary. The process takes time for its parts, but not its complexity.

She lucked out with Winnie, who eats most of what Y/N serves her with minimal complaint. If all else fails, the chicken nuggets in the freezer suffice. The chicken nuggets hiding her bloodied dress.

She slams her hands on the counter, head hanging. The chair scrapes from the force of Steve standing. She points to the freezer with the knife. “I have a dress covered in blood in the same fucking place as my kid’s chicken nuggets.” Her voice shakes. She sniffs. “A bloody dress in the freezer. It sounds like a joke. What’s the punchline?”

Steve’s fingers wrap around Y/N’s wrist, lowering her hand and taking the knife. He reaches around her to set it on the counter. “Let me,” he says softly.

Y/N shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut until they hurt.

Steve spins her by the wrist until she faces him, grabbing her by the shoulders and rubbing. “Y/N, go sit down.”

“Steve,” she whispers, like his name on a harsh exhale says what it needs to.

“I know. I know. Go sit down.” His hands drop, one sliding to her back to push her forward.

She allows it, taking the encouragement to the table and sitting in Steve’s seat. It creaks as she settles, elbows on the surface and her head in her hands.

She used to deal with this shit on a daily basis. A blood stain? No problem. Toss it out and get a new one when income allows. Someone attacks her? Easy-peasy. Throw an elbow or a hook or a kick to their knee so it bends the wrong way. Angry beyond reason? Some sorry motherfucker is bound to test their luck and offer an outlet. Lonely? Go home.

But if she throws out that dress, she risks someone finding it. And no one attacks anyone in Lambertville, so why would she need to defend herself? If she attacked someone, the police would arrest her rather than chock it up to another brawl. And she can’t go home, not in a way that matters.

Home is a hole in her chest and longing she swallows with her coffee and speaks around to her co-workers. Home is a shitty apartment and loud mouthed friends and reckless abandon. Home is her kid and this godforsaken house in this godforsaken town.

Intangible and something she tricked herself into believing she made peace with. Instead, she tucked it away like the rest and carried on like it weighed nothing at all.

The front door bursts open, banging against the wall.

Y/N stands, her heart in her throat and her hands in fists. Steve steps in front of her, wielding the knife and squaring his shoulders. They wait on bated breath for the heavy footfalls to bring forth their owner. Y/N clenches her jaw, staring at Steve’s back.

His shoulders sag and he shifts.

Bucky stalks in, face set in a grim frown. He nods once at Steve and continues past. His hands cup Y/N’s face, turning her head beneath the light. She bites back the sigh at having his skin on her skin again while Bucky slides his palms over her arms, looking for an injury.

She bats his hand away, pulling forth the annoyance from the phone call. “You stop mother-henning me.”

“Shut up,” he says, rolling his eyes, but he pulls her into his chest.

Y/N returns the hug, nose tucked into the junction between his shoulder and neck. She inhales, pulling as much of his scent in as possible. It overpowers the bleach and phantom smell of fresh blood. She closes her eyes and hugs him tighter.

Behind them and off to the side, a new voice mingles in murmurs with Steve. Sluggish to think from the inherent comfort of Bucky’s arms, it takes Y/N two seconds too long to register Natasha’s soft tone. Y/N gasps, presses an old habit closed mouth kiss to Bucky’s shoulder, and pushes him away, turning to Natasha. Heat fills her cheeks when she realizes what she did, but she carries on like she used to, stepping into Nat’s open arms.

They rock side to side, swaying with the force of the hug. “Nat,” Y/N says into her cheek.

Natasha laughs, breathless and joyful. “Y/N,” she responds.

It says enough about the vitality of their friendship that they understand each other. They let go, Natasha keeping an arm around Y/N’s waist so they can lean into each other, and face the others. Steve dumps the pasta in the strainer, running cold water over it. Bucky leans against the table, arms crossed and a small, just the corners of his lips, smile brightens his face.

Y/N dips her chin in acknowledgment of him and he nods back. She intends to rip him a new one later, but for now she revels in the proximity of her family. The holes in the pressure chamber in her chest lessen, mended by Nat’s arm and Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s quiet cooking.

They exchange glances in turn, awe marred around the edges by the reality of why they stand in the same room for the first time in a long time. Y/N looks at her feet when it overwhelms her, clearing her throat.

“I’d say welcome to my home, but I have a feeling you’ve seen it before.”

Nat squeezes her side. “It’s nice. Never been inside.”

Y/N shakes her head and laughs. Leave it to Natasha to look the tension in the face and make a joke. “Well, here you are.”

Bucky looks away, the smile dropping from his face and leaving nothing in its wake.

“Dinner’s almost ready, kids,” Steve singsongs, waving the wooden spoon he uses to combine the vegetables, meat, and pasta sauce. He shoots Y/N a sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised.

“Right.” She wipes her sweaty palms on her leggings and steps out from Natasha’s arm.

The overwhelming warmth fades to a low thrum in the back of her mind, present but hindered. Y/N ignores the heat of their attention on her retreating back, walking with purpose to retrieve Winnie. She rounds the corner to the stairs, opens her mouth to shout for Winnie, and then sighs.

On the third to last step sits Winnie with her knees to her chest and her arms around her legs. She stares back at Y/N with wide eyes, caught in her eavesdropping. Y/N shakes her head. “How long have you been here?” She sits on the step next to Winnie, nudging her side with her leg. “Hm?” she prompts, purposefully soft to keep the worry from her voice.

Winnie plays with her fingers. “I just heard someone come in and—” She shrugs.

Y/N smiles, nudging her again. Winnie looks up. “Do you remember me saying I have more friends coming?” Winnie nods. “That was them. They’re a little less polite than Steve, so they didn’t knock. We always knock, right?”

“Yes.” She leans into Y/N’s side.

“Well, I’m glad you know that, honey.” Y/N wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Are you hungry?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” Winnie exclaims, brightening.

“Steve made pasta. Is that okay?”

“Sure, Mama.”

Y/N stands, holding her hand out to help Winnie down the last steps. At the entrance to the kitchen, Winnie hides behind Y/N’s legs, peeking around to observe the newcomers. Natasha and Steve joke quietly while they plate the food. Bucky took the pulled out seat at the table. He watches the other two with fond eyes, shaking his head.

Y/N clears her throat, drawing their attention. Natasha turns first, dropping to a crouch. “Well, hello, there, ma’am,” she greets, light and airy. “Who might you be?”

Winnie waves but stays hidden. Y/N places a hand on her head, smiling at her daughter. “C’mon, kiddo. Say hi.”

“I did,” she whines, pouting up at Y/N.

Y/N scratches her head. “Are you gonna eat behind my legs? We’ve gotta go sit down, silly.”

Winnie sighs with her whole chest, throwing her head back. “But what if they don’t like me?”

Y/N looks from Winnie to the rest. Natasha still crouches, Steve places the plates at the table, and—

“Not there,” Y/N blurts when Steve places a plate in the spot Brock sat in. She scrubbed the damned thing clean, but she refuses for anyone to use it. She intends to burn it, along with her dress.

Steve, unaffected, shifts the plate one seat over. Bucky’s eyes flicker between the chair and Y/N and back, a glower present on his face. He lands one more time on Y/N and she shakes her head.

Natasha clears her throat, breaking the tension. “Well, I know I’m hungry and I’d sure like to sit at a table and eat. I don’t know about anyone else here.” She slaps her thighs and stands, taking the seat next to Bucky and across from Steve.

“C’mon, kiddo,” Y/N encourages.

Winnie protests with dragging feet but follows. Y/N takes the head of the table, next to Bucky, and Winnie pulls herself into her booster seat; Steve found her dinnerware— plastic plate and fork and cup. “Dig in, kids.”

They do, the clinks of their forks against the plates filling the silence. Y/N focuses on Winnie, watching her watch the newcomers with curiosity. Her gaze lands on Natasha more than the others, and when Nat catches her she looks in haste to her food.

Steve cooked well, the chicken sausage crispy and the vegetables soft. She enjoys eating a meal someone else made, a luxury afforded the few and far between times they eat out. Maybe she can coax one of them to do the dishes for her.

A tug on her sleeve draws her attention. Winnie leans over, beckoning Y/N closer and closer until she cups her mother’s ear. “Why are they here, Mama?”

Y/N’s grip tightens on her fork. She wondered when Winnie would ask, but she didn’t come up with an answer in that time. Y/N refuses to lie to Winnie. She molds her answers to an appropriate response for a kid, but she won’t lie.

She pulls back, flashing a fake grin at Winnie, and clears her throat. Bucky eyes her, chewing slowly. “Well, baby, I need their help.” Not a lie, but not the full truth. Maybe Winnie will let it—

“— With what?” she presses.

Y/N sighs, twirling her fork in the pasta for the sake of a distraction. “There’s an unkind person who…” She shakes her head, starting again. “There’s someone new in town who I know and they aren’t kind. And my friends are good at dealing with unkind people, to make them kind.”

It works enough for Winnie to nod, settling back in her seat with a contemplative frown. Y/N rests her fork against her plate and props her head on a fist. Winnie pushes her food around her plate, flickering between staring at her hand and her audience around the table. Bucky, Nat, and Steve train their eyes elsewhere, respectful of her hesitation.

“Is it the man at my school?”

Y/N tenses, swallowing a reflexive curse, and lowers her hand with purposeful patience, flattening her fingers on the tabletop. “What man, honey?” she asks through a clenched jaw.

Winnie sniffles. “I saw a man at recess. He seemed angry. Mister Nick was there.”

“Oh?” Y/N prompts. “And then what happened?”

Winnie shrugs. “I dunno. I was playing.”

Y/N tries to smile, but it feels brittle and stilted. “That’s okay. Thank you for sharing.” She closes her eyes and wets her lips, controlling her breathing.

She wishes she drove that knife into his heart and twisted. She imagines the squelch and the mess and his snarl morphing into pain; his pulse slowing to a stop and the light leaving his eyes. The part of her who fought without hesitation, no holds barred, rears its ugly head, berating her for failing so miserably to protect the one person in this world relying on her.

She clears her throat and looks at Natasha, who stares back with a perfected steeled gaze. She juts her chin out. Natasha stands. “Do you want to show me your room?” she asks Winnie.

Winnie looks up, startled and eyes wide. She nods, mouth dropped in awe, already clambering down from her seat.

“Come here, kid,” Y/N says, pulling on the napkin by her plate.

She dips it in her cup of water to dampen it, and then rubs at the sauce stains around Winnie’s mouth. Winnie pouts, looking from Y/N to Natasha and back, as if worried Natasha might change her mind and no longer wish to see her things. Y/N cleans the speckles on her hands and deems her shirt a lost cause.

“Okay. Go ahead.”

Their footsteps recede, along with Natasha’s gentle murmuring and Winnie’s replies. Y/N waits for the last stair to creak and Winnie’s door to shut before turning to Bucky and Steve, who share the grim set on her face. “I want him dead.”

Bucky lays his hand on Y/N’s. She yanks it away, pushing to a stand. By the day’s end, she expects her pacing to leave tracks on the floor, a memorial for the turning of events. The turning of her life with a sharp left into her past, a road she thought blocked off for good. Turns out, only she avoided it— everyone else took it like normal.

“Y/N,” Steve starts.

“Don’t!” She whirls on her heel, pointing an accusing finger. “Do. Not. Not only was he here, Steve, he was at my kid’s school. Her school!” She returns to pacing, shaking her head.

A dangerous, useless record of ‘what if, what if, what if’ plays on repeat. What if he got in? What if he got Winnie? What if—

Bucky spins her to face him, one hand on her shoulder and the other on the back of her neck. He steadies her. “We’ll take care of it, okay? You two take off for the weekend. He won’t be a problem by Monday.”

Y/N leans into his grip, pressing it harder into her skin with her hand on top of his. She missed him so wholly his presence soothes old wounds she figured out how to live around. She aches to crawl into his arms and burrow under his skin, into his veins, into his bones.

It’s not enough.

He came because she called, but he’ll leave just the same. She won’t allow herself the comfort of his safety for him to rip it away again. It will kill her.

She peels his hand away from her neck and steps back. “I can’t,” she whispers, hoarse, placing his hand by his side. “I already ran once. I packed up my life and high tailed it to suburban hell, but I made it work. I’m tired. I’m tired, Bucky. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life running— not with a kid. She deserves better than that. And what kind of mother am I if I don’t make sure she’s safe? I should’ve done it before, but I was scared.”

“You were pregnant, Y/N. You had an excuse.” He crosses his arms.

“Yeah, well, now I don’t. She’s got her whole life here.”

“Kids are resilient.”

“They shouldn’t have to be!” she protests, mirroring his tense posture. “They shouldn’t have to have things to be resilient about. I’m her mother, Buck, and that means I gotta be better than my own. Bigger, stronger, scarier.”

“Y/N, we turned out okay, didn’t we? We were okay.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Look at us, James. You’re in a glorified gang and my neighbors don’t even know my real name. I wouldn’t say that we turned out particularly well. I want better for my kid. That means if there’s a monster under her bed I am going to kill it myself.” She pauses, collecting herself. “I can’t run again. I won’t. I ran last time and it caught up to me. It needs to be me. I need to make sure he’s dead. Once and for all.”

“Y/N,” he pleads, voice low.

She smiles despite the effort, meeting his eyes. “Always the fixer, huh, Barnes?” She sniffles and shakes her head. “No. I’m telling you no.”

He stares her down, unyielding to her stubbornness. They came to a head many times for this reason— blowing up because she stood her ground, harebrained and foolhardy according to Bucky. She yelled and protested; he begged and sought to show her reason. She doesn’t yell anymore, and she sees reason.

She thinks it the most reasonable request to see this to the end, if only for Winnie’s sake.

Steve stands, drawing their attention. “You said Wanda and Sam came?”

Bucky nods once.

“Then let them take Winnie for the weekend. To Tony’s. He has that vacation home off the coast an hour out.” He looks at Y/N. “Is that okay?”

She nods, tucking away the glaring apprehension of an hour’s distance between herself and her child.

“Bruce can meet them there, and Clint can meet us here for back up.” His eyes flicker between Y/N and Bucky, unsure of which authority to settle on.

Y/N steps out from behind Bucky, taking the initiative. He may front the Commandos in New York, but she protects her homestead here, now matter how small. She calls the shots. “Okay. We get Winnie out tonight. I’ll call her out of school and I’ll call off work. I want this done by dinner tomorrow.”

“Miller time, right?” Bucky supplies through a biting half-grin that doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Miller time.”

Bucky shakes his head, jaw clenched. Y/N huffs, but accepts the offered acquiescing despite his glaring disapproval. She nods her gratitude to Steve, casts one more look at Bucky’s turned back, and turns on her heel.

Natasha and Winnie’s conversation reach to the base of the stairs. Y/N pauses, rearranging her expression until it softens from apparent frustration to unaffected pleasantness. She walks slowly, trailing her hand along the rail, to avoid making noise. She wants her fill of Winnie’s laughter to tie her over until she finishes this and Winnie comes home.

She pauses at the door, peering through the crack. Natasha sits criss cross on Winnie’s bed, holding a faded teal and purple spider. Y/N smiles fondly. Natasha gave Y/N the stuffed animal after her positive test, laying claims to the ‘best aunt’ title.

Natasha, despite her hard exterior, loves children. She wanted a part in raising Winnie; spoke with wonder about all she planned to do. It killed Y/N when she told Nat she needed out, and that meant leaving everything behind. Natasha, one hell of a woman and a steadfast sister, offered her shoulder and shifted her plans to include Y/N’s departure for the sake of her kid.

Y/N raps two knuckles on the door frame, poking her head in. “Well, hello, ladies. Mind if I join?”

“Mama, I was telling Miss Natasha about school! And the birds and the park and Peter.”

“Oh?”

“She sure was. You’ve got a smart one, here, Y/N.”

Y/N grins, proud. “Yeah, I do. I don’t know where she gets it from.”

Natasha snorts. “Beats me.”

Winnie tugs on Natasha's hand, vying for her attention. Natasha focuses on her, face serious and eyes wide. “Yes, ma’am?”

“What’s your favorite animal? I told you all of mine!”

Natasha smiles, soft and fond. “Yes, you did. I like…” she draws it out, tapping her chin and pretending to think. Before Winnie can press, Natasha grabs the spider in her lap and shakes it. “Spiders!”

“Ew,” Winnie grumbles.

Y/N leans against the wall, content to watch the two.

“What? You don’t like spiders?”

“They’re scary.”

“No, no, no. They’re smart, like you. Cunning. They can learn and get smarter. They see colors, too.”

Winnie’s mouth drops. “What?” She turns to Y/N. “Mama, is that true?”

Y/N looks at Nat, who nods. She shrugs. “Yeah, why not.”

“Wow,” she says, awed.

Natasha hands her the plushie. Winnie holds it with newfound reverence, staring in its many beady eyes. She pokes them in turn. She turns it this way and that, examining its legs and asking Natasha more rapid-fire questions. Natasha answers just as fast, amused and entertained.

Y/N lets her marvel over the toy, using the time to gather her thoughts. She needs to pack clothes for Winnie. Her pillow. She sets about it, moving quietly to avoid drawing Winnie’s attention. She can relax for the time being.

Y/N piles clothes into a pink and purple duffle bag she bought Winnie as a part of a gift set for her birthday. The methodical movements and calculating of items keeps her head clear of wayward thoughts. She cares about packing the right amount of underwear and pants and pajamas and socks; nothing else.

She leaves them to retrieve Winnie’s toothbrush and paste, and her towel. Winnie loves the towel for its depiction of the Disney Princesses. Her favorite changes based on the day, but Moana appears more often than not these days. Y/N rubs the end of the towel between her fingers, the fabric pilled and rough from frequent use. She makes a mental note to buy a new one.

In the room, Natasha and Winnie lay on their backs with their legs against the wall, turning their feet left and right. Winnie giggles and elbows Natasha. “Again!” she commands.

Natasha grins. “Okay, okay,” she concedes, doing as asked. She says a sentence in Russian, slower than her normal dictation.

Y/N huffs and rolls her eyes. “Are you teaching my kid how to curse at me in another language, Romanov?”

“Nah. You know all the fun words, anyway.”

“I’m sure in the back of my mind.” She sets the completed duffle bag by the door. “Any room for dear old mom in that huddle?”

Winnie exclaims the affirmative, taking Natasha’s spot when she shimmies over to make room. Y/N crawls in beside Winnie, twisting to lay on her back and rest her legs along the wall. Shadows of stars dot the ceiling from the glow-in-the-dark stars she put up when she first moved in. Some fell over the years while others held on tight. The Big Dipper above the bed misses a star at the top corner of its bucket and on its tail.

“Winnie, would you like to meet more of my friends?”

Winnie squeals, tapping her hand on Y/N’s arm. “Mama, yes. You have so many!”

Y/N laughs. “Yeah, I guess I do.” She grabs Winnie’s hand to hold. “Would you be okay with spending the weekend with them?”

Winnie pauses her movements, looking up at Y/N. She frowns. “I have school tomorrow.”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

Her face brightens, her grin pushing up her cheeks. “Really?”

Y/N hums her assent. “It’s just you and them, though. I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

Winnie jumps to her knees, hands on Y/N’s stomach. She leans in with enthusiasm. “I will, I promise. Is Miss Nat coming?”

Y/N tucks a fallen strand of hair behind Winnie’s ear. “No, honey. I need Nat here.”

She frowns for a second before shaking it away, the light returning. “That’s okay. Who are they?”

Her worry of Winnie’s apprehension at staying with new people washes away. “There’s Wanda and Sam and Bruce and Tony.”

Winnie pouts. “Only one girl?”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure Sam would love to play dress up with you,” Natasha interrupts, winking at Y/N.

Y/N shakes her head, grinning back. “And Bruce is super smart. You can tell him all the things you know. He might even teach you some things you don’t.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And Tony, he’s smart, too. But if he asks if you want to experiment, what’s the answer?”

Winnie looks away as if the response lingers in the air over her road map rug. She clenches and unclenches her fingers in Y/N’s sweatshirt and then shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You say ‘No, thank you, Mister Tony’.”

The confusion clears. “Okay, Mama. I can do that.”

“I know you can, baby. So what we’ve gotta do now is get you bathed and changed into jammies. Sound good?”

Winnie deflates, throwing her head back with all the dramatics of a five year old. “But I wanna play with Miss Nat,” she whines, elongating Natasha’s name.

Y/N pokes Winnie’s cheek with her pointer finger until Winnie concedes her attention to her. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can play with Nat again,” she singsongs.

Winnie’s head hangs, but she offers little else in the way of disagreement. It’s small fanfare to get Winnie in the tub. She requested to bathe herself a month ago, and held true to it since. Y/N runs the faucet, directing Winnie to tell her when it warms up enough, and plugs the tub. Winnie clambers in on her own and shoos Y/N out of the room, citing independence this and privacy that.

Y/N slides down the wall, settling on her butt with her knees drawn to her chest. Natasha sits next to her. In the bathroom, Winnie splashes and talks to herself. Y/N leans her head on Nat’s shoulder.

“Hi,” she whispers.

Natasha grabs her hand and intertwines their fingers. They held hands often, once they forged their way through each other’s harsh exteriors and found solace in the shared company. Y/N allows little physical comfort, save for from those whom she loves best.

It took time to gain each other’s trust, in spite of their supposed youthful naivete. They met in passing at the high school before Nat dropped out; shared a few classes and Steve as a mutual friend. Y/N hated Natasha with a vengeance; thought she wanted to take Steve away and by proxy Bucky, because the two are a package deal.

Natasha found Y/N crude and short-sighted, unable to withhold her emotions should the situation need a cool composure. They spat and fought, to the point where Bucky and Steve sought to keep them apart for everyone’s sake.

It took a damning fight between Bucky and Steve for Y/N and Nat to band together. Bucky complained to Y/N about Steve until he ran blue in the face and then some. Steve glowered and glared and shut down. Y/N heard enough and, because of her quick-draw bravado, she approached Natasha before the opportunity arose for it to happen the other way around. She smiles now, remembering the sigh Natasha heaved, accepting Y/N’s momentary truce to get the boys’ heads on right.

Except, the momentary truce turned into a begrudging friendship turned into Y/N decking a girl for shit taking Natasha behind her back and Natasha cleaning Y/N’s knuckles, calling her names in that fond tone of hers.

From then on, the separation of Y/N and Natasha whittled down until they formed a group. It shifted over the years, grew, broke, mended, to form what Bucky lovingly calls the Howling Commandos— a name created the night of his nineteenth birthday after too much stolen liquor and a trip to Coney Island despite its closure until May. The name stuck, no matter how much Y/N teased him for it.

“How are you?” Natasha asks, rubbing her thumb along the back of Y/N’s hand.

“I feel like you know. How many times did you come around?”

Natasha sighs, the shoulder Y/N’s head rests on rising and falling. “Enough. Steve and I rotated the most. Tried to convince Buck, but you know how he is.”

“Do I?”

“C’mon, Y/N.” Nat elbows her. “You know him best. Probably better than Steve,” she teases, poking at a secret Y/N told her late one night after a hard cry.

“Hey, now,” Y/N warns. “I just wish you’d said something. One of you. Any of you.”

Natasha rests her cheek against Y/N’s head. “You asked us not to.”

“I was wrong.”

“Wait, say that again. Let me get that on tape.” Natasha shifts to grab her phone from her pocket, pretending to unlock it.

“Oh, hush. Who did I get my righteousness from, again? Rhymes with ‘rat’?”

Natasha gasps, feigning indignation. “How dare you?” she declares around a grin.

They settle, Y/N hooking her right leg over Nat’s left. Winnie’s quiet splashes persist in the other room, a calming soundtrack. “I missed you,” Y/N whispers like a secret meant to go unheard.

Natasha squeezes her hand. “I missed you, too. I really wanted to tell you, I need you to know. It wasn’t easy. I just…” She shakes her head. “I was so mad at you,” she murmurs. “When you left, it felt like— god, I felt so small.”

Y/N exhales, her breath shaky. She feared Natasha’s resentment, but it comes expected. She harbors it, too. All the feelings she tucked away without naming rise, her chest a well so deep it echoes with the remnants of a life long passed and wounds unhealed in spite of it.

“I get it. I do. There’s more to it than you told me then, and I can make my guesses but…” She shrugs. “You’ve raised a good kid, Y/N. Watching from afar sucked, but it was nice to see you and Winnie— also, ‘Winnie’? Really?”

Y/N groans, resting her head against the wall. “I know, I know. Steve said the same thing when he heard.”

“You told Steve about—?” She gives Y/N a pointed look.

“Oh, god, no. He figured it out today.”

“What’d Bucky say?”

Y/N purses her lips, focusing on their intertwined fingers. “Well, I haven’t exactly said her name in front of him.”

Nat barks a single laugh, incredulous. “Are you shitting me?”

“No,” Y/N whines, covering her eyes with her free hand. She sighs, running her palm down her face.

“How do you expect to get around that?”

“Willful ignorance?”

Natasha laughs, shoulders shaking. “You fucking idiot.”

“Language. Little ears.”

“As if you can refrain from swearing.”

Y/N sighs, grinning. “It’s been hard, I won’t lie.”

She means it as more than not swearing around Winnie. Moving on and creating a life, however small and feeble, took greater effort than Y/N expected to dole out. She contemplated giving up and moving back more times than not in that first year, when Winnie woke with screeches and needed more attention than Y/N thought possible to give. It took a steel spine she forced herself to fortify to stay; to not beg for a forgiveness she hoped she wouldn’t need.

“I have a request.”

Y/N waits for Natasha to continue, her silence a prompting in itself.

“Can we, I, whoever you agree to— I wanna come back, after this. I can’t do this again, Y/N. I miss the hell out of you. Nothing’s the same. I don’t have anyone who returns my shit the way you do. Steve tries, but he’s got his own brand of smartass. It’s not the same. Bucky’s all stoic and shit now. Like a fucking heartbroken loser, damn him.” She turns to face Y/N, wrapping her other hand around their clasped fingers. She pleads with her well-crafted pout, one she perfected to get what she wants. Her words ring true, despite her purposeful expression.

“I’d like that. A lot.”

Natasha grins, triumphant.

“I’m not coming back, though. I can’t. Winnie’s life is here. I’m not gonna uproot her.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. You’re a good mom. Better than any of our own.” She looks down, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. In a small voice, the boldest show of emotions coming from Natasha, she says, “But you can visit, right?”

Y/N smiles and nods. “Yeah. Common ground. Central Park or something.”

Their faces scrunch in faux disgust at the same time. “Manhattan? Really?”

“We won’t go below 96th street.”

Nat snorts. “Brighton, take it or leave it.”

Y/N gasps, slapping Natasha’s arm. “You just want to impart on her our Coney Island days, don’t you?”

She shrugs, unrepentant. Before she responds, Winnie pokes her head around the door jam. “Mama, I’m done.”

“Oh! Good job, baby. Go get dressed.”

Winnie does, stepping over Y/N’s and Natasha’s strewn legs. Y/N leans into Natasha one more time before pushing to a stand, pulling Nat up behind her. “You wanna help her choose an outfit? I think she likes you.”

Nat grins. “Yeah, I do. I like her, too.”

Y/N squeezes her hand once and drops it. “Grab the duffle bag on your way down,” she calls over her shoulder.

She bounds down the stairs, lighter than before. They have a plan, at least an outline of one, that keeps Winnie safe. Winnie likes Natasha, and Natasha wants to come back. It bolsters her relief.

Steve lounges on the couch, stretching across its cushions with a book from her shelf hovering above his face. It’s an old romance novel she picked up in a fit of mindlessness, seeking a distraction from her newly mundane life. The first few years wore on her, with few places to go for company she enjoyed and a baby that didn’t respond in a way that made sense.

She read a lot in that time. Learned how to crochet. Watched enough documentaries she knows a small encyclopedia of random facts. Bought and killed plants. Bought more plants until she learned how to care for them and what ones needed what light and how much water.

She flicks the cover of the book. Steve pulls it down, an eyebrow raised. “This how you got your kicks?” He waves the book.

“Wasn’t getting them anywhere else.”

Steve snorts. “You should tell Buck that. I’m sure he’d be happy to hear it.”

She frowns, confused. “What, that I was lonely and miserable? He’s that mad at me?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.” He lays the book open on his chest, crossing his arms behind his head. “You got the kid sorted?”

“All packed. Nat’s helping her choose her outfit.”

His grin softens. “I’m sure she’s having fun.”

“They both—”

A clattering in the kitchen followed by a curse stops her. She leans over the couch to look through the archway. At the sink, Bucky rolled his sleeves up and is elbow-deep in soapy water. He scrubs the pan with vigor, suds splashing onto the counter.

“God, he’s a mess.”

“You don’t sound so torn up about it,” Steve observes.

Y/N pulls away from the display in the kitchen, narrowing her eyes at Steve. “What’s that mean?”

Steve sighs as if burdened with great knowledge he must bestow upon the village idiot. “Nothing, Y/N. Just that it’s been five years and you still look at him like he hung the sky just for you.”

Y/N shakes her head. “No, I, I’m not—”

“— and Bucky’s been a little shit since you left,” he continues over her.

“I had to, Steve,” she barks.

He softens. “I know. I’m glad you did. That doesn’t change what you left behind.”

Y/N bites her cheek, forcing down the frustration. She swallows around the stone in her throat. When she left, she thought they’d bounce back like any other time someone left. If she considered that it might linger, it threatened the budding determination to build a better life. Would it hurt more if they moved on? Would that make it easier?

“I didn’t think he’d care that much.”

Steve flops his hand on the back cushion, giving Y/N his palm. She considers it for a moment, the significance of this conversation and her conversation with Nat; the weight of Bucky doing dishes at her sink in her home in some small town in New Jersey. That he came when she called.

She lays her palm over his, and whispers with great difficulty, “When we’re done with this, Steve, he’s gonna leave again. Or I am, depending on how you look at it. Either way, I’m leaving and he’s staying or he’s leaving and I’m staying.” She shakes her head. “I did it once but I don’t think I can do it again.”

The last harsh and vulnerable honesty she told happened under a blanket pulled to the headboard, in stilted whispers to Natasha. She can’t afford to bare her tender spots, not without revealing too much to the wrong people.

“He’d stay if you asked him to.”

She smiles, sad and final. “I want him to want to stay.”

A knock cracks the moment. Y/N steps back and clears her throat. Through the window of the door, Wanda and Sam peer into the room. Wanda waves when she spots Y/N, her grin pushing her cheeks up and wrinkling the skin by her eyes.

“That them?” Bucky asks from the kitchen archway. He dries his hands on a towel, looking past Y/N to the door.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, soaking in his outline in the doorway. She pretends, for a small, sad second, that he occupies that space regularly. Then she turns the feeling off, forces it back down, and opens the door.

Wanda rushes her, throwing her arms around Y/N’s neck and almost bowling her over if not for Sam catching Y/N’s forearm to steady them. He squeezes and lets go, stepping back. Y/N returns the strength of the hug, one hand on Wanda’s back and the other on her head.

Clint happened upon Wanda and Pietro in an alleyway, huddled together behind a dumpster and making plans on how to steal food. He coaxed them back to the bar their group frequented, promising food and warmth. Pietro, lovely and trusting to a fault, followed behind him with Wanda in tow. The Commandos took them in and there they stayed.

Wanda releases her, grabbing Y/N’s cheeks and staring into her eyes. Liner smears Wanda’s waterline and lid, messy in the purposeful made-unmade look she strives to achieve. Y/N rolls her eyes, uncomfortable under Wanda’s piercing gaze. “C’mon, now, kid. Lemme go.”

“You need more sleep.”

“Probably.”

“No,” Wanda protests, turning Y/N’s head in the light much like Bucky earlier, albeit not searching for wounds but something only she knows. “Definitely.” She drops her hands and steps back.

Sam steps in, offering a short but just as warm hug. He pats Y/N’s back and returns to his spot. Y/N claps once. “Right, well. The gang’s all here.”

As if waiting for those words, Natasha follows a bounding Winnie down the stairs. Winnie halts at the bottom step, eyes wide and flicking between Sam and Wanda. She hops from the step, her backpack jostling.

With confidence she lacked earlier in meeting Bucky, Steve, and Nat, Winnie walks to short distance to Y/N’s side. She lips her hand into her mother’s and peers up. “You’re Wanda. And you’re Sam.” She points to them in turn then looks at Y/N.

“Yes, honey. Good job.”

Winnie grins, triumphant and satisfied. “Okay. Let’s go,” she declares.

A smattering of stifled laughs scatter the room.

“She’s certainly yours,” Sam teases.

“She is. She’s also right.” The light atmosphere shifts off center, the group reminded of its purpose. Y/N kneels in front of Winnie, pulling her in by the straps on her shoulders. “What’s in here, kid? Contraband?”

Winnie’s face scrunches up. “What’s that?”

“Nevermind. You got all you need?” She tightens the straps for something to do.

Winnie nods. “I got my books and my spider. Auntie Nat has my bag.”

Y/N’s breath lodges in her throat. She looks from Winnie to Nat and back. “Auntie Nat?”

Winnie shrugs, unaware of the weight and meaning behind her words. “My teacher said an aunt is my mom’s sister. You're my mom, and she’s your sister.” She says it matter of fact, like it makes sense because the truth makes sense.

Y/N sniffs and nods, eyes on Nat over Winnie’s shoulder. “Yeah, honey. Your teacher is right.”

Natasha looks away, adjusting the bag in her grip. Her side profile offers a view of the corner of her mouth twitch. Y/N takes it.

She clears her throat and focuses on the task at hand. “Well, now that we’ve got that sorted, you’re gonna go with Sam and Wanda, okay? And you’re gonna be on your best behavior, right?”

Winnie nods.

“Right?” Y/N says again, stretching it out and grinning.

Winnie nods again. Y/N wiggles her fingers in Winnie’s eyeline before dropping them to tickle her. Winnie screeches, laughing. “Yes! Okay. Yes. Best behavior.”

Y/N stops, pulling her in for a hug. She presses her cheek into the side of Winnie’s head, closing her eyes and swaying, memorizing the impression of Winnie against her chest. A small weekend away pales in comparison to why Y/N tasked Sam and Wanda to watch her daughter, but her heart flutters dangerously in her chest nonetheless at the prospect of not seeing Winnie for three consecutive days. She squeezes harder and presses another kiss to Winnie’s temple.

“Mama,” Winnie whines around a mouthful of giggles, wriggling in Y/N’s arms to get away.

Y/N sighs, but concedes. She stands, keeping a hand on the back of Winnie’s head, and turns to Sam and Wanda. They watch her with knowing eyes, the former with a soft grin and the latter with muted pity. Y/N wades through it in favor of forcing out a smile. “All right, guys. Time to hit the road.”

Natasha steps up to her side, nudging their shoulders together. Y/N takes the kindly offered strength as well as the bag. Winnie, in her excitement, pushes past the group, bouncing on her toes. She grabs the door knob, shaking it.

“Come on,” she urges, turning to face Y/N.

Y/N nods and Winnie yanks open the door, bursting into the night. Sam and Wanda follow behind them, and the rest behind Sam and Wanda. Y/N’s car, an SUV rated best in children’s safety tests she traded her beat-up Mustang for, awaits them at the curb. Streetlights gleam against its finish and paint the road in yellow. Winnie beats them to it.

It's a small fanfare to buckle Winnie and stow the bags. Sam takes the driver’s seat, Wanda in the passenger seat. Y/N hovers over Winnie, double and triple checking the straps. Winnie follows the movements with her eyes, curious but calm. Y/N tugs on the hem of her shirt to straighten it, smooths down her hair, wiggles the stuffed spider she brought along to make Winnie laugh.

Her heart threatens to claw its way from her chest through her throat and out of her mouth. She swallows to keep it down, and pulls the shirt hem once more. A gentle cough behind her jolts her. Winnie needs to get going, and now. Y/N wants to keep her safe, and that means letting her leave— even if it hurts.

Y/N presses a final kiss to Winnie’s forehead.

“It’s all right, mama. Right?”

Y/N smiles against Winnie’s skin. “Yeah, baby.” She trails her hand from Winnie’s hair over her cheek, pausing to caress her thumb over the bone, and then forces herself to pull away. She clears her throat, nods at Sam’s pointed look, and closes the door.

A hand guides her onto the curb, wrapping warm around her forearm. She leans into its owner, siphoning the support to strengthen where her will fails. The car rumbles to a start, headlights switching on. Winnie taps the window and waves with her stuffed animal. Y/N waves back, and then Sam pulls away from the curb.

In the silence of the night, broken by their breathing and the ringing in Y/N’s ear, she and her hodgepodge group of friends watch Sam drive away with her heart in the back seat.

Bucky’s other arm— and of course Bucky offered his side for her to lean on, because who else can hold her up with the ease of years spent fortified and vulnerable— wraps around her waist. She allows it, or pretends she weighed her options in the first place, pressing further into his chest. His hair, shorter than before but long enough to frame his face, tickles her ear.

The taillights of her SUV, a target of red in the distance, disappear on a left turn. Y/N exhales. It rattles in her chest and rebounds against her ribs and fights to offer a facsimile of relief.

Behind them, two sets of footsteps retreat into Y/N’s house, accompanied by hushed conversation. Bucky rests his temple against Y/N’s, pressing into her skin. It weeps from the missed touch as if her skin has a mind of its own, roaring louder than the fear hiding in her throat. She allows it, she pretends, like allowing Bucky to shape himself around her rather than her needing a pillar and needing it to be him.

She allows and allows and allows, because if she admits she has no choice in the matter— that she never did— it threatens to bring her to her knees. She allows them back into her life, and allows Winnie’s leaving, and allows Bucky to hold her fractured pieces together.

He squeezes once, kisses where his head rests, and then pulls back far enough to untwine them but not let go. His hands grip her waist, fingers digging into the skin as a reminder, and turns her. Y/N blames the lamp overhead for her fuzzy vision and not the tears threatening her lash line. Bucky swipes his thumbs beneath her eyes, drawing them upwards to frame her face.

“You good?” he whispers.

Y/N grabs his wrists to pull his hands away, but her own, without her commanding, press his palms harder into her face. She sniffs, shakes her head. “Yeah,” she says to the ground. “Yeah. I’ve just never…” She shakes her head again, trying to dislodge a thought that makes sense. “She’s my whole life. I’m scared. I’ve never been this scared.”

Bucky sighs with his chest, his shoulders rising and falling. He tightens his grip. “I know. She’ll be okay. Once this weekend is over, it’s back to business as usual.”

Y/N opens her mouth to protest, to say she wants for more than the new normal she forced herself to fit into like a too big foot in a too small shoe. The words form on her tongue and sit on the edge of her lips, but she can’t. She refuses to beg for him, not out of pride but care: for Winnie, for Bucky, and, mostly, for herself. As she did in the past, she will slide her foot into the shoe and suck it up rather than listen to Bucky deny her. Pretending she withheld his choice is easier than giving him the chance to break her heart further.

So, instead of saying that, instead of laying her love bare, she nods and withdraws his hands from her face. “Yeah. Business as usual.”

Bucky frowns, eyes tight, like he sees past her forced civility. She walks away before he can ask, stalking into the house. Natasha and Steve sit on the couch, talking lowly. They stop when she comes in. Under other circumstances, she would rib them for circumventing her obvious chemistry for false platonic love. Now, she nods to them, short and quick.

“Come on,” she commands.

Without waiting for them to follow, she continues into the kitchen and then to the door leading to her basement. She flicks on the light by the stairs as she passes. It illuminates her humdrum basement— boxes of Winnie’s outgrown clothes alongside her outgrown toys alongside pieces of Y/N’s life she left to collect dust. Mementos and frames without pictures greet anyone who ventures into the space.

Y/N had a lot of time on her hands when she moved here, first pregnant and without company and then with a newborn who slept scheduled hours. During those scheduled hours, along with her crocheting and reading, she grew restless. Tired in a way sleep didn’t remedy.

She needed to use her hands. Ached for it. They itched and they itched until she gave into the silenced part of herself.

It took a month to draw up the plans and a year to execute them.

Past the boxes and the cleaning supplies and disassembled furniture, a row of metal shelves cuts the room in half. Only, if someone saw the room after her work, they miss the thin line in the middle of the shelves. It fulfilled the child in her who longed for a secret room in which to hide, and the Commando in her who needed to prepare— for what, at the time, she didn’t know.

Now, she pushes aside a bike with training wheels, put away for the winter and yet to come out again, and presses on the middle shelf. It scrapes against the floor, a harsh and loud screeching of metal against concrete. The false shelf opens inward to hide the scratches on the floor from wayward eyes, and on it the trinkets shake and then settle.

Despite the years spent away from the room, she traverses it with ease to the wall whereupon rests the light switch. She flicks it on, revealing an old wooden table at its center and various preparations around the room— weapons gathered over time, files on her neighbors and co-workers, and outfits she loved too much to part with from her days prowling the night-fallen city for something to fight, amongst other things.

She stands, hands on her hips, surveying a room she thought abandoned.

“What the fuck is this?” Natasha asks around a laugh, running a finger along the backside of the metal shelves.

She examines her finger before wiping the dust on her pants, eyes wide as she takes in the room. Steve and Bucky block the doorway, shoulder to shoulder, bearing the same awe and slight befuddlement in their expressions. Y/N smiles, less hindered than before, at seeing her old cohorts in the space she kept for herself should the need arise.

Y/N sweeps her arms open in a presentation of the room. “My bunker.”

Steve sputters, stepping in and leaving Bucky at the entrance. He walks as if dazed, head on a slow swivel left and right. “You built— you built a bunker?”

Y/N shrugs. “All in a day’s work. Well, a year's work, really. Took a bit to avoid suspicion.”

He snorts, shaking his head bowed over the open file on the table. She forgot about that, having left the room in haste upon hearing Winnie crying for her through the baby monitor. For some reason, after that day, she never came back. She tries to remember what changed, but it doesn’t come. Some things die a quiet death sometimes. This room happened to be one of them.

Until now.

Steve flips a page in the file. “Is it safe to assume you have one of these on everyone in town?”

Y/N leans against the wall, crossing her arms. “Just the ones I interacted with the most. Grocery store clerks, doctors and nurses. Things like that.”

“Do I even want to know how you got all of this information?” Natasha asks from where she peruses the section of the wall showcasing knives.

Y/N shrugs. “The internet is a plentiful place for information.”

Bucky, silent for far too long, finally joins them inside. He looks over his shoulder as if something awaits behind him, and then shakes his head. Y/N bites her tongue to keep from asking his thoughts and instead lets him look his fill.

She joins Steve at the table, standing across for him, and waits for the other two to finish their gawking while pretending not to watch Bucky walk the perimeter. He half smiles, just the corner of his mouth, at the old leather jacket hanging from a hook in the wall. He fiddles with the sleeve, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, before letting it fall.

“All right,” he says to the filing cabinet next to the jacket. “You’ve brought us here for…?”

Y/N clears her throat for their attention. In a deep voice, she begins, “I have gathered you here today because—”

“Y/N,” Natasha chides, rolling her eyes.

Y/N sighs. “Fine. It’s because this is my preparation room. For what, I don’t know, but I have it and we’re going to use it so we can make a plan to finish Rumlow and keep my kid safe. Got it?” She phrases it as a question but leaves no room for argument. “Good.”

Bucky and Natasha share a look of raised eyebrows and one set of pursed lips, but join Steve and Y/N at the table. The four stand on their own sides of the table, looking between each other in turn. An undercurrent of excitement hides in their glances. For the first time in a long time, they come together to do what they used to.

Whiplashes of memories overlay the present picture. Them at a lunch table, the week before Natasha dropped out, making plans to see each other with the same frequency as before, disavowing the notion that they risk drifting apart. Another, at Bucky’s mom’s kitchen table, older and more worn but still hopeful to help. And then at a pool table in a bar, despite their ages, joined by newcomers who fancy the idea of feeling important; who want to help the people like them because they couldn’t help themselves.

They came about their self-proclaimed duties by happenstance, walking by a man harassing a lady outside of a club. She shirked his advances, but he ignored her drawn posture in favor of cornering her. Y/N, fueled with years of bitten down rage, swerved from the group to intervene. They followed and it bolstered her resolve. Five minutes of confrontation later, the woman thanked them and the man walked away with his head hung. After that, Y/N sought out ways to keep her corner of the world safe. Turns out, Bucky and Steve and Natasha followed suit on their own.

Y/N came across Bucky holding a guy who manhandled his kid by his throat against an alleyway’s wall. He turned upon her calling of his name, eyes wide and mouth open. The fear on his face, the shame, mirrored her own when her anger at the world bled into the guise of helping the wayward neighbors facing trouble. She swallowed it, then, to step forward to Bucky’s side, offering her support.

Somehow, after, it turned into a purposeful searching of misdeeds to rectify with a tight fist and threats they followed through on to prove a point, and then into making plans and drawing lines for who keeps an eye on where. The rest, the new people and the true forming of Howlies, grew as they grew. Looking back, Y/N can’t identify the turning point of a group of friends trying to better other’s lives instead of their own into the glorified gang she calls it now.

She shakes her head, forcing herself to focus on the present.

“I want it quick and easy,” she starts, hands braced on the table.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Clint?” Steve interjects.

“When is getting here, by the way?”

“Soon. He had to finish something up with his building and then he said he’d come.”

“Perfect, then we can sort this out and fill him in when he gets here.”

“And how do you suppose we sort this out?” Natasha counters.

Y/N bores into the file across from her, closed since Steve finished it. “Me.” She looks up, from Steve to Nat to Bucky, the latter of which frowns. “He came back for me, or to finish whatever he thinks he started.”

“No,” Bucky objects fiercely through clenched teeth.

Y/N rolls her eyes, pushing off the table to stand straight. “We’re not doing this, James. It’s my head on the line, my kid. I lay the stakes.”

Bucky works his jaw, looking away. He nods once, short and stilted.

“So, what? You wanna dangle yourself in front of him like a piece of meat? How do you know he’ll take the bait? As much as I think him an ignorant man, he isn’t stupid, Y/N,” Natasha says, always the voice of reason.

Y/N shrugs. “He knows where I live. He probably has eyes on my house, so he knows you’re here. If you guys leave—”

“—Absolutely not!” Bucky interrupts, loud and commanding.

“Let me finish! If you leave, park a few blocks away, far enough for him to think you really left, you can circle back. Come in through the cellar.” She stares hard at Bucky, meeting the fire in his eyes with her own, daring him to counter her.

He doesn’t look away but he also doesn’t answer. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping at him to respond, something that used to bring them to blows. She doesn’t have time to fight him and get angry and then try to resolve it, not now.

In a calmer voice, strained but quiet, she says, “And then you, all of you, will be here and we can bring him down. Keep a rotating watch outside for him. He’s hard to miss, what with the scars.”

“How do you know he’ll take the bait, Y/N?” Natasha presses.

“I don’t!” she shouts, turning on her heel for the façade of a moment’s reprieve from their heavy attention. She faces the wall with a corkboard, pictures thumbtacked to its surface and strings of various colors drawing relationships between the people in her town. She traces the green line for business between Winnie’s nurse and the pharmacy tech and the bartender off the place on Sixth Street and Jefferson. The string colors the board bright and messy, Lambertville a small enough town for everyone to have business with everyone.

“I don’t know, okay? But it’s the best I’ve got, because I don’t know shit about where he is. If he comes here, which he has already done, need I remind you, we get the upper hand. I know my house. I know the streets by my house.” She turns to face them again. “If anyone else has a better idea, I’m all ears.”

Steve sighs and fiddles with the folder in front of him, tapping the sheets of paper to fit back inside and straightening it. Natasha looks at her chipped fingernail polish, brightened by the whitened skin around them from pressing too hard into the table. Bucky’s anger slips away intentionally, his jaw unclenching and his shoulders sagging. A sad understanding replaces it, and Y/N can’t decide which she hates more.

“Well, isn’t this just a party?”

Y/N whips to face the entryway, dropping her hands to prepare for a fight. In the space stands Clint, hands on his hips, sporting a black eye and a cut through the arch of his eyebrow. He quirks it, lips pulled in an amused smirk. Y/N relaxes.

“When’d you get here?” she asks, stepping forward.

Clint embraces her, swaying side to side. He presses a kiss to her temple and then releases her. “Just a few minutes ago. For someone so worried about someone breaking in, you sure do leave your door unlocked.”

Y/N snorts, shaking her head. “We’ve been busy. Plus, it’d make this job a hell of lot easier if he just burst in.”

Clint hums, looking around the room in the same fashion as Bucky and Steve and Natasha before him. He rocks from the tips of his toes to his heels, back and forth, hands shoved in his pockets. Y/N takes her place at the table and allows him a moment to take it in.

“I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you, Y/N. Not bad.” He sighs and focuses on the group. “So what’s with all the yelling?”

Nat waves in Y/N’s direction. “This one here wants to use herself as bait.”

“Ah,” Clint says like it all makes sense.

Maybe it does, in his eyes. Y/N threw herself into fights with reckless abandon, aching for the familiar relief of split knuckles burrowing alongside the forever present triumph of doing what she believed just. It landed her in their makeshift medic’s office more times than she could count, Bruce mending her cuts and icing her bruises, Bucky reprimanding her from his perch on the counter.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Steve tries, quiet and unsure in a way contradicting his towering stature. He used to be smaller, and the shortening of himself now is a habit long formed but unnecessary. “We’d be here for back up, to keep it easier to manage.”

“So that’s it? That’s the plan? Smoke and mirrors?” Bucky asks in more of a taunt than a confirmation.

“We’ve done it before,” Clint provides, taking a spot next to Steve. “A lot, actually. Worked more times than not.”

“What about your kid? What if something goes wrong? Then what happens to her?” Bucky presses, reminding Y/N she never told Bucky Winnie’s name.

Steve and Natasha share a look over Clint’s head.

“I’m trying not to think about that.”

“Your actions affect her, Y/N.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t built her whole life around my actions? I’m not a fucking idiot, James. But if I think about her then I’ll be paralyzed because she is my life. My life. And that means—”

Y/N freezes. The phone in her pocket, the burner that only Bucky knows the number for, blares its jumpy ringtone. It fills the silence, echoing off the walls and back— haunting despite its bubbly tone. With slow hands as if the damn thing bites, she reaches into her pocket and pulls it out, placing it in the center of the table. Bucky’s eyes widen, flicking from Y/N to the phone and back.

Y/N withdraws her hand, gripping the lip of the table. She sniffs, shaking her head. “Buck?”

“I gave the number to Wanda. Just in case.”

The noise stops, the small screen lighting up to display one missed call. Y/N exhales, reminding herself to breathe. She wants it to be a coincidence; a telemarketer or misdial. Nerves wrack up and down her spine, electrifying her skin and the air.

Y/N doesn’t believe in coincidences.

It rings again.

She wets her lips, drawing the bottom one in to chew. Twice in a row.

A phone with an old number who only one— no, two— people in the world know, ringing twice in the span of a minute?

Y/N looks at Bucky for a split second to gather herself and steal some of his perpetual calmness, then snatches the phone from the table. She holds it in her palm. It vibrates against her skin. A Lambertville area code. She runs her thumb along the seam, contemplating.

The ringing stops.

Y/N waits on bated breath for it to ring again, the silence roaring in her ears. It stays still and quiet at its spot in the center of the table as if afraid to make noise due to the table of stares boring into its face.

“Do you think—?” starts Natasha, interrupted once more by the tone.

Y/N inhales enough to bolster herself and then flips the phone open, pressing the call button. Her hands shake as she brings it to her ear. She looks into Bucky’s eyes, the rest of the room falling away to a tunnel vision of the cool blue-green.

“It’s about time, kiddo!” Brock jeers.

Y/N seethes.

“You know, it’s just such a small world. You’ll never guess who I ran into at a gas station a few miles outside of Lambertville.”

Y/N closes her eyes as tight as she can, hanging her head. “What do you want?”

Brock snorts. “To finish what we started, of course. You’ve been very disrespectful, Y/N. Wasn’t it you who taught me about manners?” he tuts.

A hand overlays her own, warm and comforting. She can’t suffer that kindness right now, not when she needs fire and wrath. She pulls her hand away, wrapping it around herself, and backs up until her back hits the filing cabinets behind her. They clink together, jostled by her weight.

“What do you want?”

“You’re no fun these days. I remember when we used to have fun, don’t you? And then you had to go and ruin it.”

Y/N refuses to argue semantics with a son of bitch like Brock. “Brock,” she barks.

He sighs. “Fine, spoilsport. I want to talk without you stabbing me. One last time, Y/N, for old time’s sake. Also, I have your kid.” He tacks it on like a side remark of the possible future rain— as if it may disrupt plans but they won’t know until it starts pouring.

Y/N clenches her jaw. “Where?”

“You know the town well enough by now, I’m sure. You know that theater off of Bridge Street? Closed for renovations?” Something rustles on the line. “It’s nice in here.”

Y/N doesn’t respond, waiting for his demands. Come alone; come without weapons. Whatever plan he made to get her to him for her daughter’s sake. God, Winnie must be frightened. And Sam and Wanda, what did he do to them?

She lets her imagination run to stoke the fire in her chest. She needs all the strength she can wrap her fingers around, enough to wrap those fingers around Brock’s throat and squeeze.

“You can bring your buddies. I know they came. It’s sweet, isn’t it? You called and they came, even though you abandoned them?”

Y/N opens her eyes, looking from concerned face to concerned face. What’s his play?

“See, your pals, your Bucky, made some enemies, even more in your time away. You got your friends, and I got mine. I figure it’s only fair to give them a fighting chance. Hit us with your best shot, Y/N. Remember that? God, what a time,” he sighs. “See you then.” He hangs up.

Dazed, Y/N pulls her hand away. It dangles at her side, the dial tone ringing loud enough to hear. Brock has Winnie. Her daughter. Her life. She sent Winnie away, right into Brock’s grimy fingers. She thinks of those hands and their past, the blood and the dirt and the cuts, touching her daughter. Holding her. Subduing her.

The phone shatters against the wall, and it’s only then that Y/N realizes she threw it. She looks at her hands, tracing the lines with her eyes and wondering how she holds her daughter with them when they, too, donned the markings of endless fights. A small scar slices the center of her palm from her pinkie to her thumb, a reminder of an altercation gone wrong.

“Y/N,” Bucky whispers.

It starts her into action. She slaps his outstretched hand out of the way, pushing past him to her wall of weapons. A security blanket. A plan Z in case plans A through Y failed. She tunes out the protests behind her, grabbing the first weapons in her sights.

A trench knife and its forearm holster. A tactical knife for one calf, and a Ka-bar for the other.

“Y/N,” Bucky says again, grabbing her arm.

She wrenches it away, ignoring him and reaching for the only two guns she procured before leaving the room to collect dust: a SIG Sauer best for conceal carry and a Smith & Wesson for her thigh.

“Y/N! You really think this is the best plan?” Natasha interjects.

“Yes, I do,” Y/N mumbles, tightening the straps of the holster on her calf and moving on to the next.

The motions, old and unused, settle the harried panic. She did this daily, once upon a time. Her hands didn’t shake then, and they stop shaking now. Knives then guns, the SIG in a holster hidden by her sweatshirt and the other present on the outside of her thigh.

She scans the room for anything else, ignoring the stillness of her friends with their worried attention on her. Between Steve and Natasha, who joined together while Y/N turned her back, her leather jacket hangs from the wall. She wore it just shy of threadbare, her favorite piece of makeshift armor. It lacks the Howlie insignia Kate embroidered on the other’s, a talent she perfected for something to do with her hands and clear her mind, but it belongs to Y/N’s past just the same.

She slides between Nat and Steve, lifting it from its perch. The soft leather folds and sags in her hands. She rubs the fabric between her fingers and thumbs, pressing it against her nose to breathe in the scent. The years in storage rendered its musk stale, but comforting nonetheless. She slides an arm in, the lock boxes in her mind unclicking and revealing the parts of her she thought long laid to rest.

Before she slips into the second sleeve, Bucky grabs her arm once more, his grip tight and warning. He tugs her to face him, leaning in to stand eye to eye. “You’re half cracked and wild, Y/N. What did he say?”

Y/N scoffs. “What do you think he said, Buck? He’s got Winnie. He’s got my kid. I’m half cracked and wild ‘cause I gotta get my kid, and—”

“—Winnie?” he whispers, eyes wide.

Y/N tenses, realizing her fault. Winnie’s name burns on her tongue alongside the reason. She didn’t plan to tell him, at least not like this. The weight in the room and of her slip up join the sticky sweat on her skin, a heated blanket in the middle of June. She swallows, and it hurts.

“She’s yours.”

He shakes his head, brows drawn and mouth agape. “I, what?” he asks on an exhale.

“Don’t act so surprised. We fucked and then I’m pregnant, you can’t tell me you weren’t suspicious. I never told you because I didn’t want you to choose me, choose us, out of some fucked up sense of obligation.” She spits the words with the ire built over years and ignited tonight.

He shakes his head, eyes wide. “I didn’t know. I thought— well…”

“You thought what James?”

He looks to the floor, to her shoes resting beneath where her jacket hung.

She scoffs, pulling her arm away to finish putting on her coat. “You know, rumors spread like a fire, especially around small groups of friends. You think your men are impervious to gossip? I didn’t say anything because it was pointless. The more I would’ve protested, the more they would’ve believed it. Tell me, how many men do you think I slept with before or after you?” she accuses, knowing the answer.

For all that she and Bucky grew up together, some parts of themselves got lost in translation as the years passed.

He swallows, sluggish.

“Two.” She holds up two fingers as if evidence. “Two before you, long before you. None after. You wanna know why Brock targeted me, Buck? Why he couldn’t leave well enough alone? Why, no matter how many times I told him no, he didn’t stop? Because he thought I was the town slut and he took it as an insult that I wouldn’t fuck him.” She shakes her head, tired and over it. Tears gather on her lashes.

He whips his head to look at her. “What? Why didn’t—“

“Because I was pregnant, and I just wanted— it doesn’t matter what I wanted. We’re not having this conversation right now. I need to get to Winnie. You can help or not, I don’t care. But you will not stand between me and my child, do you understand?”

Despite the force of her declaration, she doesn’t want to do this without him. Without her friends behind her, pretending to allow Bucky and Y/N privacy like she didn’t hear Clint’s hitched breath when she told the truth for once in her goddamned life.

Bucky steps back, staring at her. She wonders how she looks to him.

He nods.

Y/N exhales, relieved despite the weight, and grabs her boots, stalking past her friends to the stairs. They creak beneath her, a familiar noise charged with the tension. They sound again when Natasha follows her up, and then the rest.

Her kitchen, lit by the moon through the windows and the light from the basement, glares back at her. This morning, she made breakfast at the stove and packed Winnie’s lunch. She watered the plants on the window sills and washed the dishes.

This afternoon, she cleaned it within an inch of its life. The once strong bleach smell lingers on the floor and table and in the air, a reminder of the turning point. It feels like months ago that she kneeled, peeling off her bloodied dress and preparing for Peter and Winnie to come home.

Now, she walks through it, casting aside the memories. Later, when she packs up and moves again, this time with Winnie, she’ll split herself into a new Before and After, leaving this kitchen behind.

Dazed, lightheaded and viewing herself from a bird’s view, she laces her boots up. Natasha sits beside her on the couch, doing the same. She leans into Y/N, a solid weight along her side. Her quiet whispers go unheard in Y/N’s ears, the rush overtaking the kindness. Y/N nods, absentminded and focusing only on her next steps.

Plan B, because Brock cut Plan A to pieces. Get her kid. Whatever else happens, happens. She makes peace with it now, refusing to dwell on the repercussions of what protecting her child makes of her. No one, not an egotistical fuck nor the love of her life, knows the cruelty in her devotion.

Bigger, stronger, scarier, she told Bucky. She meant it then and means it now.

Steve rode in on his bike, Bucky and Nat in the latter’s Mustang. She and Y/N bought a matching set the day Y/N turned eighteen, celebrating the illusion of freedom. The driver seat welcomes her like her own car, molding to her body. She caresses the steering wheel, a biting grin on her lips not for the happiness of familiarity, but the memory of the fear it instilled in the right people doing the wrong things. She reveled in the power of scaring scarier men with an innocuous drive down the road.

She revels in it now.

Natasha takes the passenger seat, Clint the back, and Steve and Bucky on Steve’s motorcycle. The car rumbles to life, its frame shaking with the transformed engine into a powerful beast. Bucky and Nat spent the summer after getting the cars working to better them, Steve and Y/N sat on coolers drinking beers to jeer rather than help.

Y/N pulls away from the curb, slow and purposeful. If committing one crime, don’t commit another, she learned. She drives the speed limit, focused on the road and not the houses she passes or the stars shining down their disapproval, if stars talked.

Her house, right on Main Street, sits in the center of town— a purposeful move when she bought it. Bridge Street, with the old theater, is a five minute drive through store fronts, house rows, and across the street from a cemetery.

Natasha watches her from her seat. “That was certainly a choice.”

Y/N hums, half listening.

“I mean, what a way to tell Buck he has a kid.”

Y/N sighs, grip tightening on the wheel. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Natasha says and means.

The conversation ends there, more said in the silence than through words. She won’t carry the guilt of whatever she does to Brock and his lackeys, but the guilt of telling Bucky that way, of throwing it in his face as a cruel motivator, will sit in her gut alongside the other good intentions that paved the road to hell.

Steve swerves into the left lane, riding parallel to Y/N. She keeps her eyes forward, but acknowledges him with a flash of the high beams. They used to do this, too, on nights meant for forgetting. They raced and they chased and they ran circles around whatever empty parking lots they found.

Y/N slows, turning right. She creeps to a stop in front of the theater, Steve parking behind her. Low lights shine through the stain glass windows, the front door cracked and bleeding out onto the front steps. The bones of the theater resemble its old business— a church that lost followers after a scandal with the pastor and his wife. The city council renovated it in the early 2000s, relabeling it for community use. They left the bell and the signage and the history, put in a stage, and called it a day.

The keys jingle when she pulls them from the ignition. She steps out. A cold wind rushes her, the year not late enough for warm nights. The eerie silence on the street accompanies the storm in her chest, broken by crickets and their boots on the ground. She stands shoulder to shoulder with Nat and Steve, Bucky and Clint on the far ends.

Her fingers tap against the gun on her thigh as she surveys the entry points. In her research of the congregation after learning of the scandal, she found a blueprint revealing a door in the back. She points to the side of the building, silent.

Natasha, Clint, and Steve nod in unison, stepping out the line up. They creep along the side, sticking close to the shadows and out of view of the windows. Bucky shifts to take Steve’s spot next to Y/N. She allows it for a moment, taking the kindness despite her deserving of less, and then forces herself onward.

On a routine run, she paused at the crack in the door to scan the room. Now, she bursts through, the door banging against the wall from where it rebounds.

Rows of chairs fill either side of the room, leaving a center aisle. On the stage down front, two men whip to look at her. The dark haired one laughs, reclining in his chair. The other one, younger and greener from his visage, looks between the laughing man and Y/N and Bucky.

She stalks down the aisle, unclipping the strap of her holster and withdrawing her gun. In hands used to the weight, she levels the sights on the knees of the laughing man. A bang rings out, rebounding through the space, sharp and disorienting.

He stops laughing, falling from his chair.

The other kid stands, backing up with hands raised. Y/N pulls the trigger, downing him. He screams, curling in on himself.

She braces one hand on the stage and jumps up, towering over the men at her feet. To her left, tied to a pole beyond the curtain, Sam calls for her. “I’m sorry,” he says around a fat tongue and split lip.

She shakes her head. She doesn’t have time to bear his guilt alongside the torrent of fear and anger in herself. Instead of responding, she focuses on the once-laughing man. He groans in pain, eyes squeezed shut but lips pulled into a disgusting grin. His whine morphs once more into stilted laughter.

“Fuck, you’re—”

Y/N steps on his wounded knee, grinding her toe into it. He screams, curling further into himself and panting. “Where’s my kid?” she demands.

“Crazy bitch!” he yells. “You have no idea wha—”

A bang and he sags, head lolling back. Y/N looks over her shoulder. Bucky’s arm lowers to his side, his own gun smoking in his grip. She nods her gratitude and returns to the other kid. God, he’s young. Too young to deserve getting in the mix with these lowlifes. He chose to, unfortunately, and that motivates Y/N enough to transfer the weight of her boot to his knee.

He cries out, tears streaming down his face.

“Where’s my kid?”

“I’d answer her if I were you,” Bucky warns, low and harsh.

“Rumlow!” he shouts through his crying.

She presses harder, leaning her weight into her leg with her gun leveled on his head. “I know that, you stupid fuck. Where?!”

He groans but raises a shaking hand over her shoulder, pointing up. Y/N follows the direction, turning. In the rafters, leaning over the edge of the fence with his hands dangling as calm as can be, Brock smiles his wicked, vile smile down at her. He wiggles his fingers in a wave, cocking his head to the side.

“Quite the show,” he commends, his voice echoing.

Y/N raises her gun to point at his head. The distance puts a clear shot at risk, but she can deal with the repercussions of that. A bleeding man is a vulnerable man. Brock holds his hands up as if they create a formidable barrier between himself and a bullet, his mouth pulled into a faux pout.

“I just wanna talk, Y/N. Then you can take little Willie back.” He says her name with disgust, purposeful in his misnaming. “I haven’t touched a hair on her head, I cross my heart.” He uses his pointer finger to draw an X over the left side of his chest.

Y/N imagines pulling the trigger and hitting that spot.

“She’s not here. That means if you kill me, you’ll never find her,” he warns as if privy to her ire and intentions.

She wishes he could see into her mind, if only to watch her kill him in every crafty way she learned— for walking back into her life, for touching Winnie. In the years since leaving the city and her life, she put away the desire to hurt someone out of anger and not need; it rushes her in full force, overcoming and torrential.

Y/N clenches her jaw, but lowers her gun to her side. Brock raises a brow, eyes flickering to the floor. She clicks the safety on and sets the gun on the ground. “The other ones, too, please.”

Y/N glares at him, unstrapping the knives from her calves.

“I’m sure you have another one hidden. I’m not a fool.”

She lifts up her sweatshirt and unclips the SIG, raising her hand to wave it at him as if to say ‘see? Last one’. It joins her other weapons on the floor. Brock nods, satisfied, and uses the railing to hold himself when he leans back. It shakes from his weight.

“Y/N,” Bucky says lowly, grabbing her forearm. He pauses at the outline of her final concealed knife and squeezes once.

She turns into him to whisper in his ear. “Help Sam and Wanda. She’s here somewhere, Buck. He wouldn’t let her get far.”

Bucky looks from her to where Sam and Wanda sit, the latter slowly waking up.

“Please. I’ve got this.”

Bucky nods once and lets Y/N go. He steps back, taking the heat of his body with him.

“Good guard dog,” Brock mocks from above.

Y/N closes her eyes for a breath, steeling herself, before pushing through the curtains. A ladder leads upwards and into the rafters. She unhooks the chain stating only authorized persons can use it, and starts climbing.

The ceiling stops ten feet high where the V of the roof begins, the ladder extending that length. Y/N works quickly, her boots thudding against the rungs in tune to the racing of her heart. Below her, Sam eases Wanda into his lap and Bucky crouches next to them, his head craned back to look up at her. She smiles at him, feeble, and then pulls herself onto the rafter.

It spans four feet wide and five times as long. Halfway down, Brock sits in a folding metal chair, one ankle crossed over the other. He nods at the matching chair across from him, against the opposing railing. Y/N straightens, pulling her shoulders back and her head high, stalking down the length. The grate clangs with her steps, the structure shaking.

Eyes on Brock, she takes the seat.

He trails his gaze from her shoes to her head, settling on meeting her glare. “Your kid is scrappy,” he starts.

Y/N runs her tongue over her teeth. She taught Winnie a few ways to defend herself, small things capable of a kid. Go for the eyes. The nose. Use fingernails. Kick. Scream. It settles little in her to know Winnie listened. What does that matter if it didn’t work?

Brock points to his cheek. “I got this from her. You teaching her all your neat tricks? She know how to use a knife and a gun, too? You gonna teach her your… other skills when the time comes?” he goads.

Y/N bites the inside of her cheek, looking away. Dust motes float in the air over the seating area. Ropes from an old production hang from a beam overhead. She counts the fibers she sees from here rather than look at him.

“C’mon, Y/N! We used to talk all the time, do you remember? Catch me up, what’s new with you? Aside from the name and the child and the job, of course. Actually, how about I catch you up on me, since I already know everything about you?” He says it slowly, taunting her.

She bores into the rope harder.

Brock sighs. “See, I got into a horrible accident. A fire, of all things. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” He picks an invisible piece of lint from his pants, eyebrows raised as if expecting a response. “ Well, when I got out, the healing took quite a bit of time—”

“Brock, what do you want?” she barks, tired of his monologuing. She knows what happened to him, and anything after doesn’t matter.

He shrugs. “You really hurt my feelings, Y/N,” he pouts. “And then you put your dogs on me? I just want to know why.”

She scoffs, clasping her hands together on her lap.

“Look at me.”

She ignores him.

“Look at me!” he roars, hoarse and loud.

When she refuses, he grips her chin between bruising fingers and yanks her head to level with him. He sneers, close enough for his breath to sour the air. Y/N glares at him. He shakes her head, his snarl softening into a grin. “See how easy that was?” he coos.

Y/N wets her lips.

Brock, unbeknownst to her left hand creeping up the sleeve of her right arm, leans out of his seat and across the aisle to handle her. His unbalanced weight tips the chair onto its front legs, the metal scratching on the grate when he shifts.

“Why does this matter?” she asks for the sake of distraction.

Brock huffs, his grip tightening, and rolls his eyes. Y/N takes the moment to wrap her fingers around the hilt of her knife.

“Because you disrespected me. I am a man deserving of reverence, you see. And you just…” he tsks.

Y/N unsheathes the knife, the sound hidden beneath his voice. “But why my kid, Brock?” she pleads, as if she cares for his answer.

He opens his mouth to respond. Y/N takes the opening, withdrawing her knife. It enters his thigh with a sick squelch. He falls into his chair, gasping. Y/N, hand still gripping the hilt, follows, shoving it harder into his skin.

“Oh, you’re sneaky,” he commends, his hands coming down over her own.

She braces to fight against him, but he twists the knife. Y/N stills, a bolt of confusion interrupting her grip. In the second she foolishly untenses, Brock jolts forward, slamming his head into Y/N’s nose. It cracks from the force of his strike, pain sweeping across her face. She falls backward, dizzy. Blood rushes from her nose, leaking into her mouth.

The thing is, she got used to the pain of taking hits. Reveled in it, even. It heated the fight in her, made her vicious where she once held control.

She uses the sweatshirt sleeve to wipe under her nose. It stings, tears mixing with the blood. She pulls the fabric away, blood staining it.

Across from her, Brock groans. He grips the knife with one hand, the other around the wound, and pulls. Before the blade leaves his muscles, Y/N springs forward and slams it back down. Brock yells, head thrown back. His chest heaves with his breaths, his teeth stained with blood from his own broken nose.

Without looking, she reaches above for the rope. It pulls against her palm, the fibers rough and old. “You stupid fuck,” she chokes out around the blood and the coarse laughter bubbling in her throat.

She wraps the rope around his throat twice and yanks it. Brock’s hands fly to his neck, fruitlessly pulling on the makeshift noose. The reddened blood vessels in the whites of his eyes brighten the small tears along his lash line. He gapes like an ugly, unrepentant fish.

His cheeks and forehead flush from the lack of oxygen. Y/N loosens the rope.

“Where is she?” she demands in a low tone.

Brock sucks in a breath of air to waste it laughing.

Y/N pulls the rope.

His struggles matter little against her force and his weakness. The knife in his thigh shifts when he kicks at Y/N’s leg, aiming for her balance. She steps out of the way, seeing his hit move in slow motion with sluggishness.

Red washes over his face. She relaxes the rope again.

“Where is she?”

He shakes his head, grinning. “You’ll never get her back, Y/N. I went through trial by fire—”

“—Oh, shut the fuck up,” she shouts over his taunts, pulling once more.

Brock’s neck cracks from the force, his body twisting towards where she holds the rope but held in place by the tension point on the beam. His ineffective fingers grip his throat, no longer fighting. His eyes slide shut faster than he forces them open.

Y/N shifts closer to him, the rope slackening. “Where is—”

“—We found her!” a voice shouts from below.

Brock’s eyes widen, his mouth gaping open. Y/N sighs through a sickly satisfied smile. “Well, would you look at that?”

Brock wraps his fingers around the rope a second too late. Y/N pulls the slack tight, wrapping the rest of the length of her end around his throat. She threads the tip around the rope hanging from the beam and secures the end where the binding meets his neck. He struggles with renewed vigor, the laughter and malice drained from his eyes, true fear taking their place.

Y/N steps back, surveying her work with a quick glance and deciding the rope will hold. She exhales through her nose, using the sting and the pain for strength; for conviction.

His chair tips easily, when she pushes him. The shaking railing put up little fight against the weight of his body. It breaks, pieces falling to the seats below. The rope creaks from Brock’s swinging body, hitting against the rafter.

Y/N pushes away the cruel, sick pride swelling in her chest. She runs to the ladder and skids down it, missing rungs and nearly falling. Her boots hit the ground with a resounding thud. Past the curtains, in the center of the stage, Wanda kneels over a false portion of the floor, whereupon the two men sat. Someone dragged their bodies to the side.

Y/N skids the rest of the distance on her knees, bumping into Wanda. Below them, Natasha holds Winnie in her arms, rocking and shushing her. Bucky, Clint, and Steve stand around them, quiet and tense. Y/N sits, dangling her legs to jump, but Wanda grabs the back of her jacket.

“Wait,” she says.

Y/N stares at her, indignant and confused. “Get off of me. I’m going to see my kid.”

“Like that?” Wanda counters, waving to Y/N’s face.

Y/N presses her fingertips to her cheek, pulling away with blood on her skin. She looks at Winnie and then Wanda.

“She’s been scared enough, Y/N. Here.” Wanda wraps her sweatshirt around her hand and reaches for Y/N’s face.

She wipes the skin to the best of her ability, apologizing when Y/N hisses. Y/N cares little for the pain or how she looks. She needs to hold Winnie and check for wounds and— god, she just needs her kid.

“Okay,” Wanda whispers, pulling away.

Y/N turns to the hole. Bucky stands beneath it, looking up. He outstretches his arms. “Come on.”

Y/N jumps without hesitation, trusting Bucky to catch her. He does, hands on her hips, and steadies her. She offers a rushed “Thank you” and pushes past him, falling to her knees at Natasha’s side. Winnie looks up, tears shining on her cheek.

“Mama,” she cries, pulling away from Natasha and jumping in Y/N’s arms.

Y/N lets the force knock her back, landing on her butt with her knees bent to brace Winnie’s body against her own. She presses a hand to Winnie’s head and wraps an arm around her body, holding her tight. “Oh, baby,” she whispers, sniffling.

Y/N rocks them side to side, Winnie trembling in her arms. Around them, her friends shuffle and whisper. Someone climbs their way out of the floor, and then another two follow. Y/N doesn’t need to look to know Bucky stayed with them, and that Natasha and Steve and Clint took their leave.

Into Winnie’s hair she says, “The rafters. Tell Steve to check him.” Her voice is steady and cold, despite the shaking in her hands and the pressure in her chest.

Bucky calls up to Steve, telling him to do as Y/N asked.

“I tried, Mama. I tried,” Winnie wails into Y/N’s shoulder.

“I know, honey. You did so well. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She repeats it until the words taste like mashed potatoes on her tongue and lose their meaning, and then she says it more.

How can she make this okay? She took Winnie away to save her from moments like this. The fear, the uneven ground on which she stands, paralyzes her. She dealt with tantrums and friends and nosy neighbors, but not this. How does a mother save her kid from remembering this?

Bucky said kids are resilient, and Y/N told him they shouldn’t have to be. She means it, but what does she do when her kid needs that resiliency? Winnie is young and bright and bounces back, but from this?

“Y/N,” Bucky says from above. “We gotta go.”

Y/N holds Winnie tighter, shaking her head. Outside, Brock waits in the rafters. She refuses to subject Winnie to seeing a body hanging; a man her mother killed.

“The rafters,” she presses.

Bucky sighs, resting his palm on the back of her neck. Y/N opens her eyes. Bucky crouches next to them, expression sorrowful and as full as it is empty. “Steve’s taking care of it. We gotta get her outta here, sweetheart.” He rubs his thumb beneath her ear, trying for comfort and failing if only for the circumstances.

“C’mon,” he encourages.

Y/N exhales. “Okay,” she concedes.

She readjusts Winnie, wrapping her legs around her waist and keeping her head tucked into her shoulder. She waits for Bucky’s instructions, too exhausted to think beyond keeping Winnie from seeing things a kid should never see. He looks from Y/N to the floor above and back.

“I’m going to hold her and you’re going to jump out, so when I pass her up she can go straight to you again, okay?” he asks gently but leaves no room for argument.

Y/N nods but hesitates to pass Winnie over. Bucky steps into her space, not reaching for her daughter but for Y/N. He pulls her in, wrapping his arms around both of them and resting his chin on Y/N’s free shoulder. She sags into his chest, dropping her forehead to his shirt, and breathes in his scent.

Some things never change, like his cologne mixed with his natural smell. Like the comfort his arms bring. Like the fluttering in her chest that whispers ‘home, this is home’. Bucky kisses the junction where her shoulder and neck meet, like she did to him earlier today and a million times before. She returns the gesture, then shifts to pass Winnie over.

“Mama!” Winnie cries at the change.

“It’s okay, baby,” Y/N coos, caressing her head. “Bucky’s gonna hold you so I can get out and then you, okay?”

Winnie shakes her head, eyes pinched shut. “I don’t wanna.”

“I know. I know. But we gotta, baby.” She leans down and presses a long kiss to Winnie’s forehead then steps back.

Above her, Clint reaches through the hole, fingers extended. Y/N jumps the short distance between their grips, latching onto Clint’s wrist and Clint to hers. He leans backwards, pulling her up. When the edge of the floor comes close enough to grab, she reaches out and uses it to pull herself up the rest of the way. Arms wrap around her waist, bringing her to solid ground.

Below, Bucky holds Winnie. He stares at her head tucked into his chest, his free hand floating in the air around her head before it settles in her hair. His body sags with a sigh. Y/N’s heart wrenches at the sight, at the rubble of a love she believed long dead, at least from the other end. She lied to herself and she lied to Bucky and she lied to Winnie.

Bucky straightens, looking up. He nods at Y/N, then whispers something to Winnie. They shift, Bucky raising Winnie in the air by the waist. Y/N reaches down, grabbing Winnie’s hand. “Hold on, honey. Hold on tight.”

Winnie listens, wrapping both hands around Y/N’s wrist. Behind her, Clint holds her hips to keep from toppling over. With the added help, she heaves Winnie out of the hole and into her arms. Winnie curls into her chest.

Y/N backs up, allowing Bucky the room to jump and grab the floor with Clint’s help. Over her daughter’s head and in the rafters, Steve wipes Y/N’s knife on his shirt until the blood transfers. He severed the rope holding Brock up, its frayed edges unmoving.

Y/N pushes to her feet, a hand on the back of Winnie’s head to keep it down. “Close your eyes,” she says, just in case.

She sniffs, looking from friend to friend. Wanda sports a budding bruise on her cheekbone, her hair in disarray. Sam holds his shirt to his lip to staunch the bleeding. Natasha slips into the space between Y/N and Clint, standing close enough to hear her breathing. Bucky stands on Y/N’s other side, his hand hovering over her lowering back.

Steve joins them after descending from the ladder. The blood stains his shirt, but otherwise he bears no mark of what the night brought.

“Were there any others?” Y/N asks lowly, as if her voice will break the precarious peace.

“No. Just these three,” Steve says.

“You’re sure?” she presses.

“Yeah?” He frowns. “Why?”

“He said there were people who we…” she shakes her head, not wanting to say the words in front of her daughter.

Steve’s face clears with understanding. “Yeah. It was just them.”

“Good. Okay. That’s good.”

Clint clears his throat, drawing their attention. “Why don’t you guys get going? Take the car. There was another one in the back the rest of us can pile into.”

Y/N nods slowly, struggling to process anything past the weight of Winnie in her arms. She turns, looking at Bucky, hoping her plea to take control comes through in her silence. Bucky nods. “I think that’s a good idea.” He steps in closer, his hovering hand finally setting on her back and heating her skin despite the barrier of her jacket and sweatshirt. She leans into it. “You guys take care of this.”

No one asks what he means. They know. A short round of confirming nods, and Bucky presses Y/N onward, to the stairs on the left of the stage. He walks her down the aisle she stormed an hour ago and down the steps of the theater. Y/N trusts him to lead her, her will and energy drained in equal measure. He opens the back door of the Mustang, stepping aside to allow Y/N to slide in, Winnie holding tight and refusing to let go.

She makes it work, settling into the bench seat. She rests her cheek on Winnie’s head, closing her eyes. Winnie’s chest contracts and expands with her breaths, in tune with Y/N’s. Her small fingers grip the lapel of Y/N’s jacket as if she wants to crawl inside. Y/N knows that feeling.

The car turns on, jostling the pair as Bucky drives away. Y/N shifts, setting her chin on Winnie’s head to meet Bucky’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He looks away when she catches him, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He swallows and nods, but doesn’t respond.

The drive takes less time than how it feels, Y/N’s sluggishness slowing the truth and stretching it into something her head tries to make sense of. The houses and store fronts she passed on the way to the theater look the same; dark due to the time of the night— morning, actually. The homes boast gardens and nice lawns; the shops sales or delicious desserts.

It’s Y/N that is different; changed within a few hours beyond recognition. She reckons her life readied her for the shifts to come, but she doesn’t feel prepared. The sweat cooled on her skin in a sticky blanket and her ears ring. Her head pounds and her eyes strain to stay open through the stinging.

Perhaps she didn’t change, not exactly. She reverted back to her old self, a person who no longer fits in her life. She thought she missed the city and herself, but she moved on and grew without it. Trying that person on after so long without her is stifling. Can she be both people at once? Or only ever a self-made sinner or a suburban mother?

Bucky opens her door, having pulled up to her house. She takes his offered hand, using it to leverage into standing without knocking Winnie’s head. Her tremors stopped somewhere along the drive, replaced with quiet sighs— a marking of sleep.

They shuffle into the house, turning on the necessary lights to see but not disturb Winnie. Bucky halts at the bottom of the stairs, rocking from foot to foot with his hands in his pockets.

Y/N smiles, using her free hand to cup his face. He closes his eyes and leans into it. “I’m just putting her to sleep. I’ll be down.”

He nods against her palm, following it for half a second when she pulls away before righting himself. His weighted attention heats her back as she climbs the stairs to Winnie’s room, careful to avoid the loudest creaks.

Winnie’s room remains a vision of earlier: the bed mussed from her playing with Natasha, the bottom of her dresser open from where Y/N forgot to close it all the way. Y/N pauses in the doorway, taking in another thing left the same while the people inside it changed.

She lets the grief consume her for a harrowing moment. It winds through her bones and flows through her veins. It joins the pounding in her head and the ringing in her ears. It stings with her nose and aches with her feet. It becomes a person within her, filling her to capacity because one body can only hold one person, but here she holds three.

She swallows it down and presses on, like she trained herself to do in her youth. A talent she carried with her into her adulthood and crocheted into the blanket laying across Winnie’s bed. She peels it back and lays Winnie down, untwining her arm from her neck and hand from her lapel. Winnie shifts when Y/N covers her, holding the blanket as she did Y/N’s jacket.

The rocking chair in the corner of the room beckons for her to sit. She listens, abandoning her promise to return to Bucky. He can wait.

She feared the worst upon Brock’s call. Him killing Winnie, hurting her beyond repair. Never seeing, holding, touching, kissing her daughter again. In the seconds where Brock withheld Winnie’s location, Y/N imagined who else she could become. If she thought herself reckless and cruel before, a life without her daughter— a life wherein Brock took her— the loss would mold her, shape her, beyond recognition.

Winnie sighs, drawing her knees up.

Y/N exhales. She won’t find out what kind of monster she can become, not anymore. Not with Winnie sleeping soundly across the room, safe and home and alive. Alive, alive, alive. Y/N swears, as she did before, to make it right.

If she must remold the world to better fit Winnie now— young, sweet Winnie who has a Before and After like her mother— she vows to do it. She never wanted Winnie to section her life off in parts; to divide herself between two times and force sense into any part of life she can.

She props her elbow on the air of the chair, her chin on top of her fist, and pushes her feet into the floor to rock the chair. She bought it for Winnie’s nursery, and couldn’t part with it when Winnie grew too old to want to use it. Y/N sat in this chair to watch Winnie sleep in her crib, to nurse her, to read to her.

Salt touches her lips before she realizes she’s crying, slow but full and so real it hurts. She sniffles, wiping her nose and hissing at the sting. Her shoulders shake with the effort to keep her sobs silent. She covers her eyes with a shaking hand, hiding herself from the room and the space and the new truth.

It wracks through her chest, the chair quaking with her.

She gasps, pressing her other hand to her chest to berate her heart into slowing, only it bolsters the beat and it bolsters the desolation and it bolsters, bolsters, bolsters, until she isn’t a person at all. Just grief married to grief in flesh and bone.

She laughs around the tears, quiet and spiteful. She sure knows how to suffer. If suffering deserves a class, she deserves to teach it.

Hands brace her thighs, stopping the chair and leaning her forward. She pulls her hand from her face. Bucky looks up at her, kneeling at her feet. He reaches up, wiping beneath one eye and then the other. It’s that, his skin on her skin, his eyes on hers, his face drawn and his smell and him coming when she called— it breaks the walls she tried to build between them for the sake of saving her heart, less so piece by piece and more so by a row of C4 reducing it to dust.

She flings her arms around his shoulders, stopping only when their bodies meet and refuse to melt into each other. He wraps his arms around her in return, just as tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her skin.

The words form on her tongue for why he shouldn’t apologize, why it doesn’t matter now, why she doesn’t care how he hurt her and how she hurt him, so long as he stays. Instead, she shakes her head. “Me, too.” She is sorry, more than she can bear to admit, not out of pride but for fear of draining herself dry by the time she finishes.

Bucky pulls back, his hands coming up to where her shoulders meet her neck. Unshed tears shine in his eyes, bright in the darkness, reflecting the slowly rising sun through the window. He sniffs, using his grip to draw her forehead to press against his. She mirrors his hold, thumbs on his jaw and fingers on the sides of his neck.

“I didn’t want you to go, not without me,” he starts in a hushed whisper. “But I thought… I was worried I’d put you guys in danger. More people want my head than yours; it’d take more to disappear me, and you needed to get out then. There wasn’t enough time. But I wanted; I need you to know that I wanted.”

Y/N wets her lips, tasting the last of her tears. Their breaths mingle. Too much clouds her head to get out in a way that makes sense. “I didn’t know,” she decides on.

Bucky sighs. “I guess we both kept things from each other.”

It stings but it’s true and fair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— it wasn’t my choice to make.”

“No, but it was still the right one. For Winnie. For you.”

She lets that settle in her chest, his absolution for her gravest mistake; her cruelest act of love. It stifles the rushing in her ears.

Y/N pulls back to kiss Bucky’s forehead, tilting his neck back to look up at her. “I miss you, Bucky. A lot. I’ve made a life here because I’ve had to, for Winnie. But it hurts, like a contestant ache in my chest and my bones and I just— I just miss you.”

Bucky coos on a sigh. “I know, baby. I miss you too, like a limb. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Y/N thinks about it, staring into the distance at a poster on the wall. He came when she called, and he means this now, she bets her life on it. She thinks about their past, her present and how it diverges from his. The Commandos back home and the ones cleaning up her mess here. If she asked Bucky to leave them, he would do it in a heartbeat. Less than a heartbeat.

She almost does, opens her mouth to ask for it because he’ll say yes, but she stops. He made them, his family, from the ground up. Leaving them will hurt him more than it did her. On the other side, she won’t risk Winnie’s life on the off chance something like this won’t happen again. She won’t take Winnie away from her stability. Her friends. Her life. Y/N refuses to introduce her daughter to the life she left.

“I don’t know, Bucky. I can’t ask you to leave the Commandos for me. I just won’t. It wouldn’t be fair. But it wouldn’t be fair to Winnie to uproot her life, either. Nor am I willing to risk her life because I miss you.”

The constant sacrifice of loving someone wholly wears on her bones. She wouldn’t change a thing about Winnie, or anything she did for Winnie; she only wishes it were easier.

“Do you trust me?” Bucky whispers.

He asked her this once, years ago in their wild youth, and she said yes without hesitation. It tastes like a memory and truth when she whispers it now.

“Then I’ll take care of it,” he promises. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Y/N sighs, the weight of choosing gently lifted from her shoulders. She nods, conceding to his authority if only for this relief.

“Y/N,” Bucky whispers.

She hums, rubbing her thumb along his jaw.

“Can I please kiss you now?” he begs, small in a way Bucky rarely gets save for when unsure.

“Please,” she whispers in turn, just as pleading and off kilter.

He eases her forward, pausing just before their lips meet. His breath tickles her face, gentle and warm. Whatever he searches for on her face, he finds. He pulls her the rest of the way forward, their lips touching enough to feel it but not enough to satisfy her.

She forgoes his hesitance, pressing into him once more and kissing him with all the love she missed giving him. It was always Bucky for her. Always.

She tries to show him as much with her lips and her tongue, to tell him without words how she longed for him despite the distance. That the heart in her chest belongs to him even though that same heart knows better how to be cruel than loving and kind.

Bucky’s hands fall from her neck to her waist, steadying her. He tilts his head for a better angle, his nose brushing against hers.

Y/N startles back with a gasp, panting. Bucky looks up at her with wide eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice thick.

Y/N can’t help but to huff a laugh. She presses her fingers to her lips and shakes her head. “My nose.”

“Oh, shit,” Bucky says, rising on his knees. “We need to set this.” He tilts her head in the dim light as if looking for something past the break.

“Not here. I don’t want to wake Winnie.”

Bucky looks over his shoulder to Winnie. A small smile ticks up the corners of his lips. He sighs and returns his attention to Y/N. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Y/N drowns in his gaze, warm and tired but tangible through the rays of the rising sun shining across his cheeks. He tucks a wayward strand behind his ear, allowing her to drink in her fill, patient in a way only he knows how. In the liminal space between them, time halted and peaceful, the events of the night fall back. Bucky takes the space, settling into the spot in which he belongs.

Voices below and the gentle closing of her front door break the moment, not in a way that shatters but in a return to reality. Y/N offers a small smile which Bucky returns. She holds her hands against his on her cheeks, squeezes once, and withdraws them. The time for intimacy will come, but it does not belong in her daughter’s room or with her broken nose.

Bucky, in his easy understanding of the words unsaid, presses a kiss to her knuckles. He stands, pulling her with him. She follows like a magnet to metal; like the moon around the earth— wherein he is the moon and she is the earth, and he is the earth and she is the moon.

He waits in the doorway, leaning against its frame, while Y/N checks one last time on Winnie. Her hands press between her cheek and her pillow, eyes moving beneath her lids and mouth gaped for small gasps. Y/N smooths her hair back, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Winnie shifts to follow the touch before settling once more into her slumber.

Y/N meets Bucky at the door, sliding past him to the hallway. He lingers for a second, facing Winnie. Y/N allows him the illusion of privacy, waiting for him at the top of the stairs. They need to talk about this, Winnie, and what comes next. Bucky said he’ll take care of it, and Y/N trusts him to do so, but she knows a kiss and a precarious peace forged after a night wrought with panic and anger does not take the place of the hard conversations in their future.

Bucky shuts the door, leaving a crack of space open, and joins Y/N’s side. Hushed conversation meets them from where they stand, the voices low and slow and tired. Y/N braces herself to rejoin her friends and the severity of what they finished. Bucky’s hand on her back lends strength to push forward.

She steps heavy on the stairs that creak, a kind announcement of their coming presence. Bucky follows a step behind her.

Her friends lounge around her living room, Wanda leaning into Natasha’s shoulder on the couch, Steve to Natasha’s left. Sam and Clint occupy the arm chairs perpendicular to the sofa, the former with his head reclined against the backrest and closed eyes. Clint sits with his back against one armrest and his legs dangling over the other, Sam’s hand absently on his shoulder. He looks up when Y/N appears.

All things considered, they don’t look too bad. Sam’s lip stopped bleeding and Wanda suffers rope burns and a sore head, but otherwise they made it out better than expected. Clint dons the most wounds from whatever he took care of before joining their crusade.

Y/N takes a spot on the floor across from the couch, the coffee table between herself and her friends. Bucky stands next to her, leaning against the entertainment center with his arms crossed. The group shares similar looks in turn, both full and empty and tinged with relief.

“It’s done?” Bucky asks above her head.

Steve hums his agreement and leaves it at that. The less they know about how they took care of the bodies, the better.

Y/N wraps a hand around Bucky’s ankle, rubbing her thumb against the bone. He shifts closer to her side.

“What’s next?” Wanda asks, eyes closed and cheek squished into Natasha’s jacket.

Y/N waits for a response, from Bucky or Sam or whomever, but her friend’s attention falls to her. She looks up at Bucky, who stares at her, too. She supposes the responsibility falls to her, since it affects her life and her child. When Steve tried to mediate her argument with Bucky in the kitchen, she chose to step up and take control. Despite her fatigue and general desire to crawl inside of Bucky and sleep for as long as possible, she accepts their gentle pressing for her to decide.

She sighs. “I don’t know. You guys go home, I guess. I stay here and make it work. Help Winnie process.” Y/N shakes her head, out of her depth.

The strength from her friends dissipates as fast as it came. She sags, leaning her head against Bucky’s leg. His hand settles on her head, fingers caressing behind her ear.

“We set your nose,” he says, taking over. “That’s what’s next. And then we get some rest, and deal with everything else tomorrow.” He looks at their friends in turn as if they might protest.

No one does. Sam grumbles his reply, head still craned back, and the rest nod tiredly. They’re beaten but not broken, exhausted but alive, and that’s enough for now.

“I have a bed in my room and a pull out in Winnie’s,” Y/N offers, limited in places to sleep for never having company.

Bucky clears his throat, red tinging his cheeks. He averts his gaze from Y/N, staring at his feet. “I, uh, I know someone in town who has some extra room.”

Y/N straightens, narrowing her eyes. “Who?” she demands, sharp and accusing.

Bucky wets his lips and sighs. “Don’t be angry.”

Y/N leans away to better scowl at him. Who does he know in town? Why does he know anyone in town besides her and Winnie? She knows the answer to that, in the recesses of her mind behind the overwhelming fog of exhaustion. Leave it to Bucky to make contacts in her home because sending her friends to check up on her doesn’t suffice his need to protect.

He rubs his fingers from behind her ear to down her neck, massaging away the knots in her muscles as if to subdue her budding frustration. “Peter,” he admits quietly.

Y/N closes her eyes and inhales. Of course. Her babysitter. It checks out. “This is a conversation for later, James,” she concedes.

“Ooh, ‘James’,” Natasha taunts with a half-smirk.

“Shut up.” Bucky flicks his eyes to Y/N and then away.

She lets the tension sit on his shoulders, hoping it weighs enough to prepare him for his future admonishment, before relaxing into him again. She can’t blame him, she loves just as fiercely and off center of normal. If he left for a town of new people, she would keep an eye on him, too. She intends to save that admission after scolding him.

Bucky sorts out who goes where. Clint and Sam take Peter’s offered couch, standing with great effort and bidding their goodbyes. They pass by Y/N, Sam caresses her head on his way by and Clint bends down for a one armed hug and kiss to her temple. The door whispers shut behind them.

Natasha volunteers to sleep on Winnie’s pull out before anyone else can. She dislodges Wanda’s head from her shoulder and stands, marking her claim by her readiness. She nods once to Y/N, an acceptance of the responsibility for protecting Winnie. On her way by Steve, she runs her fingers through his hair. Y/N resolves to talk to Nat about that, ask her why she denies herself happiness. They deserve each other.

Y/N threatens Wanda and Steve when they try to decline her designation of her bed. They deserve a good night’s rest, especially Wanda. Bucky supports her with a firm, no-nonsense tone. Steve rolls his eyes at that, mumbling under his breath about Bucky taking the chance to return to Y/N’s good graces. Nonetheless, he carts a half-asleep Wanda upstairs.

Bucky offers his hand for her to stand. He pulls her up and into his chest, holding their intertwined hands between their bodies, his other palm against her back. He presses their cheeks together. “I never could let you go, not fully,” he admits into her skin.

Y/N sighs. “He’s a good kid,” she grants, tucking away the scolding and the questions for tomorrow.

Bucky leads her to the couch, sitting her in the center. She looks up at him, silhouetted by the early morning light, his hair a halo. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers, brushing his thumb from her temple to the corner of her lip.

She watches him leave, following his form around the couch and to the kitchen. A rustle and the murmur of a cabinet door closing, he reappears holding a torn sheet of paper towel. He sits next to her, angling their bodies together, and rests his palms on her cheeks, stroking the bone. “This is gonna hurt,” he warns.

Y/N snorts and regrets it, the pain reverberating through her face in mocking of her shirking his words. “I’m well aware.”

Bucky fondly rolls his eyes, the ire diminished by the smile playing at his lips. He braces her nose with his palms. “On three?”

“Oh, as if—”

She gasps, the bone in her nose crunching. Nausea erupts in her stomach and up her throat. She swallows back the bile. “Ouch,” she moans.

“I told you,” Bucky teases.

He twists the ends of the paper towels and inserts them into her nose, mumbling his apologies when she hisses. She broke her nose once before, and dealt with far worse wounds after it, but the current sting overcomes her. The last injury she cared for came from a mishap in the kitchen, remedied by Neosporin and a Hello Kitty Band-Aid. She long forgot pain past minor cuts and scrapes.

“You’re a mess,” Bucky says.

Y/N kicks his leg, too enervated to form a smart-ass response.

“Come on,” he encourages, pressing her backwards with a hand to her shoulder.

Her back meets the couch. She sinks into it. Bucky shifts her to slide between her and the backrest. He pulls her close with an arm around her waist, tangling their legs together. If she had half the mind to speak, she would tell him how his chest belongs at her back; that her heart beats to his cadence, and she breathes in when he does. Exhales when he exhales.

Instead, she sighs and presses against him. He tightens his hold and presses a kiss to her shoulder. It says enough that she leans into it and he does it again, that her skin prickles with solace from his proximity. That her eyes close and she slips into sleep without a fight, warm and safe.

She awakens colder than when she fell asleep, her back no longer heated by Bucky’s body. The once soft morning light brightened into a glaring across her face, the slats in her blinds directing it to her eyes. She squints, pressing up to her side, and looks around.

Small laughter sounds in the kitchen alongside muffled clangs. Y/N leans forward, peering through the doorway. Bucky stands at the stove, his clothes and hair sleep mussed. Steve leans against the counter next to him, nursing a steaming cup of coffee and staring towards the table. He sports a small grin behind his mug, eyebrows raised.

Y/N observes their easy movements. Bucky flips something in the pan, then looks over his shoulder. He chuckles softly at whatever he sees before returning his attention to the food. Y/N smiles, allowing herself to believe for a moment that Bucky intends to make a home out of her home; to cook breakfast and make coffee and smile over his shoulder at Winnie’s laughter.

Y/N flops onto the couch and stretches, extending her arms above her head and her toes over the armrest. Her muscles ache and her face throbs and her head pounds, but it fades into the background of her morning, well-earned relief quelling it enough for her to smile. She relaxes, sagging into the cushions and closing her eyes.

They have miles to go before their lives return to normal— as close to normal as possible, at least. New, frightful experiences to traverse in a way Winnie understands, helping to make sense of why bad things happen to good people. Why mother’s lie to their children, and how to grow from it.

The prospect of giving Winnie the tools she needs daunts Y/N, heavy and looming in the distance, but the weight lessens when thinking of Natasha, who wants to rejoin Y/N’s life and find space in Winnie’s. At Bucky’s voice telling her to trust him; he’ll figure it out. He’ll take care of it. At her friends, who she abandoned but returned, not just when she called, but when time allowed them to check on her and her daughter.

Hell, even Peter, a liar just as much as Y/N and for as good of reasons as Y/N.

Five years alone, learning how to keep herself whole and running while teaching her kid the same tricks. Wake up and eat. Go to school. Learn. Make friends. One day at a time; one pant leg at a time. She kept going because she had to, for Winnie, but now the reasons for why she lived before, beyond motherhood and caretaking and fear, returned when she called.

It’s all she thinks now, and when Steve walked through her front door, followed by Bucky and Nat, then Wanda and Sam, then Clint. A parade of her friends, of her family, dropping their lives when she asked. She refuses to leave them again; promises to keep them in any capacity they allow.

She shuns the quiet fear of vulnerability, casting it away, and vows to stay this time.

On the high of new company with faces of old, she sits up. She pulls back the blanket someone laid over her while she slept, draping it over the back of the couch. Her boots rest neatly side by side under the coffee table, despite her forgetting to take them off before she fell asleep.

Y/N smiles at them and the weight of the silent action— the gentle kindness of caring for someone when they can’t see it to offer gratitude.

“Mama!” Winnie shouts, jumping from her seat at the table when Y/N stumbles into the kitchen.

Y/N crouches, catching Winnie in her arms. “Hi, baby. How’d you sleep?”

Winnie struggles in her hold, pushing away so they stand face to face. “Good. Auntie Nat was there.”

Y/N hums, nodding. “Yes, she was.”

“Mister Bucky is making pancakes for us!” She points to Bucky, who steadfastly keeps his attention on the pan.

Y/N pats Winnie’s head and stands. “He sure is. That’s nice of him, isn’t it?”

Winnie shakes her head vehemently, her hair flying in her face and catching in her teeth from her wide grin. Y/N snorts, hooking a finger around the strands and tugging them free. Winnie pulls her head away with a pout, annoyed. Y/N pokes her nose to make her smile again. It works enough for Winnie to return to her buoyant demeanor, too loud for the pounding in Y/N’s head but not enough for her to squash it. Winnie turns on her heel and returns to her seat, Natasha on her right and Wanda on her left.

An empty spot at the far end of the table where the chair Y/N bleached signifies its discarding. Y/N huffs, overcome with the rush of affection for the blanket and boots and the damned chair. She admires the space for a moment longer, then turns to Bucky. He whips his head back to the stove as if she didn’t catch him staring.

She rests against the counter to his left. “Was that you?”

“Was what me?” he asks the pancake.

Y/N rolls her eyes but leaves it well enough alone, except to lean over and whisper, “Thank you.”

Bucky reaches behind her and procures a half-filled coffee mug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he fibs, handing her the cup.

She takes it, both the shirking of accepting her gratitude and the coffee. It’s his, based on the cream and sugar. Another thing unchanged despite the years. Two cream and a dash of sugar. Still, she sips it gratefully.

Around her, her friends shuffle and converse, casual exchanges of words she ignores in favor of enjoying the background noise it provides. The bleach scent long dissipated, in its place wafting vanilla and cinnamon. She bets if she checks behind Winnie’s chicken nuggets someone discarded her bloodied dress, and hazards a guess at whom.

A knock at the front door signals the arrival of Clint and Sam, who enter without prompting. They trail into the kitchen throwing barbless ribs at one another. Another form, hunched over and hiding, follows in their shadows.

Y/N sets her coffee mug on the counter and crosses her arms. Peter stares at the tile, shame a neon sign through his frown and drawn expression. Y/N narrows her eyes at him, daring him to look. Around them, the quiet conversation halts save for Winnie’s ramblings. Bucky deposits a finished pancake on a plate and pours the batter for another one.

Peter’s gaze flicks up to Y/N’s and then down again. She sighs. “Did he pay you?” she accuses, knowing the answer.

Bucky freezes, surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder, lips thinning when he sees Peter. Sam and Clint stand off to the side, leaning against the wall with their shoulders touching, attention on Bucky. Steve’s gaze flickers between Y/N, Bucky, and Peter, and Wanda and Nat pretend to focus on Winnie.

“Well?” Y/N prompts.

Peter clears his throat. “Yes,” he admits, posture wilting further.

Y/N holds the tension of the moment, powerful from her relaxed stance at the counter, and then grins. “Good. You probably could’ve asked for more than he’s been giving you. We could’ve split it.”

Peter’s head shoots up, confused. “I—what?”

Y/N shrugs, retrieving the coffee mug and smirking through a sip. “Oh, c’mon now, Peter. Do you take me for a fool?”

“You knew?” Peter and Bucky exclaim at the same time.

She didn’t, but she lets them think she figured it out ages ago, if only to watch Bucky’s expression morph into annoyance and Peter’s into bewilderment. Natasha rolls her eyes from her seat, reading through Y/N’s ploy.

The atmosphere lightens, Peter uncurling his shoulders and Bucky returning to the burning pancake. He flips it with his fingers and yelps, shaking his hand to cool it. Winnie laughs.

“Idiot,” Y/N scolds fondly.

“Shut up.”

She does, training her eyes on his profile. His attempt to feign ignorance diminishes at his sporadic glances in her direction, lips pulled up in a smile. She watches him watch the pancakes, flipping them and pouring more batter until he empties the bowl. Sam and Clint elbow past Steve for the coffee and Peter joins Winnie at the table.

It’s all right, all things considered. The chatter fills her usually quiet kitchen, and the gaping whole in her chest. She memorizes the reflection of the sun on the tiles and the clinking of Bucky setting plates in front of the respective eaters, superimposing it over the slideshow of yesterday and every day before— so why they leave, she can pull it from the dusted corners of her mind and relive this moment.

Bucky passes her a plate, taking place by her side. He elbows her. “You didn’t really know, did you?” he whispers.

Y/N shrugs, cutting into the pancake. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re lying.”

“Okay. Then I’m lying.”

“Y/N,” he whines, drawing her name out.

She hopes he says it for the rest of their lives, just like that. Sweet like the syrup dripping from her fork, and long like the time she wants with him. Still, she doesn’t grant him the truth, content to omit this one lie.

“Come here,” he says, aware of their audience and the intimacy in the gesture.

She looks at him, leaning forward as if incapable of resisting, pulled into his orbit like a comet and making quick peace with how it may kill her. He meets her in the middle, their faces a breath and a hair between.

“Can I?” he mumbles, flickering between her eyes and lips, awaiting her response.

He’s always been good at that: patiently holding his hand out until Y/N takes it, to jump with him into the unknown. To take the plunge. She does, closing the gap for a short kiss tinged with coffee and morning breath and vanilla. It’s like coming home after a too-long trip to find everything exactly how you left it, changed only by distance and time but never by absence.

“Ew,” Winnie groans.

Their friends laugh and then echo the sentiment. She pecks Bucky’s lips one more time for theatrics and because she can. She earned it. Bucky pulls back with a loud smack, scrunching his nose and grinning. A balled up napkin hits his cheek and falls to the floor, sparking a full chested laughter around the room, but most importantly from Bucky and Winnie.

Y/N laughs too, breathless for the relief of hope in her kitchen. Breathless for the fullness in her chest, not from grief but from a love long swallowed, crawling its way out of its lockbox, nestling into the spot named for Bucky, right next to the spot for Winnie.

She exhales, overwhelmed in a way she wants to stay, and digs into the rest of her pancakes. The rest will come when it comes, but for now she savors the bite and the moment.

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